by Tualla, Kris
You mentioned the need for discretion. Let me assure you, my lady, that I would not have been successful for eight years did I not behave with the utmost care in every one of my commissions.
Please write and describe what behaviors you have witnessed and what your specific concerns are. The more information I have, the more effective my investigation will be.
Payment terms are negotiable and I am quite reasonable. Do not allow uncertainty to cause you to hesitate. And should you engage my services, I vow that no one will hear one single word of your situation from my lips.
Your servant,
Lord Olaf Olsen
Christiania
Lord Olsen knew of Thorlak? How deeply was her husband involved in whatever it was he was doing? How long had it been happening? And what had he risked -- or lost -- thus far? This was worse than she imagined. And she had already imagined the destruction of their lives.
"Oh, my Lord, please help me!" she keened. Her bones turned to water and she spilled across her bed in a wash of tears.
Christiania
Niels always entered the Valhalla Tavern first. That way, if their client proved over-eager and arrived too early, Niels could distract the person with conversation while Brander slipped in and took a table across the room.
And before actually meeting any client face to face, they surreptitiously found the person whose name was on the letter of inquiry to confirm their identity. Brander had no interest in being taken for a fool by an imposter.
Niels turned toward the street to pull the tavern door closed behind him and he nodded. The banker Gulbrandsen was there.
Brander tapped his temple with his first finger in acknowledgement: I understand.
He sauntered across the cobbled street and entered the tavern. Niels already had the man at their regular table in the sunny window, the prospective client facing the dim common room. Brander sat in a dark corner where he could clearly see the man's lips. A stein appeared at his elbow and he smiled up at the serving girl, winking his thanks. She knew their routine from countless previous meetings.
And she knew she would be well-paid to keep up appearances.
Brander pulled a leather wallet from his dark gray jacket and unfolded it on the table. Inside were several sheets of paper and multiple sticks of graphite wound about with twine. He selected one of each, sipped the ale, and then set himself to reading Gulbrandsen's lips and taking notes.
As was common, Mister Gulbrandsen sat in fidgety attendance with his knees jumping and a stein gripped in a tight fist. Brander couldn't see what Niels was asking, but he made note of every one of the man's answers:
"It's my brother's wife. I think she is poisoning him."
"He's sick every evening, but better in the mornings."
"No, he's getting worse every night."
"About a month."
"Wealthy enough, I expect. He's a solicitor. A lawyer, you know?"
"No, she's been married twice before."
"Died. I don't know what took them."
"She's Reformed, but my brother and I are loyal followers of the Holy Father. Why does that matter?"
"Oh. Yes, very clever."
A tap on his shoulder pulled Brander's attention. He held up a palm while he assured himself that Niels' conversation had moved on to logistics and payment, and then he faced the owner of the Valhalla. Alarm scrubbed the man's already ruddy complexion to an astonishing shade of red.
"Pardon me, Lord Olsen, sir. But might you come upstairs a moment?"
Brander spread his hands and shrugged.
His answer was a furtive glance around the nearly empty common room followed by frantic beckoning with a fisted apron. Brander folded his notes into the wallet and tucked the graphite stick in its slot. Standing, he slipped the wallet inside his jacket.
As he crossed the room, he caught Niels' eye and crooked his middle finger: Don't come.
Niels nodded as if in greeting and turned back to the banker.
The scene that greeted Brander in the upper room was only slightly less horrific than the smell.
A man lay sprawled across the bed. His twisted clothes reeked of sour sweat. Remnants of his bowels and bladder stained the sheets and Brander bet the mattress was beyond salvage. He stepped closer and bent over to examine the corpse.
Dried blood rusted the corners of the man's mouth. Brander ignored the sightless, dilated eyes and put a finger on the man's chin. He pushed the jaw down and peered inside.
A brown substance coated the man's tongue and stained the inner surface of his teeth. Brander sniffed the man's mouth.
Opium. But mixed with something lethal.
He sniffed again.
Nothing. And that gave him two options. Brander nodded to the tavern keeper and headed into the hall. Niels was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Brander pulled out his wallet and began writing as he descended.
Niels read his note to the tavern keeper: "This man took opium but it was mixed with poison. Do you know who he is?"
"Him? No. He hasn't roomed here before."
"Have you heard of any similar deaths nearby?"
"No..." The keeper frowned. He was obviously pondering the question.
"Will you let us know if you do?"
The man nodded, distracted.
Brander and Niels turned to leave when the man grabbed Brander's arm. "What do I do with him?" he demanded.
The cousins exchanged an unpleasant glance. "Call for the Regent," Niels said.
"But I need to clean out the room!"
Brander jerked a thumb toward the front door and the gray cobbled gutter beyond.
Hamar
June 20, 1720
Regin carried her second letter for Lord Olsen into Hamar, along with a basket of eggs to sell. Marthe offered to do it for her but Regin needed to get away from the estate. Its stone walls, once a secure haven, now crushed her, and its draped windows blocked her air. Light dribbled in here or there, but it was beaten back by the shadows of half-empty rooms.
If only there was a way to never go back. Her marriage was in shambles and her husband had become an unsavory and dangerous stranger. But the estate was hers by God, not his, and she wouldn't be run off if there was any way to retain it.
The sky echoed her mood, hanging around her in heavy gray tatters. The walk from the estate to the village was almost two miles, but she reached the square in three quarters of an hour. Her thoughts were entangled with the enigmatic Lord Olsen the entire way.
What sort of man chose such an unusual vocation?
His written response to her was well-composed and his hand clear, so the man was obviously educated. He moved effortlessly through society -- she was told -- so he must have been born into a well-situated family. He had to be unusually intelligent to solve the puzzles handed to him by his clients, and he solved them well enough to support himself for the past eight years.
She re-read his missive a dozen times or more. Perhaps she was losing her own mind, but she swore there was an indication in his tone that he cared about her. Or at least cared what happened to her; and that was significant enough. She had begun to wonder if God Himself had forgotten her.
An uncomfortable thought pushed its way forward: how much would he ask about her marriage?
If he inquired, she would tell him that she was a Baroness and heir to Kildahlshus, and the title of Baron was awarded to Thorlak when they married. She would tell him that the marriage was arranged, but a sincere affection grew between them and she hoped for a long and happy life together.
"So when did it go wrong?" she muttered to the rabbits that skittered across her path and disappeared into the tall summer grasses.
That was a very good question.
Thorlak always displayed an affinity for games of chance. He would make up silly little wagers with her or the servants, risking unimportant things such as who selected the tarts for supper or had to wear a certain item of clothing into the village the following day.
<
br /> One long winter, he taught her to play cards. She learned quickly, but hated his fits of annoyance when she bested him, which was more than half the time. In frustration, he switched to dice; but that didn't hold her interest. There was no skill required, only luck. She thought it was a foolish way to spend an evening, hunched over the table and counting black dots that appeared of their own volition.
In rebellion, Thorlak began to ride into the village and play games with men in the taverns. Rough and unforgiving men far beneath him in status. He would stumble home in the wee hours, reeking of drink and bellowing claims of being cheated, before falling into his bed. The next morning's sun never saw him.
Then last autumn he went to Christiania. He was absent from the estate for days while Regin grew frantic, wondering where he was and what calamity might have befallen him. He always returned thus far, and left again with his pockets filled. But when he came home again, they were empty.
The days of his absences extended to weeks. And every time he left, he carried part of her ancestral home away. Now he looked like walking death, and smelled nearly as bad. And she was reduced to selling eggs in the market like a desperate peasant.
With a determined sigh, she handed her letter to the dispatcher. Please, God. Let this Lord Olsen be of swift and capable assistance.
Christiania
June 20, 1720
Brander's hair was slicked with oil and tied tightly at the nape of his neck; the cavernous hood of his dark woolen monk's robe hid his lack of a shaved tonsure. Sitting in the corner of Gulbrandsen's brother's bedchamber, he silently mouthed prayers and worked his way through a glass-beaded rosary whenever anyone else entered the room.
His disguise and his 'vow of silence' were working. Brander was disappearing in a cloak of invisibility, the way a familiar piece of furniture ceases to be noticed. After three days, no one greeted him any longer. Their shoulders and faces relaxed. The disruption his presence caused upon his arrival had stilled.
Perfect.
When he was alone, Brander wrote notes about who had entered the room, with what, at what time; and what they did when they were there. As thorough as he was, he hadn't been able to puzzle out anything particularly suspicious as yet. But after watching Gulbrandsen's brother for only three days, he was certain the man was indeed being poisoned.
And he was just as certain that the poison was arsenic. He watched the man combat faintness and depression. He regurgitated his food and complained of abdominal pain. His mucous was speckled with blood.
So then, how was the poison being administered?
The brother's wife was always in the room when her husband's food was brought to him. She hovered and flapped like an overwrought mockingbird while a valet fed the man. So if the poison was in his food that act was accomplished beforehand.
But Brander didn't think the arsenic was in the food. That was too easy a solution. Or perhaps too difficult, considering the number of kitchen and serving staff who were potential witnesses.
This night he resolved to forgo sleep and remain at the house until dawn. He would feign slumber if he was noticed, and hold up the prayer beads if he were challenged, though he thought that unlikely. But Gulbrandsen's brother weakened alarmingly in front of him and if he didn't discover the source of the poison it would soon be too late. Even now, the stench of diarrhea assailed Brander's senses.
Hours passed. Lamps were lowered. A servant sat by the door should the ill man need any assistance in the night. Brander watched his labored breathing. At three hours past midnight, he risked checking the man's pulse. It was rapid and feeble.
With a carefully drawn sigh, Brander tucked back into his corner. Though a Reformist, he began to pray through the rosary beads in earnest. Another hour passed. The servant by the door slumped slack-mouth against the wall, twitching occasionally as he dreamt.
Then the door opened. A figure draped in shadow slid into the room. It floated toward Brander and leaned close. Brander's head rested against the wall and he closed his eyes so the phantom wouldn't see them glisten in the pale lamplight. He counted to fifty, and let his eyes relax open enough to see through his lashes.
The phantom had pulled back the bedclothes. It was rubbing a salve of some sort over the banker's brother's belly.
He had to admit, that was very, very clever. But the wife was well experienced in slow murder, if Gulbrandsen was to be believed.
Brander rose to his feet and tiptoed in his soft-soled boots across the room to the servant. He shook the man awake then turned to the culprit.
The startled ghost launched itself toward Brander and nearly took him to the floor. Hampered by the heavy monk's robes, he struggled to hold on to his surprising large assailant. This was definitely not the wife. Had she relied on another servant to do her bidding? Or had she a complicit lover?
Brander threw his size into the capture. He wrapped his nearly six-and-a-half feet of determined muscle around the thick figure, dodging swinging fists and thrashing heels with about three-fourths accuracy. He tasted blood and one of his eyes began to swell closed before he could tear away the spectre's skin and reveal its soul.
When he did, the would-be assassin beneath glared at him and his mouth worked in a stream of curses and denials. Brander wiped his bleeding mouth on the back of one hand and shook his head. He loosed the man and carefully retrieved the broken pot of arsenic salve, which had rolled across the floor.
Gulbrandsen, it seems, was trying to kill his brother himself.
Chapter Three
Lunde Boarding House
Christiania
June 24, 1720
My esteemed Lord Olsen,
As you might well imagine, it is hard for me to put into writing the frightening behaviors that my husband has engaged in. I will endeavor to do my best in describing them herein.
Lord Skogen has enjoyed wagering for as long as I have known him, which is since our marriage about seven years ago. He spent many hours wagering in Hamar before the men in this town refused him. Apparently, he owes debts for lost challenges -- which he has not yet paid.
Some weeks after Christmas he traveled to Christiania, where it appears he has continued to spend his time in similar games. He has made several journeys back to our home, each time carrying away items of value. I am afraid that he has sold these items -- some of which had been in my family for generations -- either to pay wagering debts or for living expenses.
The last time I saw my husband, he looked to be in very poor health. He had dark bruises under his eyes and his teeth were edged in brown. He was angry that he had forgot and contrary in his mood.
I hope this information is of help.
Lady Regin Kildahl Skogen
Brander stared at the crossed out words: that he had forgot. What specifically had the man forgotten? In his experience, men who forgot things -- and then grew angry -- also grew violent. That thought disturbed him more than he was prepared for. He hoped Lady Skogen was safe. He felt a bit responsible for the woman, even though he worked for her husband's creditors. While it wasn't his intention to make her life harder his current path assured there could be no other outcome.
He would have to think more on that. For now he pulled his curtains aside to allow a warm salt breeze to freshen his mind and his room. On the third floor he was removed somewhat from the stench of waste commonly tossed into the city streets below.
The lady's words spoke in his head: and his teeth were edged in brown. Brander already knew Skogen was partaking of the recent influx of the Oriental drug called opium. The bitter blackish tablets stained its user's teeth -- as it stained its partaker's soul with a dark grip that few could wrestle free of.
That he had forgot. Those four words were by far the most important words in her letter. If only all of his clients were so transparent he could complete his tasks in half the time -- and earn twice the compensation. Brander sighed. His reply would need to challenge her on what information she still withheld: the informati
on that her husband had forgot.
Niels entered his room. Brander grabbed a sheet of paper.
We need to go to Hamar to see about some debts Skogen might owe there, he scribbled.
"Shall we visit your estate while we are there, my lord?" Niels teased.
It's not mine yet, Brander motioned.
Niels shrugged and grinned. "Only a matter of time."
Brander wadded the paper and threw it at his cousin. But he smiled.
Hamar
June 30, 1720
Brander leaned against the stone façade of the regent mayor's office and waited while Niels procured directions to Kildahlshus. It had been an easy task to ferret out Skogen's creditors in the town. A visit to one tavern, a few questions, some well-placed suggestions, and the men pulled each other in.
Niels explained that Skogen had numerous creditors in Christiania that held far more sway, and much larger markers, than any of the people of Hamar. The idea that these men might never be repaid was a logical next step. So when Brander dropped a pouch of silver and copper dalers on the table, the men counted themselves lucky to receive half of what they were owed.
In the end, eleven men had legitimate claims. Brander denied three who had obvious forged Skogen's signature; a signature he was quite familiar with at this juncture. The outlay of coin was not insignificant, but the assurance that it purchased -- that no local farmer or merchant could undercut him with their own claim on the estate -- was well worth the unplanned expense.
As he waited for Niels by the street, his eyes moved without ceasing; touching, evaluating and categorizing every person who moved through the cool, cloud-patched morning.
Hamar seemed a quiet town, lolling under the hulking shadow of the ruined Hamar Cathedral Priory. Almost a hundred years past, the eleventh-century cathedral's roof was deliberately set ablaze by warring Swedes, causing the collapse of its walls. Brander had been fascinated by all tales of destruction as a boy and itched to clamber around and explore the fallen stones. Maybe there would be time later.