“Early,” Dwellings muttered. He made to march out of the room, and then stopped to grab the page’s arm. “Am I the — that is, did you speak to anyone else before coming here?”
The page shook his head.
“Oh no, sir.”
“And this is the first place you came to?”
“Yes, sir. Well, I did try to get in next door, but he was closed for lunch.”
Wheredad gasped. “At seven o’clock in the morning? I know he’s a vampire, but that’s ridic —”
“Shut up, will you?” Dwellings turned from his assistant and glared at the boy.
“WHY did you go there first?”
“I — I’m sorry, sir,” the page stammered. “But Mr. Spires knows Mr. Obegarde. Besides, he told me to get the best deal I could find and it says on his door that he’s doing a special on kidnappings: two for fifty crowns …”
While Dwellings gritted his teeth, Wheredad took hold of the page and shoved him roughly through the door.
“Get moving, boy. You can explain everything on the way to the palace. Now, let’s see about getting a coach, shall we?”
Two
MORNING FOUND DULLITCH A sight to behold. From the gleaming Diamond Clock Tower on Crest Hill to the reaching spires of the palace, from the dirt-encrusted outer wall, bristling with barbs and spikes, to the great dome of the New Druid Temple, the city basked in the new day. Most of its inhabitants, however, were still nestled comfortably under their blankets.
The girl entered the cellar by the only door, closing it behind her to shut out the early morning sunlight. It wasn’t that the light bothered him all that much but, still, tradition was tradition.
Striking up a match, she felt her way down the stairs, using what little support the rotting banisters afforded. Then, stepping carefully through the shadows, she arrived at the coffin, knelt down, and rapped sharply on the lid.
“Mmott?” came a muffled reply.
The girl sighed, and swept a lock of blonde hair from her forehead.
“It’s him next door, Mr. Obegarde,” she started. “He’s just gone tearing up to the palace in a coach.”
There was a moment of strained silence, then the coffin lid flew open, almost knocking the girl unconscious in the process, and a large figure sat bolt upright in the gloom.
“He’s up to something,” said the vampire detective, stroking his jagged chin. “What sort of coach was it?”
The girl shrugged.
“I don’t know, Mr. Obegarde, I wasn’t here, but the woman from the blacksmith’s told me that it was a royal page who came for them, and that he knocked at your door first.”
Obegarde glared at her.
“And you were out?”
“Yes, sir: I don’t start until half past seven, remember?”
“Of all the pathetic excuses …”
The vampire leaped from his coffin, pushed past the girl and began stomping angrily across the room. “I tell you, young lady, if you’ve lost me a case, you’re out of a job: plain and simple.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“My name, as I’ve told you repeatedly, is Lusa, and you can’t fire me because you don’t pay me anything!”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
Obegarde hesitated.
“Then why do you work here?”
“Hmm, that’s a good point.” Lusa got to her feet and stood, hands on hips, considering the question. “Well, I think I come here partly because of the excitement, the mystery, the incredible midnight chases, the romance and the total respect I’m shown by my employer, but mostly because you’ve kidnapped my damn cat and won’t tell me where he is UNLESS I WORK HERE TILL CHRISTMAS!”
Obegarde smiled, his teeth flashing in the gloom.
“Ah,” he said. “You’re that Lusa. Get me a coffee, will you?”
“No.”
“Six sugars.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Fine.” Obegarde offered her another shark-tooth grin. “I’ll tell my people to off Tiddles then, shall I?”
Lusa gasped.
“You wouldn’t dare …”
“Place your bets!”
“You vicious —”
“Heartripper? Bloodsucker? LOFTWING?” Obegarde held up his hands. “Please don’t bother: I really have heard them all before. Now, about that coffee …”
“No.”
Lusa folded her arms and looked defiant.
“Fine,” said Obegarde, bitterly. “I’ll make it myself, but afterwards I need you to come with me to the palace and sneak inside: we have to find out what’s going on with Dwellings and that dippy friend of his. Agreed?”
“Hmm … on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“I want to know that Tiddy’s safe and well.”
Obegarde gritted his teeth.
“Look,” he growled. “Unless you start cooperating, you’ll get Tiddy back one whisker a week, understand me?”
The girl gave a reluctant nod.
“Good. Now fetch that coffee, will you? I’m absolutely parched.”
When Enoch Dwellings arrived at the palace, Secretary Spires was already on the forecourt, wearing a thick coat and a grim smile. He didn’t seem to notice that Obegarde wasn’t among the emerging company.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Dwellings, alighting from the coach he’d hailed at great effort, took a deep breath before he replied.
“Mr. Obegarde —”
“Sends his apologies,” Wheredad cut in, shooting his friend a significant look while stamping heavily on the page’s foot. “But he’s not very well at the moment. Therefore, he’s left this case in the more than capable hands of his — erm — colleague, the remarkable Enoch Dwellings.”
The detective took a theatrical bow and smiled humorlessly.
“I am at your command, secretary. This,” he glanced sideways, “is my assistant, the admirable Doctor Wheredad. We will assist you in any way we can.”
Spires looked extremely doubtful, but his anxiety eventually won out.
“All right,” he began, his voice still shaky from the effects of his unexplainable unconsciousness. “But you must first understand that anything you see or hear within the palace walls must be kept strictly confidential.”
Dwellings nodded.
“Of course.”
“Yes, absolutely,” added Wheredad, quietly thanking the gods for their swift intervention in his professional life. “We understand that the viscount is missing?”
Spires sighed.
“It’s so much worse than that,” he muttered, starting up the palace steps. “Follow me, please.”
The bedroom of Viscount Curfew was a seriously grand affair, with golden trim around every chair and silver curtains allowing light to spill gloriously across an elaborate, diamond-encrusted four-poster. The room itself was an elegant reminder that Dullitch had prospered considerably under the reign of Lord Curfew, though the room’s finery owed more to the rising taxes than the many trade opportunities its venerable occupant had created.
The many splendid features of the room were nevertheless slightly marred by the blood.
“Great gods, Enoch,” Wheredad gasped, staring around the bedroom with frank astonishment. “The stuff’s everywhere! Can there be any blood left in the man, do you think?”
Dwellings did his best to mask a look of absolute horror, but when his eyes met those of the royal secretary he simply had to look away.
“The room is exactly as I found it this morning,” Spires pointed out, his voice trembling.
Dwellings pursed his lips, and looked upon the secretary as kindly as he could.
“The viscount is your friend?” he asked.
“Yes.” Spires put a hand to his throat, as if he was finding it difficult to swallow. “I was appointed when Lord Curfew ascended the throne following the Rat Catastrophe. We’ve — um — we’ve worked together for a
very long time.” He glanced up at the blood on the walls, and his face fell. “I don’t know who or what could have done this …”
Dwellings nodded.
“Leave that to us, Mr. Spires,” he said. “Now, what time did this morning’s events begin to unfold?”
Spires gave a shrug.
“I arrived in my office at six o’clock yesterday evening.”
There was a brief pause in which Dwellings looked momentarily bewildered.
“So when did all this take place?” he hazarded. “Last night or this morning?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Spires admitted. “The last thing I remember is … erm … I think —”
“So you started your duties last night,” Dwellings interrupted, trying to get things straight in his own head. “The guards were all awake then?”
“Yes; that is, the ones I saw en route to my office. I live in the palace, you see, so I’ve no cause to go past the portcullis, last thing.”
“You don’t have supper in the kitchens?”
“No. It’s usually brought to me by a maid at nine o’clock sharp.”
“And it wasn’t last night?”
Spires shrugged.
“I can’t remember; I must’ve been unconscious by then. She says she didn’t bring me supper; apparently she was out, too.”
“Along with the entire guard force.”
Spires nodded.
“Yes, so it would seem.”
“You don’t remember seeing anybody in the room prior to your blackout?” Wheredad cut in, having concluded his scrutiny of the bedchamber’s blood-covered walls.
“Not a soul. I distinctly remember looking up at the clock at about a quarter to nine: I was very hungry last night.”
Dwellings pursed his lips, turned to Wheredad.
“We need to speak to the supper maid —”
“I’ve done that at length,” Spires interrupted. “As I said before, she says that she awoke with the rest of the kitchen staff at six-thirty, soon after I did.”
“Reliable girl, is she?”
“Extremely. She’s my niece.”
“Ah.” Dwellings took a deep breath, then strode twice around the room before coming to a reluctant halt beside the bed. “I assume there’s a ransom note … ?”
Spires shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have worried so much if there was,” he muttered. “In fact, it’s the sheer lack of any kind of motive which has got me shaking, Mr. Dwellings. I can’t think of any reason why somebody would do this; unless, of course, the perpetrator is working for a rival kingdom.”
“Yes,” Dwellings conceded. “Or someone who wishes us all to think that it is the work of a rival kingdom. Our relations with Phlegm? Legrash? Spittle?”
“All good: actually, it would be fair to say that they’ve never been better. Prince Blood and Earl Visceral are both trading; even King Teethgrit is in productive talks with our merchant lords.”
“I see.”
“So what we’re probably dealing with,” Wheredad hazarded, “is your common or garden variety continental conspirator? The ‘let’s all have a war’ sort?”
Spires stared straight at him.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Doctor. How many ‘common or garden variety conspirators’ are capable of taking out an entire guard unit and countless palace attendants while at the same time kidnapping a viscount (who, I might add, is probably the best swordsman in the entire city) and escaping completely undetected? Only, I’ve made a list of the “usual suspects” and, so far, I’ve come up on the wrong side of naught.”
Wheredad smiled politely and began to back away.
“Do forgive my friend, Mr. Spires,” Dwellings said, with a wry smile. “His brain, it seems, has been temporarily detached from his vocal chords.”
Wheredad huffed and puffed under his breath.
“Still,” Dwellings continued, patting the secretary compassionately on the shoulder. “You will forgive me if I ask a few seemingly pointless questions of my own?”
Spires nodded.
“If it helps.”
“Good. I notice that there’s a large mirror in here. Do you have a mirror in your office?”
“What? Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”
“Was it turned to face the wall when you came in this morning, like this one?”
“Yes, yes. They all were; it was because of the storm last night: Lord Curfew has a thing about lightning and mirrors. The funny thing is: most of the mirrors and a lot of the ground- and first-floor windows are broken.”
“Hmm … interesting. Have you checked to see if there’s anything missing from the room?”
Spires nodded.
“Of course. Theft was the first thing I thought of when I came around. There wasn’t a thing out of place in my office and there’s nothing missing here, apart from the obvious.”
There was a sudden crash from the corner of the room. Wheredad, who had returned to the wall in order to examine the mirror more carefully, was now standing amid its shattered remains.
Dwellings rolled his eyes.
“Oh, terrific, Doc. Absolutely splendid work.”
Wheredad hung his head.
“Terribly sorry, Enoch. I just wanted to see if it was cracked or completely shattered …”
“… and now we’ll never know, will we?” finished Spires, who’d taken an immediate dislike to the man.
“Again, please accept my apologies, Mr. Spires. My assistant is not long for this world. At least, he won’t be if he continues TO PLAGUE MY VERY EXISTENCE!”
“I-I’ll wait outside, Enoch,” said Wheredad, avoiding eye contact with either of the two men as he slunk from the room.
Dwellings took one last cursory glance around the chamber.
“You’ll have no objections to us questioning the staff?” he inquired.
Spires shook his head.
“None at all.”
“Then I’d very much like to set up a temporary interrogation room, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“You can use the kitchens,” said Spires. “But do be discreet, I implore you. We don’t want the entire city finding out about this before we’ve had time to prepare an official statement …”
“Of course not.” The detective strode out into the corridor. “Wheredad! Come now; we’re going to talk to the guards.”
Three
A TERRIBLE CLASH OF swords, steel flying against steel … and the blood. Oh, the blood …
Eventually, the nightmare subsided …
… and Viscount Curfew awoke to find himself attached to the wall in what he assumed to be a subterranean cell. He felt weak, as if all his blood had been drained from him.
The nightmare had felt more like a memory; certainly he could remember many things: a pitched sword battle with an assassin who’d entered his bedchambers, the endless clash of swords … and the pain.
As Curfew shook himself from his reverie, the cell echoed with the sound of distant laughter.
He peered around. Apart from two great chains securing him to the brickwork, he was bound and gagged and his ankles were locked in a curious wooden device with bells attached to it.
On reflection, it was a great pity that they hadn’t bothered to blindfold him. Then he might not have been able to see the gaping pit in the cell floor, or, more importantly, the skeleton chained up next to him; the one wearing Duke Threefold’s eagle ring.
Duke Threefold had been ruler of Dullitch long before he’d been born, and even preceded the likes of Vitkins by a good few years. At the end of his reign, he’d disappeared and no one had ever heard from him again.
Curfew trembled at the thought, but quickly reprimanded himself for doing so. He had to think straight; otherwise, he was doomed.
But who had brought him here? The intruder he’d fought at the palace?
One point was certain: someone or something had breached the palace defenses and kidnapped him — that sort of situation either took the kind of co
urage that didn’t have a brain or the kind that had more than one.
He flinched in the darkness, and his back began to hurt. Curfew shook himself until the pounding in his head subsided; he had to do something … and fast. Moving his jaw in a circular motion, he was able to work off the gag.
“Is there anybody out there?” he managed, addressing the wall where he believed the door to be. He thought that he heard a very distant echo. “Listen, whoever you are, whatever it is whoever they are’re paying you, my people will double it. D’you hear me?”
Silence … and the drip, drip, drip of water.
Curfew took a deep breath, and repeated the entire statement. Twice.
His words echoed away.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Curfew licked his dry, cracked lips and sighed: on top of everything else, his head was killing him.
Four
THE GATEHOUSE GUARD FROWNED, scratched his stubbly chin.
“So when was this appointment arranged?” he asked, doubtfully.
“I beg your pardon?”
“When were you called to the palace?”
“Oh, about five minutes ago. I would have taken my time, but the viscount’s secretary said it was an emergency.”
“Secretary Spires?”
“That’s him: we’re … good friends.”
The guard sniffed, belched.
“Who did you say you were again?”
“Obegarde,” said Obegarde, patiently. “Private Investigator, first class … and this is my lovely assistant, Carol.”
“It’s Lusa, damn it!”
Obegarde offered her a wry smile by way of an apology, then turned back to the guard.
“So, are you going to let us in or what?”
“I don’t know,” the sentry muttered, eyeing both parties dubiously. “I haven’t heard anything about a second investigator being called: in fact, I was told on no account to admit anybody this morning.”
“Oh, I see.” The vampire shrugged. “It’s just that I’d hate you to get into trouble for not allowing us to enter: I hear the viscount’s pretty hot on sacking people at the moment, and it looks like you could really use the money.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll risk it.”
“You’re a brave man.”
Dwellings Debacle Page 3