by I H Laking
Time to clear the area, or I’ll never get any work done.
“This is now a crime scene.” Ambrose addressed the others, who looked as shocked as he felt. “I’d like everyone to return to the Manor and stay in the dining room. We don’t know who did this, and they may still be in the grounds.” He turned to Clink and said, “Make sure Clunk attends to the other guests. Get Clank to fetch me a clean sheet and my black bag, and I want you to make a full sweep of the grounds looking for anything suspicious, especially footprints.”
Clink nodded, and ushered the guests out. Molly, however, slipped past him and ran up to Ambrose. Her eyes were red from crying, but she was clearly back in control of her emotions.
“I want to help,” she said. Ambrose wasn’t surprised – he knew how his detective work had intrigued her. He thought about the offer for a moment. Without Percy here, he would need all the help he could get – but to have a civilian running around a crime scene wouldn’t do at all; it could even cost him his career. It pained him to say no to Molly, and he could feel a strong emotion stirring within himself.
Turmoil.
Ambrose shook the feeling off as best he could, and put his hand on Molly’s shoulder – something he wouldn’t normally do, but this was an exceptional circumstance, he assured himself.
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, “But I have to follow protocol, or I could compromise this entire situation. I’m happy to give you whatever details I can later. In the meantime, please think over anything suspicious that you’ve noticed these past few days – especially amongst the guests.”
Molly nodded and headed out into the chill. Ambrose watched her tall figure crossing the snow covered bricks back to the Manor as the heavier drifts began to fall. A strange feeling was tugging at his heart – he tried to push it aside, but he knew that there was something different about this girl; she wasn’t like any woman he’d ever met. He shrugged off his thoughts and looked up to the mass of snowflakes that were now falling from the heavens. If the killer was nearby, he wouldn’t be able to escape anytime soon; it looked like a blizzard was about to settle in.
Moving away from the cold, Ambrose returned to Mrs Mansfield’s body. Above it, the safe hung open like a wide mouth. Inside, the cushion that had held the Eye of Gothmore sat empty of its usual possession. Ambrose inspected the safe’s lock – it showed no signs of tampering, and was missing the thick iron key that was used to secure it; he would have to check if anyone aside from Mrs Mansfield had a spare key to open it.
Finally, Ambrose looked down at the body. Mrs Mansfield might have been a forthright, opinionated lady, but she didn’t deserve to die like this. A heaviness fell on Ambrose as he stood there alone.
There was a rattling at the door and Clank entered, carrying the requested items and a light dusting of snow. Ambrose took the sheet from Clank and set it aside, before proceeding to open his bag. Without Percy here furiously scribbling notes, he would need to capture his own thoughts effectively. He wrote down a few observations about the room in Percy’s notebook: the lack of any signs of struggle, the securely locked doors, and the absence of blood around the body. Whoever did this is a professional, he wrote, underlining ‘professional’.
Returning to the body, Ambrose knelt down and scanned Mrs Mansfield for any bruises or signs of violence. She was lying sideways, and if she had been breathing, it would have been easy to assume she had simply fainted. Ambrose looked around her head; there was a bruise appearing from where she had hit the floor. Two things about the body did stand out as strange, however.
Firstly, the veins in Mrs Mansfield’s left arm had turned a light black colour; Ambrose hadn’t seen such a thing before, but he figured it could be related to diet or the like. The other thing that caught his eye was a small trickle of dark red blood from Mrs Mansfield’s left ear. It hadn’t been there when he had arrived on the scene, so he rushed to grab a small glass vial from his bag. As the blood slowly poured into it, Ambrose couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of sorrow again – here was a lady he had known all his life, who had been alive just an hour ago. Now, he was poring over a crime scene around her body.
Who would do this?
As Ambrose swept the room to look for any other objects of interest, Clank covered Mrs Mansfield’s body with the sheet. Ambrose shook every window, but all were locked and bolted from the inside. No furniture had moved from earlier in the day, and the room appeared spotless. Clink returned just as Ambrose completed his search of the room. He shut the door quietly as the snow swirled in thick flurries outside.
Clink reported no unusual signs around the grounds. The staff had been informed of Mrs Mansfield’s passing, and were in shock. The guests were not much better, and were still in the dining room awaiting Ambrose’s instruction.
“There were no footprints outside that you could see?” Ambrose quizzed.
“No, Master Ambrose, I’m afraid not. The Gate Guards and Perimeter Watchers also reported no signs of anyone coming or going this afternoon or evening. But with the snow falling so heavily, someone may have found a way past, and it is not difficult to conceive that any tracks would be covered by now.”
Ambrose crossed over to the door and peered out into the snow. “Did you secure the Guest House this afternoon, Clink?”
“Yes, in the usual fashion. Both the safe and the front door were securely fastened shut.”
Ambrose nodded and scribbled more notes in his book.
How on earth does Percy write so fast when he does this?
Ambrose looked up at the Mechs, who were standing near the safe, looking rather forlorn. He posed the question that mattered most.
“Who would want to do this?” Ambrose asked them.
Both Mechs looked at Ambrose as if he was being ridiculous. Clink pointed to the empty safe and said, “Anyone with half a mind would know the value of the Eye of Gothmore. Beyond its monetary worth, it holds significant historical value, being hundreds of years old. Some even believe it holds great power; any of these things would be motive enough.”
“I understand that,” Ambrose shot back, not appreciating the Mech’s tone, “But to kill Mrs Mansfield as well? I don’t see why you would. Was she killed to get to the gem, or was someone stealing the gem, and she merely interrupted them?” Ambrose could feel his head starting to swim with the problems of the situation. He was alone, without his usual tools and support, and cut off from local authorities by this dreadful snow.
Clank responded to his earlier question. “We have never had any cause for concern regarding the safety of the gem or the security of the Manor. Both this safe and the house’s locks were designed by one of the top locksmiths in Traville, so I fail to see how anyone could have broken in. Mrs Mansfield often went to visit the gem for comfort, as she loved its beauty. I believe that the thief saw an opportune moment and struck whilst the safe was open.”
A fine theory, Ambrose thought.
“But what about the lack of blood or bruising?” he asked. “We only heard a single cry from this area; it seems hard to believe that there was no violence whatsoever if Mrs Mansfield didn’t have time to scream.” Ambrose wasn’t really asking the Mechs for an answer; he already knew why it was unlikely.
“See that no one disturbs this room,” he said, “Turn off all the gaslamps and don’t light any fires; the cold from the snow will preserve the body and the scene.”
Clink seemed confused. “Are you finished with the crime scene so soon, Master Ambrose? I thought it was customary to check for fingerprints?”
“You’re right, but there’s no rush,” said Ambrose. “I need to ask our guests some questions whilst this is fresh in their minds.”
Ambrose walked to the doors, as the Mechs stood there looking bemused. “It seems we’re hosting a visitor that’s unlikely to leave clumsy fingerprints,” he said as he turned the handle. He looked back at the Mechs.
“One of our guests is an assassin.”
With that, Ambrose walked out into the snow,
retracing his steps back to the Dining Hall and the distraught guests inside, all the while shivering as the snow cascaded down around him.
The room went silent as Ambrose entered. It was a sad sight, with the guests standing around the dining room, red-eyed and distraught. They looked exhausted, none more so that Felicity, who was still crying as she sat on a couch beside Molly. Ambrose adjusted his jacket, and beckoned everyone over to the table. This was usually the kind of situation that Percy would have helped him with, as emotions often boiled over in the midst of tragedy, and Ambrose struggled to deal with them at the best of times anyway.
As the guests took their seats, Ambrose felt a pang of fear in his stomach. It was likely that one of these guests had just stolen a valuable artefact and murdered a defenceless old lady. It took a special kind of evil to be prepared to kill a generous host in the middle of The Freeze – and that kind of evil was often very good at disguising itself. Tears, expressions of grief, wailing, and gnashing of teeth; these were the tools the killer would now employ until they could get away. There was, of course, the possibility that more than one person was in on the theft. Suspicion and diplomacy were now Ambrose’s main weapons. He cleared his throat and addressed all those assembled.
“Friends, I understand your sorrow.” Ambrose found himself interrupted by a scream of agony from Mrs Durant, who was beside herself with grief. He adjusted his shirt and continued, “And it is understandable that you would wish to grieve at this time,” another wail interrupted his speech, “But we must move swiftly.”
As Mrs Durant launched into her third moan, Ambrose politely asked Mr Durant if his wife would be better served retiring to another room. He agreed, and led her from the dining room, her screams of “Why, oh why?” slowly fading into the distance.
Ambrose cleared his throat yet again, grateful for an end to the outpouring of emotion. He resumed his speech.
“Mrs Mansfield is dead, and the Eye of Gothmore has been taken. I do not wish to alarm anyone here, but the person who perpetrated this crime may still be nearby. We must all be vigilant.”
A chorus of mutters and concerned glances came from the assembled guests. Ambrose knew it would create panic if he mentioned that an assassin was likely standing amongst them.
Felicity was the first to speak, whimpering through her tears. “I can’t believe… that someone would do this to… poor Mrs Mansfield. And to think… not only is she dead, but the party will be cancelled and my… social reputation will be dragged through the mud.” Ambrose couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but the other guests hushed her quickly. Zhan spoke up next.
“Do you have any idea who would do such a heinous thing, Inspector?” he asked. “To kill your host – such a crime is punishable by death in the East. None would dare to try it.” Zhan gritted his teeth as spoke.
In reply, Ambrose simply said, “I’m unsure as to who would do this, but each of you can help me to find the culprit by cooperating with questioning tomorrow.” He looked at the snow gathering on the window. “No one will be leaving with this heavy snow falling anyway, so I suggest you all retire for the evening. I will remain awake to ensure the house is secure.”
The Colonel stepped forward. “If it please you my boy, I would like to volunteer my services in helping you secure the property.”
Zhan stepped out, too. “As would I,” he echoed.
Ambrose shook his head. “I don’t need both of you patrolling. Colonel, you come with me. Zhan, we can talk about security tomorrow.”
The Easterner looked disappointed, but nodded and began to make his way upstairs, along with the rest of the group. Ambrose shared brief words and a quick hug with Felicity, before locking eyes with Molly, who assured him that Felicity would be alright.
Before they parted ways, Ambrose put his hand on Molly’s arm.
“I need to chat with you before you sleep tonight. I know Felicity isn’t in the right frame of mind to help, but her insight into the crime scene is invaluable. Find out what you can from her.”
Molly nodded and gave him a meaningful gaze. “Meet me by my room in an hour, inspector. I’ll do my best to find out what I can.”
Turmoil.
Ambrose again felt his emotions rising. He quickly turned away and beckoned The Colonel to follow him. He was grateful for some time alone with The Colonel – he had been the last person to speak with Mrs Mansfield before she left the dining room. As they walked around the house checking doors and windows, Ambrose began searching for some answers.
“Mrs Mansfield certainly left the dining room in a hurry tonight. I’ve not seen her so upset before,” he said, as he rattled the doors in the music room.
The Colonel dipped his head. “Yes, I feel… well, just awful. Like this whole situation is my fault actually.” Ambrose raised an eyebrow as he led the way to the Great Ballroom.
“I have a confession,” said The Colonel, “I have known Macy for decades, and during that time I have always held feelings for her. This weekend, I had planned to rekindle a romance that I thought was still there despite many years apart. Tonight, when I attempted to bring up the topic, I was rebuffed.” He looked at the floor as they made their way down the hall. “To my great shame, I continued to push Macy for some time alone with her, to speak in private about how I felt. She was upset, but still I kept insisting. Oh, I’m such a fool!” The Colonel smacked his fist against a wood panel, his eyes welling up with tears. “If only I hadn’t pressed her tonight, she wouldn’t have left the dining hall. Curse my stupidity!”
Ambrose felt a wave of sorrow for The Colonel. He must be lonely, to be pursuing Mrs Mansfield – a retired soldier would surely never stand a chance with an aristocrat. He had come to the Manor on a fool’s errand, and was now reaping a terrible harvest. There was little motive for him to kill Mrs Mansfield, but jilted lovers had done worse.
Ambrose and The Colonel crossed the floor of the Great Ballroom, where the gaslights burnt low. Ambrose checked the doors and was stepping away when he spotted something a little out of place. There on the ground was a piece of red clay about the size of his thumb. He bent down and picked it up, running it between his fingers. The Colonel leaned in, his breath smelling of brandy and cigars.
“I say, red clay. That doesn’t belong around here.” He grabbed it off Ambrose, who stifled an objection. “That’s rare, yes quite rare,” The Colonel mumbled as he looked at it closely. “I’ve been all around the Empire, my boy, and during my time I’ve fought on all types of soil. I’ve learned to watch the ground wherever I go – many good people fall on unstable ground.” He threw the clay back at Ambrose. “This clay is only found in two places – the lowlands around Traville, and the Eastern hills.”
Ambrose appreciated The Colonel’s help, even though he already knew the likely origin of the clay.
The real question is, why is there such a large lump of it here?
Ambrose kept his thoughts to himself, but decided to return for another look in the morning. “Let’s finish our rounds,” he said to The Colonel, “Then we’ll get some rest. There’s plenty to do tomorrow.”
The Colonel agreed, and soon they were making their way to the entrance hall. As they set foot there, Clunk pulled Ambrose aside, nearly falling over in the process.
“Sorry, Master Ambrose, but there’s an urgent messenger outside for you,” said the Mech, adjusting his eye, which was almost rolling out of its socket.
“In this weather?” Ambrose couldn’t believe it.
“Yes, Master Ambrose. I took the liberty of getting your coat and bag.” Clunk thrust them into Ambrose’s stomach, almost winding him. “Awfully sorry,” he said quickly, knowing that his depth perception had failed him again.
“Not a problem,” wheezed Ambrose, as he pulled on his coat.
Outside, bursts of snow whipped the side of the Manor. A small Mech stood waiting quietly by the steps, its black eyes dotted with snowflakes. Ambrose could just make out the numbers on its chest; it was the sam
e 5-4-5 Messenger Mech from earlier, having made the fourteen hour round trip. It greeted him and whirred to life with its message.
“Believe assassin intends Gothmore theft. Slums rife with rumours. Warn Mrs Mansfield quickly, Percy.” The Mech stopped whirring and awaited a response.
Too little, too late.
Ambrose shook his head. “I have samples I need you to carry,” he said to the Mech, which dutifully held out its hand. Ambrose pulled the vial of blood from his bag and looked around for any prying eyes. If the assassin saw him handing anything to the messenger, the Mech might not finish its return journey. “Take this to Detective Percy, with the following message: ‘Mrs Mansfield dead, Gothmore stolen. Enclosed blood from Mansfield. Check for any abnormalities, Ambrose.’”
The Mech whirred and clicked as it placed the vial into a hole in its side. It turned towards the front lawn, and seemed to hesitate slightly. As it was about to take off, Ambrose caught it by the arm and looked it square in the eyes. “That blood must survive the journey. People’s lives depend on it,” he said.
The Mech nodded, then jetted down the stairs and through the snow, which was now up past its knee joints. Ambrose watched it disappear. A Mech was the only thing that could get a message through in this weather. He turned and headed inside, to the hollow warmth of Mansfield Manor.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Ambrose headed towards Molly’s room. It was positioned next to Felicity’s, just down the hall from Ambrose’s own room. He found her door slightly ajar, and knocked quietly on it three times.
“Just a minute,” Molly’s light voice rose from inside.
Ambrose looked up and down the hallway. Gaslamps flickered occasionally in the gloom, but otherwise Mansfield Manor was still. The guests were all away in their beds trying to sleep. Except Molly, who now appeared before him. She was still dressed from dinner, and as she stepped out into the hallway, Ambrose once again found his heart beating slightly faster.
“How can I help you, Inspector?” Molly flashed a small smile, but Ambrose could see from her eyes that she had been shedding tears recently.