The guard nodded.
“A damn sight braver than you, I’ll wager.”
“You reckon?”
“Hell yeah.”
Obegarde pursed his lips.
“Brave enough to let me through?”
The guard shook his head.
“I don’t spell brave s-t-u-p-i-d.”
“I know,” Obegarde agreed. “You probably spell it c-o-w-a-r-d.”
The guard drew himself up to his full height and stepped in front of the vampire.
“Look, pal, you ain’t going in and that’s all there is to it, so don’t try and bait me with any of that chicken nonsense.”
“OK, fine! I don’t want any trouble.”
Obegarde took a step back and put up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
“Very wise,” said the guard, returning to his post. It was then he noticed that something was wrong.
“Oi,” he snapped at Obegarde. “Didn’t you have a young girl with you a minute ago?”
The vampire nodded.
“Where’d she go?”
“Palace,” said Obegarde. “Spelled p-a-l-a-c-e. Quick, isn’t she?”
Enoch Dwellings pulled an old stool up to the kitchen workbench and rested his chin on his hands.
“So you were the only guard in the entire palace to remain awake throughout the night?” he said, addressing the small and rather disheveled-looking sentry whose base of operations centerd on the High Tower. “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”
The guard’s face flushed red.
“Well, yes, but I’ve no explanation for it, sir.”
“You are human, I take it?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“No elfin blood?”
“No.”
“No dwarf ancestry or greenskin descent?”
“No, sir. My mother’s family are cobblers from Spittle, and my father was born a beggar in Legrash.”
“Right. So — tell me about your duties last night.”
The guard pursed his lips.
“Same as usual, sir: keeping watch from the High Tower. I started early last night, ’cause I knew there would be deliveries and stuff. Then the storm started, and I put my earplugs in and —”
“EARPLUGS?” Dwellings seized on the words like an eagle swooping on a field mouse.
“Yes, sir. I’m frightened of thunder, sir: makes me shaky.”
The detective’s grin had ignited.
“Doesn’t putting earplugs in prevent you from doing your duty?”
The guard shrugged.
“Not really, sir. I can still see. Besides, I’m not the only person in the palace who’s frightened of thunder: Viscount Curfew don’t like it much, either.”
“Does he wear earplugs?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir, but he was kind enough to give ’em to me a few months back, when I told him how nervous I get.”
Dwellings shared a knowing smile with Wheredad.
“And you alone stayed awake?” he said, turning back to his witness.
The guard gave a nod.
“If you say so, sir,” he managed, his eyes fixed firmly on his shoes. “I don’t s’pose I realized what was going on.”
“And you saw and heard nothing?”
The man shrugged.
“Nothing of any note, sir. There was someone shoutin’ abuse at a cat, but you always get that in Dullitch of a night.”
Dwellings tapped his forehead.
“What about deliveries?”
“As I said … there were a couple earlier in the evening,” the guard continued. “But neither of ’em were anything to write home about.”
Dwellings nodded, turned to Wheredad.
“Did the gatehouse shift mention any deliveries?” he whispered.
Wheredad consulted his notepad, his thick lips mumbling as his eyes followed the twisty lines of his own scribble.
“Er … yes, Enoch. One of vegetables, six o’clock sharp, and one of drop cloths at just gone eight.”
Dwellings drew in a breath, then returned his attention to the guard.
“Good man; thank you very much for your time.”
He stood and motioned to the senior guard stationed beside the door.
“Sergeant, do we still have any members of last night’s gatehouse crew waiting outside?”
The sergeant nodded, leaned out of the door and yelled at a stout, somber-faced guard who promptly waddled into the room.
“Do have a seat.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guard, taking his rest.
“Now, er, Private, I’d like you to tell me a little bit about the two deliveries that arrived while you were on guard duty last night.”
The guard scratched his cannonball head.
“What d’you wanna know?” he grunted.
Dwellings chewed his lip, thoughtfully.
“Hmm … well, let us begin with the vegetable cart; who was driving it?”
The guard sniffed.
“The veg bloke, sir.”
“The …?”
“Veg bloke. He brings the cart every few days, and tends to make a nuisance of himself afterward: hangs around the palace for hours, talkin’ to folk who’re busy workin’. He’s a good sort, though; sometimes lets me have the odd lettuce off the back, ’fyou know what I mean.”
“Yes, yes, I think so.” Dwellings nodded. “Is it always the same ‘bloke’ who brings the cart?”
“Always.”
“Never anyone else …?”
“No.”
“I see … And what about the second delivery, the drop cloths one? What was that all about?”
The guard squinted with the terrible effort that the recollection required.
“They came just before eight o’clock, sir, brought a load o’ drop cloths: we checked it over to make sure there was nothing dodgy in it, then admitted ’em.”
“Drop cloths,” Dwellings repeated. “You mean the sort used for painting?”
“Yeah.”
“And what is it that’s being painted?”
“Eh?”
Dwellings rolled his eyes.
“Well,” he continued, “I assume there’s some big painting project underway?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” the guard admitted. “But the palace is a big place; there’s always something being painted ’round here.”
Dwellings nodded.
“Did you know them?”
“Dunno, sir. That is, I’m not sure what firm they were from.”
“So you didn’t recognize any of them?”
“You kiddin’ me, sir? Dullitch is crawlin’ with folk!”
“Granted, but they don’t all try to gain entrance to the palace, now DO THEY?”
“Don’t s’pose so, no.”
“Right: so what did they look like, these delivery men?”
The guard whistled between his teeth.
“Weeell, the driver was a big fella, must ’ave been well over six foot, lot o’ hair; but the other bloke was a shifty-lookin’ sort — I didn’t like ’im one bit.”
Dwellings glanced at Wheredad, who was scribbling furiously in his pad.
“I think we’ve got that,” he said, when he was sure the assistant had caught up. “Do go on.”
The guard gave a disgruntled shrug.
“That’s about it,” he said. “I waved them inside, waited a few minutes for Jiff to lower the gate, and went back to me post. Then I heard this really high-pitched scream, and must’ve passed out.”
Dwellings clasped his hands behind his head and puffed out a long sigh.
“So these so-called delivery men were definitely inside the palace when the scream sounded?”
“Definitely.”
“Thank you very much for your time, Private.”
The guard struggled to his feet and slumped out of the room.
“Interesting, eh?” Wheredad prompted, leaning toward Enoch with a sinister smirk on his face. “You reckon the delivery men w
ere in on it?”
Dwellings nodded.
“The scream could only be the death cry of a Jenacle banshee,” he whispered. “Doesn’t take much working out, really; at least, not if you know your supernature. Only a banshee death cry would account for the shattered mirrors, the broken windows, the bleeding ears and the induced sleep. Still, don’t say anything yet … we want to make this case as dramatic as possible before we solve it.”
“Got you,” Wheredad whispered, then said aloud: “NOT MUCH TO GO ON, BUT AT LEAST IT’S A START …”
“Er … Mr. Dwellings,” said a tall and rather officious-looking guard with four stripes on his arm. “We found a dead guard on the roof this morning; I don’t know if it’s related, but —”
“Of course it’ll be related, you moron!” Dwellings cried, leaping up from his seat. “A dead guard? On the roof! Why on Illmoor did no one mention this before?”
The guard shrugged.
“You didn’t ask.”
Dwellings closed his eyes and began to count sheep. When the third one had broken its legs trying to get over the spiked fence, he opened them again.
“Who was found dead on the roof?” he inquired, politely.
“Tikki LaVale, sir. Guard Marshal of the outer wall.”
“Hmm … if he was supposed to be guarding the outer wall, what was he doing on the palace roof?”
“Dunno, sir, but it was a stab wound that did for him.”
Several of the guards looked up in surprise, a gesture that Dwellings picked up on immediately.
“Why the alarm, gentlemen?” he asked, looking from the assembled group to the guard who had originally spoken.
“Well, it’s just that Tikki was a really good swordfighter.”
“Yeah,” agreed another. “I can’t think of many better, can you?”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
“Right,” said Dwellings, standing up and pulling on his overcoat. “Now, is that absolutely everything you’ve told me?”
A series of nods and grunts indicated the positive.
“Good.” He turned to Wheredad. “Now, let us go back to the office; we’ve got some— WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERCY IS SHE DOING HERE?”
Dwellings suddenly stormed out of the room and hurtled along the corridor, eventually screeching to a halt beside a chattering guard and the innocent but ever-so-pretty girl he’d been talking to.
“You!” Dwellings snapped, thrusting an accusing finger in Lusa’s face. “You’re that girl who works for the vampire! Carol, isn’t it? What’re you doing here?”
Lusa tried to smile.
“My name is Lusa,” she said, “though I’m beginning to realize that it’s a very difficult name to remember — and I work with the vampire, not for him.”
“But what are you doing in the palace?” Dwellings repeated, trying to stay calm. “Are you working here? Are you here for him? This is my case, understand? MINE.”
“OK, OK! I’m just interested, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t be!” Dwellings motioned to the guard sergeant, who headed straight toward them.
“I’m sorry,” Dwellings said, turning back to the girl. “But if you’re not here on any kind of official business, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Lusa shrugged.
“I don’t see why; I just popped in to see my sister.”
Dwellings narrowed his eyes.
“Your sister works here?”
“Yes, and my mother.”
“What’s her name?”
“My mother?”
“Your sister.”
“Helen.”
“Helen what?”
“Spinnet.”
“Helen Spinnet —”
“Janeway.”
“What?”
“Janeway,” Lusa repeated. “It’s my sister’s third name.”
“Helen Spinnet Janeway —”
“Robinson.”
“Robinson?”
“Yes.”
“Your sister’s name is Helen Spinnet Janeway Robinson?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your mother called, Mary Margaret Quicksoak Quackbuster?”
Lusa glared at him.
“Don’t you make fun of my family!”
“Are you serious? That’s her name?”
“You must know it is!”
“What? That was a complete guess!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I swear!”
Lusa grinned.
“Well, that’s her name,” she said, trying not to smile. “She’s a chambermaid, and my sister works in the kitchens.”
“What floor?”
“I’m sorry?”
Dwellings smiled evilly.
“What floor does your mother the chambermaid work on?”
“The fifth.”
“There isn’t a fifth floor.”
The girl folded her arms.
“Well, technically there is, but the viscount’s having work done up there, so all the maids have been moved down a level.”
Dwellings glanced at the guard.
“Is that true?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said the man. “But I’ve never seen this girl before in my life, and I’m damn sure she doesn’t have a sister here: all the maids are ugly.”
Dwellings turned to Lusa and beamed.
“Thank you, guardsman,” he said. “Now do please escort this young lady off the premises: she has a disgustingly underhanded vampire to report to.”
Five
“WELL?” SAID OBEGARDE, SIGHTING his assistant and her two burly escorts. He waited until the guards had retreated back inside the palace, then hurried her beyond the nearest wall. “Did you get anything?”
“Not from the hierarchy; I didn’t get a chance to eavesdrop. There’s a mass interrogation going on.” Lusa made a face that Obegarde guessed correctly.
“Dwellings?” he hazarded.
Lusa gave an exasperated nod.
“He’s serious about this vendetta thing the two of you have going. He said it’s ‘his’ case and no one else is getting a look-in.”
“Ha! We’ll see about that …”
Lusa looked glum.
“He’s not too bright, though. He definitely would’ve fallen for my family-at-the-palace story if some idiot guard boss hadn’t tipped him off.”
Obegarde gritted his teeth, and slumped against the wall.
“Did you manage to glean anything?” he asked hopefully.
Lusa smiled.
“I got talking to one of the junior guards,” she said. “He says there was an incident at the palace last night. There’s a rumor going around that the viscount’s been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” Obegarde suddenly realized that he was beginning to draw attention from the market traders, so he took Lusa by the arm and led her away from the hustle and bustle.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, trying to sound as casual as possible under the weight of such significant news.
Lusa shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Like I told you, it’s just a rumor running between the guards.”
“It makes sense though, doesn’t it?” the vampire continued, struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice. “I mean, think about it: a page comes knocking on the door of the be — er — second-best private investigator in the city; there’s a mass interrogation at the palace; and no sign of the viscount! Ha! I’ll bet that’s it. Good work, Carol; very good work.”
“If you call me that one more time, I’ll —”
“… never see Tiddles again?” Obegarde grinned. “You’re absolutely right: you won’t.” He came to a sudden standstill in the middle of North Street and snapped his fingers.
“I need you to go back to the office,” he said, trying to give the girl his most friendly smile. “When Dwellings and Wheredad return, try to strike up some sort of bargain with them.”
Lusa rolled her eyes.
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know! Tell them, er, tell them that Dwellings is a big hero of mine and that I’ve always wanted to work with him. No, actually, don’t tell them that; tell them that I respect him as the stuff of legends and … er … oh, for goodness’ sake MAKE SOMETHING UP!”
“Hang on — what are you going to do?”
“Not much else today, but tomorrow I might look for Jimmy Quickstint.”
Lusa frowned. “The gravedigger? Why?”
“Because he used to be a thief, and he’s probably the only person in Dullitch who can get me into the palace without anyone knowing.”
Obegarde turned and headed back down North Street, his coat billowing out behind him.
Lusa watched him go with a mixture of hate and grudging respect. She didn’t quite know what was worse: the fact that he was a despicable, cat-stealing bloodsucker or the fact that he was her despicable, cat-stealing bloodsucker dad. Still, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and she wasn’t about to go telling the wretch something like that.
At least, not until he’d given the cat back …
Lusa had arrived back at the office shortly after four o’clock, but there was still no sign of Dwellings and no one was answering the doorbell, so she’d decided to spend the remaining hour of daylight searching Obegarde’s cluttered office for some sign of her cat. She’d gone through this procedure several times before, but so far her searches had turned up little except an old, Tiddles-smelling cushion and two paint-stiffened whiskers next to it. The cushion was a promising clue, but she didn’t even want to think about the whiskers … He wouldn’t actually have dipped the cat in a paint tin, would he?
Time passed, and the shadows lengthened.
Lusa didn’t even know why she’d wanted to meet her father in the first place. Her mother had had few nice words to say about him, and had told her little apart from the fact that he was a well-built, good-looking vampire in his mid to late hundreds and that he’d moved to Dullitch just before she was born to “make money for the family while escaping the terror of parenthood.” Ha: what a lie! They’d never seen so much as a brass crown! Still, thankfully, her mother then met and married a Lord and they soon became very wealthy. Lusa had been educated in the top colleges of Spittle and brought up to be a Lady (despite the fact that the finishing school she’d attended had nearly lived up to its name when thirty of her classmates were involved in a fight to the death over the affections of a seriously handsome half-elf gardener).
Dwellings Debacle Page 4