Misspelled

by Julie E. Czerneda

  ‘‘We’ll simply have to wait and see, Frank. Patience, virtue, all that.’’

  ‘‘Do you really want to spend the night interviewing victims?’’

  ‘‘Not at all. For one thing, most honest folk are nestled in their beds, and I suspect they will display reluctance, if not outright disinclination, to speak to us at this hour. The victims will wait until the morrow.’’

  ‘‘Then why are we riding out into this gloomy night?’’

  ‘‘In order to interview Constable Albert Smithton and his colleagues at the Middleton Precinct.’’

  ‘‘Guides preserve us.’’

  ‘‘May they indeed.’’

  We lapsed into a companionable silence, broken only by the hard clop of the horse’s steel-shod hooves and the rattle of the undercarriage. Once we arrived in Middleton, I instructed the driver to let us off. Frankford paid the man, making sure to obtain a receipt for the constabulary’s finance department to lose. Once the cabbie had departed, Frank looked at me, curious.

  ‘‘We can walk from here,’’ I explained. ‘‘To get a lay of the land.’’

  ‘‘Once a constable, always a constable.’’

  ‘‘Not everyone has your connections, Frank.’’

  ‘‘Not everyone has my marks on the inspector’s exams, either.’’

  We walked along the cobbled streets, gas lamps creating pockets of light in the night. A low fog roiled about our feet; down by the Blyne, it would be a real peasouper. You wouldn’t be able to see five feet in front of you, a night like this. The empty streets, lined with shuttered, darkened windows, shop signs creaking as they swung in the faint breeze, made the shop district seem like a dolly mop without her rouges, frills, and ribbons: naked, unappealing, colorless.

  ‘‘Rather like a corpse, isn’t it?’’ Frankford commented, quietly. ‘‘All the life is gone.’’

  ‘‘I was thinking something depressingly similar.’’

  ‘‘Depressingly similar, or similarly depressing?’’

  ‘‘Your mastery of semantics is legendary. Both.’’

  We walked on in silence, up street and down alley. After a while, I directed my partner along a broader avenue, which led to the Middleton Precinct House. I asked him for the time. Frank removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat, examining the timepiece by the dim glow of the streetlamp.

  ‘‘Half past ten, near enough.’’

  ‘‘Long enough for them to get their stories straight, but not so long they solve our case for us, would you say?’’

  ‘‘You’ve a nasty, suspicious mind, Night.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Frank.’’

  We had unfortunately underestimated the valor and street cunning of the constables in question.

  ‘‘We knows ‘oo dunnit, sah,’’ were the first words out of Constable Smithton’s mostachioed mouth the moment we’d identified ourselves.

  Frank gave me an unpleasant look. I stifled the urge to strangle the constable.

  ‘‘Have you?’’ I asked him.

  ‘‘Oh, yis, sah!’’

  A long, wearying period of questioning later, Frankford and I had determined two things: that there was, in fact, something odd about this case and that the Middleton constables, Smithton in particular, hadn’t the sense the Guides gave a carrot.

  ‘‘Only fing is, sah, why I fink its tha’ butcher what done it? ’E’s furin, ’e is.’’

  ‘‘Is he indeed?’’ Frank asked, ushering the good constable from our presence in the interrogation room. ‘‘Well, that’s sure to be a crime in itself. Thank you, Constable, that’s all.’’ Frank closed the door and turning to face me. ‘‘What do you think?’’

  ‘‘I think Smithton’s sure to rise to the rank of Lieutenant soon enough.’’

  ‘‘No argument there. What of the case?’’

  ‘‘Thirty-six complaints of occult fraud since the new moon is odd enough, I’d say.’’

  ‘‘Quite so. Not to mention the unreported complaints, the existence of which I’ve no doubt.’’

  ‘‘Nor I. They seem convinced the butcher’s involved. ’’

  ‘‘Of course they do. He’s foreign, after all.’’ In that simple phrase, Frankford implied a wealth of opinion concerning the constables and their theory.

  ‘‘Which, in regard to the Middleton constabulary, might as well be anyone not from Middleton.’’

  ‘‘You know what this means, of course. Thirty-six victims to question.’’

  ‘‘Thirty-six complaints since the new moon, which was, what? Nine days ago?’’

  ‘‘Nine into thirty-six is four, meaning uncontrolled magic afoot.’’

  ‘‘We received the call at nine thirteen. I noted it when I answered the crystal.’’

  ‘‘Nine, an unresolved power struggle. Twice, indicating an escalation of that struggle.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but my point was, nine and thirteen are twenty-two. The number of the Guides.’’

  ‘‘Oh, dear.’’

  ‘‘I’d say, numerologically speaking, we’d be better off at the bottom of the Blyne.’’

  With a stern warning to the constables of the Middleton Precinct not to speak of this case and to conduct no further investigations of their own, Frankford and I returned to Constabulary Manor.

  ‘‘What are your thoughts?’’ Frankford asked.

  ‘‘I think that we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and all the auspices point toward this not being a simple case. I think I want to go home and crawl into bed.’’

  ‘‘Go home, Night. I have some research I want to do.’’

  ‘‘Very well. See you tomorrow, then.’’

  ‘‘Bright and early.’’

  ‘‘Don’t remind me.’’

  Morning came early, but far from bright. Low, dark clouds promised rain before day’s end. As I walked the streets of Antium from my flat to the Manor, I mulled the case over in my mind. Frankford had learned in the course of his studies that deductive reasoning and examination of the evidence would eventually lead any detective to the culprit responsible. I had come up through the ranks, learning to rely on my instinct. Right now, my instinct was saying there was something significant about this case. A few complaints of occult fraud, usually tracked to some huckster new to the city, was nothing unusual. Generally they never even made it to our unit. But thirty-six complaints? Constable Smithton had been right in one respect—this was definitely a case for the TIU.

  Climbing the stairs to our offices, I noticed something decidedly out of place. Outside the captain’s office stood an ogre. Well-dressed and obviously well-trained, he was small—for an ogre—the top of his balding head barely cresting the doorjamb. He affected a casual attitude, but I noticed that he observed everything, his beady black eyes darting this way and that, rapidly assessing any and all who came into view. A bodyguard, then. Not many could afford an ogre bodyguard.

  My hard-learned instincts told me to investigate. At the top of the stairs, I turned right toward the captain’s office, rather than left toward the unit’s. I stopped at the tea trolley and poured myself a cuppa with a twist of lemon, making sure the bodyguard saw me do so. A man with a cup of tea in his hands isn’t looking for a fight, they say. Boiling hot water in a glass vessel is a handy weapon, says I.

  I walked up to the captain’s office, sipping my tea, keeping my eyes on the captain’s attractive young secretary, Polly.

  ‘‘Hallo, Polly. What’s all this, then?’’ I asked, with a nod of my head toward the ogre.

  ‘‘Captain has a visitor,’’ Polly replied, a little prissily. An important visitor, then. She only ever put on airs when the captain was being made more important by proxy.

  ‘‘I can see that, can’t I?’’ I answered. ‘‘Listen, I’ve got to talk to him. I’ll just pop in and—’’

  The bodyguard was suddenly in front of the door, in front of me, with his hand flat against my chest.

  ‘‘No one goes in,’’ he warned. I looked up,
past the low tusks jutting from spittle-flecked lips, and stared him square in the eye.

  Rule Number One when dealing with an opponent: You are the constable. He is merely a citizen. Constables do not bluster to citizenry. Calm confidence will get you out of a fight faster than you got yourself into one.

  ‘‘You’ll want to move that hand, my son,’’ I said, as calmly as I could, staring eight feet of muscled menace in the eye.

  ‘‘No one goes in,’’ the bodyguard repeated.

  ‘‘It’s quite all right, Henrich,’’ a man said, stepping out of the captain’s office. Dressed posh as you can, gray beard trimmed square, heavy gold chain of office resting around his neck. Not just any councillor, this— this was Argent Dupuis, the Viceroy of the Council of Mages, second in power only to Chancellor Ravenstar himself.

  ‘‘My business with Captain MacCready is concluded, ’’ Viceroy Dupuis said.

  Henrich still hadn’t moved his hand, and I wasn’t about to back down.

  ‘‘Nightingale,’’ the captain warned. Only then did I step back.

  ‘‘Inspector Nightingale?’’ the Viceroy asked, impressed. ‘‘The man responsible for capturing the Invisible Strangler?’’

  ‘‘My reputation precedes me,’’ I answered.

  ‘‘Allow me to shake your hand, Inspector Nightingale, ’’ the viceroy said, offering me his hand. I shook it. Firm grip, his eyes never left mine.

  ‘‘The entire city owes you a debt of thanks, Inspector Nightingale,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’ll remember that come payday.’’

  ‘‘Ha ha,’’ he laughed, not really laughing, then turned to the captain. ‘‘Captain MacCready. Inspector Nightingale. Come, Henrich.’’

  I watched the councillor and his hired muscle leave the building.

  ‘‘My office, Nightingale. Now.’’

  The captain’s office was nice enough, well decorated, though small for a man of his rank. He’d been offered larger on another floor, but he preferred to be closer to his men.

  ‘‘You and Frankford are investigating some cases of occult fraud,’’ the captain said as he sat at his desk, going through the many reports stacked before him.

  ‘‘We are, sir. How did you—’’

  ‘‘Never mind that, man. You’ll exercise the utmost discretion in this case, Inspector.’’

  ‘‘As always, sir.’’

  A raised eyebrow eloquently explained exactly what he thought of my reply.

  ‘‘Utmost discretion, Nightingale.’’

  ‘‘As you say, sir. Utmost discretion. May one inquire why, sir?’’

  ‘‘No, one may not,’’ he replied, but a significant glance out the door toward where the viceroy had gone told me all I needed to know. Politics.

  ‘‘That’s all, Inspector.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

  In our shared office, I related to Frankford what had transpired.

  ‘‘Politics,’’ he spat. In the mouth of a member of the constabulary, it was as foul an oath as could be uttered.

  ‘‘That’s the lay of it, my lad.’’

  ‘‘What’s to be done?’’

  ‘‘Utmost discretion.’’

  ‘‘Indeed.’’

  The average person on the average day has trouble remembering what had transpired the previous week. Frankford and I had thirty-six apparent victims to prompt through the preceding ten days, trying to determine if they had done anything out of the ordinary, seen anyone suspicious, or purchased anything shady. After those thirty-six individuals, none of whom were particularly erudite or polite, we had to question the various enchanters, mediums, seers, and other minor Practitioners by whom the victims had allegedly been victimized. Those worthies held fast in their conviction that the spells for which they had been contracted— or the assorted potions, charms, or ingredients they had sold—should have worked perfectly. This was, however, the opposite of what had actually occurred. As Constable Smithton had so eloquently observed, the spells had, quite simply, not worked.

  After three days of investigation, exercising the utmost discretion, Frank and I found ourselves at an impasse. We’d interviewed dozens of people, compiled list after list, run down the usual confidence schemers, invented wild theories. We’d talked to experts and specialists, Practitioners and coven leaders. Not a one of them offered us anything solid.

  Frank went down the list of victims and accused alike.

  ‘‘The enchantress says her virility potion should have turned the clerk well-nigh into a satyr; however, she thinks the lavender she bought might have been stale. Her apothecary, however, insists that he sells only the freshest ingredients. The necromancer hired to ensure the safe passage of the widow’s husband’s shade maintains that the angelica he used he cultivated himself. The seer claims that the future is clouded with possibility.’’

  ‘‘Which is another way of saying he doesn’t know what happened.’’

  ‘‘The shaman says his spirit guides would only speak after the full moon. The medium says she—’’

  ‘‘Your point is made, Frank. They have almost no connection to one another, and they’re all hiding something. But there’s something you missed.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’

  ‘‘They’re all scared.’’

  ‘‘Your fabled instinct?’’

  ‘‘Whatever it is they’re hiding, it’s got them frightened. ’’

  ‘‘Do you think someone is threatening them?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Then of what are they frightened?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  Frank smoothed his oiled hair, leaning back in his chair. ‘‘Your fabled instinct isn’t being particularly helpful, Night.’’

  ‘‘I’m no seer, Frank.’’ I drained my cup of the last of my tea, staring at the leaves, hoping for some clue. Illness, they predicted. Wonderful.

  ‘‘Very well. Let’s examine the clues once again.’’

  ‘‘To what end? We’ve been through it a dozen times or more.’’

  ‘‘From another perspective, then.’’

  ‘‘If you insist.’’ I went to the chalkboard at end of the room and began writing the names of the victims, drawing lines to their alleged victimizers, drawing lines to their assorted suppliers and various associates with whom they’d met in the days since the new moon. Only in the rarest of instances did any two or three lines collect at the same name.

  ‘‘We’re going to have to talk to all the associates and all the suppliers, aren’t we?’’ I asked rhetorically.

  ‘‘With the utmost discretion.’’

  ‘‘Wonderful. Can we at least begin with these worthies? ’’ I asked, indicating those few instances of multiple connection, to which Frankford readily agreed.

  Two days later we were, as usual, rather occupied with the full moon, checking in on the city’s lycanthropes, making sure they were well dosed or at least well chained. None of them reported any incidents, so we concluded that our cases of spell failure—which continued to be reported with worrisome and increasing incidence—were unlikely to be the result of bad ingredients.

  ‘‘It’s rather like an epidemic, isn’t it?’’ Frankford asked me, a few days after the full moon. We’d just received our tenth report of the day concerning new spell failures. The captain was asking for daily accounts, and keeping the case discreet was becoming something of a joke—the reports had moved well beyond Middleton. All we needed was for some genteel family or some Practitioner of note to raise the hue and cry, and the story would be on the front page of the Times.

  ‘‘How do you mean?’’

  ‘‘See here. This charm-maker, this seer, and this medium all went to the alchemist on Horseback Road. But the alchemist is having troubles of his own. He knows this apothecary here, and so does this necromancer, the shaman from Near Street, and this illusionist, all of whom have reported or have been reported with failed spells. Now, I’d assume the apotheca
ry is the culprit, except that the enchantress from Regent’s Row, the witch from High Ridge Way, and the spellsinger from Eager Downs all insist they’ve never met the man, never gone into his shop.’’

  ‘‘What’re you getting at, Frank?’’

  ‘‘Well, say the enchantress knew the charm-maker, or perhaps they both know someone neither of them thought to mention. Not a client or supplier or associate, but perhaps a friend? Or someone they know from their covens?’’

  ‘‘Guides preserve us, Frank, you’re not suggesting we interrogate all their friends and covenmates?’’

  ‘‘What I’m suggesting is what if this is larger than we think? You said it yourself, when the case began— there were thirty-six reported cases of spell failure. But what of all the unreported cases?’’

  ‘‘You think there are hidden links between these people?’’

  ‘‘Can there be any doubt?’’

  ‘‘So how is this like an epidemic?’’

  ‘‘How is plague transmitted?’’

  ‘‘Rats, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘Not just rats. People carry diseases as well.’’

  ‘‘You think the spell failings are some sort of . . . magical disease? Passed from friend to associate to supplier to Practitioner?’’

  ‘‘Precisely.’’

  ‘‘But how did it start? Usually in terms of a plague, there’s someone who’s the first to fall ill, the first to die, and the illness spreads from that first unfortunate.’’

  ‘‘I’ve no idea.’’

  ‘‘Let’s have a look at the names again, then.’’

  ‘‘Which names, though? Practitioners, suppliers, associates, covens?’’

  ‘‘Since we’re looking into hidden connections, let’s start with covens.’’

  We’d made a list of all the covens who had members who had reported spell failings. In only a few instances, other members of those covens also reported similar failings.

  ‘‘All this started with the new moon, so let’s begin with those covens who met that night,’’ Frank suggested.

  ‘‘But what if it didn’t start with one of these covens? What if the problem began with another coven?’’

  ‘‘And somehow spread to one of the covens on our list?’’