Spires’ eyes widened, and watered.
“Fetch Enoch Dwellings,” he said. “IMMEDIATELY.”
Eleven
MIDNIGHT FELL ON DULLITCH like a drunken reveler tripping over his own shoelaces: hard and fast.
Deep below the palace, a subterranean tunnel intended solely for excrement suddenly acquired two extremely different sorts of filth.
“I don’t believe this,” said Obegarde, plummeting into the river of muck from a dingy hatch in the tunnel roof. “I thought you said you knew a ‘tried and trusted’ way into the palace!”
“I do!” said Jimmy Quickstint, lithely snaking his way down from the hole. “This is it!”
“Ha! You’re not serious? Who in their right mind would even try this place, let alone trust it!”
“Er … are you going to whine all night, or are you actually interested in breaching the palace?”
“If you don’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll breach you.”
“Fine. Good luck finding your way out.”
Obegarde took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then he exhaled, very slowly.
“Shall I just show you the way in, then?” said Jimmy, noticing that the vampire’s clenched fists had actually drawn blood from his palms.
“Yes, I would if I were you.”
“Righty ho … er … no problem.” He swung his arms as he walked. “Hey, guess what, this afternoon I heard a vicious rumor that the viscount was kidnapped!”
“Really?”
“Yeah, straight up! What d’you reckon?”
“Me? I don’t have a clue; but if you can get me into the palace I might at least be able to make an educated guess!”
“Ah … so he has been kidnapped, then?”
“Shut up, Jimmy. Just shut up.”
“Fine: well, we need to take a left here.”
The smell of sewage was now beyond belief. Obegarde fished in his pocket for a scrap of rag, and quickly covered his mouth and nose.
“What’s that for?” Jimmy asked, perplexed.
The vampire stared at him for a moment.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m serious — what’s with the hanky?”
“The smell is unbelievable!”
Jimmy sniffed the air.
“What smell? I don’t smell anything.”
“I’ll assume that’s a very bad attempt at humor.”
“No, really I don’t; then again, I haven’t exactly got a terrific sense of smell.”
“You don’t say?”
The two men walked on in silence for a while, Jimmy stopping occasionally to check the map imprinted on his memory.
“Down here, I reckon,” he muttered, leading the vampire along a dank, foul-smelling tunnel that looked much like all the others they’d trawled through.
“How much further?” said Obegarde impatiently.
Jimmy shrugged.
“Hmm … difficult to say, really,” he mumbled. “There’s one particular landmark I’m looking for.”
“Down here? What is it, the statue of a tur —”
“Shh! I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’ll recognize it when I see it. OK?”
“It’ll have to be, won’t it?”
There was a moment of strained silence as Jimmy paused at the mouth of a four-way junction; went left, came back, went right, came back, then began to venture ahead.
Obegarde watched him carefully.
“You really don’t have the slightest idea where you’re leading us, do you?” he whispered.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Jimmy, turning to eye the vampire resentfully. “Furthermore, I think if you go on ahead you will find a large, green and gold water pipe around the very next corner.”
Obegarde put his head to one side, then shoved Jimmy back against the wall and disappeared around the near bend. After a few seconds, he came striding back, rubbing his forehead.
“What happened?” Jimmy asked, a half-smile playing on his face. “Are you all right?”
“No,” said Obegarde bitterly. “I just whacked my skull on the large, green and gold water pipe THAT ISN’T BLOODY THERE.”
He snatched the gravedigger by his collar, hoisted him into the air and deposited him face-first into the muck.
“Now,” he said, stepping over the sopping-wet form and thrusting a finger under Jimmy’s dripping nose. “You better find the right tunnel fast. Otherwise, one of us is going to be having supper down here.”
Enoch Dwellings arrived at the palace confused, annoyed and in a hurry. On top of everything else, an obscure note from Obegarde, apologizing for accidentally giving him a cat, had him unutterably bewildered. Could he have meant the stray that Wheredad had recently found in the bedroom?
Dwellings shook himself from his reverie. He couldn’t think about that now. Duty called … and it had certainly called loudly tonight.
Dwellings leaped up the main palace steps and was immediately ushered into a lobby room poorly decorated with torn drapes, tatty furniture, a great oak desk … and a battered corpse.
“When was it found?” Dwellings asked the nearest guard, throwing his coat over an armchair that looked grubby but was probably worth more than his house.
“He was found a short while ago, in a wardrobe in one of the bedrooms.”
Dwellings examined the man carefully, and nodded.
“Hmm …” he began. “Beaten pretty badly … but no stab wounds; some signs of strangulation, though. I suppose he might have been poisoned, but I doubt it in the extreme. Who found him?”
One of a handful of guards that were dawdling around the door sheepishly raised a hand.
“I did, sir.”
“Was he hanging?”
“Sir?”
Dwellings rolled his eyes.
“Inside the wardrobe, man! Was he hanging inside the wardrobe?”
“Er … yeah, I fink so, sir.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t akshully notice ’im at first …”
“How so?”
“Well, he was kinda propped up in one corner.”
“I see. Did he fall out on you?”
The guard shook his head.
“Not till I pushed ’im aside, no.”
“Pushed him aside?” Dwellings repeated, aghast. “Why on Illmoor did you push this man aside?”
The guard shrugged.
“I needed to get at sumfing b’hind ’im.”
Dwellings drew in a breath.
“What was it you were trying to reach, exactly?”
“Coat hanger, sir. Why, is that ’mportant?”
“It might be.” Dwellings took a step back from the corpse, then produced his writing pad. “So let me get this straight,” he began, scribbling furiously. “You went into the bedroom, opened up the wardrobe and saw a dead man inside.”
“’Sright.”
“So you pushed the dead man aside to get at the coat hanger, and he fell out of the wardrobe. It was then that you raised the alarm. Am I correct?”
“APSOLOOTLY, sir.”
“Very good, private. Thank you for your time.”
“I’m a sergeant, akshully, sir.”
Dwellings smiled.
“Are you really? Oh dear.”
“Excuse me. If I may interrupt …”
Secretary Spires entered the room to a flurry of salutes, and headed straight for Dwellings.
“You’ve had a good look, detective?” he said, indicating the corpse with a wave of his hand.
“Yes, thank you.”
“It’s the vegetable delivery man, we believe.”
“Yes,” Dwellings agreed. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“So, are we forming a picture yet?” Spires asked, dismissing the guards and closing the door carefully behind them.
Dwellings shook his head.
“Not as such,” he admitted. “But I am beginning to see the merest hint of an outline.”
; “Oh good,” Spires said, taking a seat on one of the grand sofas and offering the detective a place beside him. “Care to enlighten one less criminally minded?”
Dwellings leaned back on the sofa, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Spires, that it’s a tangled mess we have here.”
The secretary nodded.
“The fact is,” Dwellings went on, “that something began the night before last with the kitchen’s regular delivery of vegetables. The deliveryman drove the cart into the palace, but I’m absolutely certain that he didn’t drive it out again. What I think happened was this: he hung around the palace for a few hours, talking to a succession of busy people, and then he came across what he thought was the cleaning crew.”
“You mean the men who arrived with the drop cloths?”
“Precisely: the men who are, I believe, a bunch of despicable, murdering kidnappers. Anyway, the deliveryman doesn’t know this and, not having seen them before, he plagues them with questions and gets himself killed. An alternative theory is that the group had been watching the palace for some time, and knew about the deliveryman’s routine. Anyway, back to the point: the kidnapping takes place and, in order to confuse the trail, they take two carts out of the city: the vegetable cart and their own. One contains the viscount, the other, we assume, is empty. This all takes time, as it is my belief that the group originate from around Crust …”
“And you believe this because … ?”
“Well, because of the two dead Crusters that turned up on the same vegetable cart this morning at eight o’clock.”
There was an awkward pause.
“How can it be the same cart?” said Spires, raising an eyebrow. “That would mean they came back …”
Dwellings heaved an empty sigh.
“Well,” he said. “I’m almost entirely convinced that they did return to the city … and are, in fact, still here. However, even if they are, finding them will be impossible: tracing their movements from the palace would be our best bet. I know, Mr. Secretary, that it is a terrible and complicated mess, but I can assure you that I am on the case.”
Spires nodded, but somewhat despondently.
“You still have no explanation of the mechanics of the kidnapping?” he hazarded, listlessly.
“Actually, I do,” the detective admitted. “I believe that the sleep, and the broken mirrors and windows, were all brought about by the death cry of the Jenacle banshee: it also backs up my theory about the kidnappers hailing from Crust, where such creatures are commonly bred. I suspect that a separate individual, possibly the most important member of the kidnapping team, crossed the rooftops of the city in order to get to the palace. I think it very likely that the poor Guard Marshal on duty at the North Gate tried to head him off. It would also explain why Curfew and the guard at the High Tower were unaffected by the cry: it seems almost certain that they were both wearing earplugs.”
“A marvelous set of deductions,” finished Spires, abruptly. “In fact, Mr. Dwellings, I only have one question remaining.”
“Which is?”
Spires took a deep breath.
“Do you plan on solving this case and finding the viscount before one — or worse — both of us are executed …?”
“Of course!”
Enoch smiled nervously, bowed and quickly backed out of the room. When he got into the corridor beyond, he had to hold on to the wall for support: explanations made him weary … and he really needed some sleep.
“Oh, here we go.”
Jimmy pointed left at what felt to Obegarde like the six millionth intersection they’d come across, and gave a “thumbs up” sign.
“I think this is it,” he confirmed, winking at the vampire and clicking his tongue. “Told you I could get you into the palace, didn’t I?”
They headed down the new tunnel, which ended rather abruptly in the form of a locked wooden door.
Jimmy waited for a few seconds. Then, when the vampire gave no hint of movement, he turned and motioned to him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Obegarde, dubiously.
Jimmy rolled his eyes.
“Aren’t you going to kick it down?” he ventured.
“Kick what down? Oh, you mean this whacking great door blocking the passage? No, I’m not going to knock it down.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m a vampire and not a bloody cave troll, that’s why.”
Jimmy’s expression didn’t change.
“You mean you can’t knock this door down?” he hazarded.
“No.”
“What, really?”
“Really.”
“Damn, but you must be a wimp — I was even going to have a go at this one myself.”
Obegarde ignored the gravedigger’s “rolling up of sleeves” pantomime and gave the door an experimental barge with his shoulder. Nothing happened.
“Ah, I see what you’re on about, now,” Jimmy said, leaning against the tunnel wall with his arms folded. “There definitely wasn’t much strength behind that assault.”
“Look,” Obegarde growled. “I’m going to show you the true meaning of the word assault if you don’t shut up.”
He took a few steps back, then ran up and charged into the door with all his might.
Still nothing.
“Why don’t you vamp up?” Jimmy suggested.
Obegarde boggled at him.
“Why don’t I what?”
“Vamp up.”
“What does that mean, for crying out loud?”
“You know,” Jimmy went on, making a monstrous face and gritting his teeth. “That thing you all do, that hulking up thing where you go nuts and bite your own tongues off: I read about it.”
Obegarde shook his head in disbelief.
“And what good would biting my tongue off do me, exactly? Apart from making me unable to insult you for having such a stupid idea, that is. Any other suggestions?”
Jimmy thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“You could turn into a mist!”
“I can’t do that: I’m only a half-vampire, remember? Us loftwings can’t do mists: in fact, even rats and wolves give us problems. The only things we can turn into on a regular basis are bats and —”
“North Street?”
“No, I was going to say snakes.”
The gravedigger was momentarily speechless.
“Y-you?” he managed, eventually. “You can turn into a snake? Well, I’ll be a werewolf’s nephew: you kept that a bit quiet, didn’t you?”
Obegarde shrugged.
“It’s not the sort of thing you announce,” he said.
“That means you could get under the door!”
“I know.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
Obegarde looked up and down the tunnel, then pulled Jimmy closer to him.
“Listen, thief —”
“Gravedigger.”
“WHATEVER: just listen. If I want to turn into a snake, I have to excrete all my body waste first. Now, that means I need to find a quiet place somewhere to … relieve myself. Understand?”
Jimmy managed to suppress the smile that threatened to engulf his face.
“Completely,” he said. “There’s actually a cubby hole in the east wall about two tunnels back; looks just the ticket.”
“OK,” said Obegarde, searching the gravedigger’s face for the merest hint of a grin. “You keep watch: I’ll be back shortly.”
“Need any help?”
“NONE. Just keep watch.”
“Loud and clear,” Jimmy whispered. “You go and conduct your business, and you can trust me never to tell a soul.”
“Ha! I wouldn’t trust you to unclog my pipes.”
“I thought you said you didn’t need any help.”
“Very funny,” Obegarde called back. “You know, one day that wit of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble.”
You
mean a lot MORE trouble, Jimmy thought bitterly, peering around at the tunnel walls. Then he saw the snake twisting and writhing through the water toward him.
“Blimey, Obegarde,” he said, under his breath. “That was quick!”
The snake slid closer, hissing in the semi-darkness.
Jimmy jumped back from it.
“Hey, careful! You’re after the door, not me, remember?”
The snake reared up, unveiling two halves of a dark, scaly hood, and darted for the gravedigger’s throat.
Twelve
WHEN DWELLINGS RETURNED TO his office, exhausted and completely out of breath, he found his unflappable assistant waiting for him. This was particularly annoying, as he’d left a detailed explanation of his thoughts on the desk, which he’d hoped the man would read.
“What do you want, Wheredad?” he demanded. “It’s two o’clock in the morning!”
“I’m so glad you’re back, Enoch,” said the assistant, grimly, taking little notice of his employer’s tone. “I’ve had an idea.”
Dwellings yawned, his eyes heavy.
“Listen,” Wheredad ploughed on. “What if the perpetrators of this crime used two carts —”
“We’ve already established that.”
“Yes, but what if they used both carts inside Dullitch … and both carts to get to and from the city at various times?”
“Go on …”
Wheredad smiled, brightly.
“Well, we know they used the one with the drop cloths, which is probably their own, but we’ve GOT the other cart: the one you say that they brought back this morning? Isn’t there a chance that they took it to their hideout?”
“And?”
“AND if we’ve got the other cart, we can study the cart’s tread …”
“Yes, I see where you’re going,” said Dwellings, patiently. “But it still doesn’t bring us any closer to actually tracking them down, does it?”
“Maybe not,” said Wheredad, snapping his fingers. “But track being the operative word, it might bring someone else a LOT closer.”
“Someone else? Closer to who? What are you babbling about?”
Wheredad drew himself up to his full impressive height and positively beamed.
“A tracker,” he said. “If the cart leaves tracks, which it does, then all we need to do is hire a good tracker. I know the average Joe isn’t going to recognize one cart tread from another, but a good tracker could do the job straight away. Am I right?”
Dwellings Debacle Page 7