Welling’s eyes flashed hot, and then he turned back to focus on their walk down Jent. “Our house does make use of one, when magic is considered a possibility. Unfortunately, my presence renders the readings meaningless.”
“Never mind, then.”
“This is it,” Welling said, pointing to the squat ugly building that was the Red Hatchet. A slateboard sign on the door read in rough scrawl CLOSED FOR MURDER, with the Constabulary seal in wax at the bottom. The pub was wedged in between two brick tenements, where in Satrine’s memory there had once been an alley. The tenement to the right of it was more familiar. She and her mother had lived in it, for at least a little while.
“Root cellar, latched from the inside?” she said. “I wonder.” She went inside, where it smelled dank and awful. “They haven’t cleaned.”
“Instructed not to, with the writ of investigation to back it up. That writ will expire tonight, though, which is probably why the captain was intent on my making progress quickly.”
“I may have progress for you.” She went into the back, where she figured the root cellar must be. “This building didn’t exist before, you see. But the two on either side have been there for many decades.”
“Obviously,” Welling said. He pointed out the hatch to the root cellar, and she went down. It was dark, damp, and narrow. Welling followed her down with a lamp.
“What might not be obvious is that both buildings shared a basement back in the day.” She took the lamp and held it up to one wall. Ugly masonry, mismatched stones. She gave it a tap. Not very thick. “I would imagine it wouldn’t be too challenging to knock through that, get into the next building.”
Welling came closer. “Possibly not, but that would leave some obvious signs. Not the least of which is the hole in the wall.”
Satrine scanned the wall, looking along the floor. Near some barrels, there was a hint of dust on the ground. She crouched by it, ran her finger through it. “There’s this.”
“Hardly damning.”
She looked closer at the wall by the barrels. “The grouting is a very different color here. The rest of the wall is dark gray. This is chalk white.” She scratched at it. “And it’s a bit on the soft side.”
Welling leaned, examining the wall. “Quite intriguing.” He stood up fully, stepped back, and gave a sharp kick at the chalk-white patch.
It knocked through with surprising ease.
“Freshly made, covering a previously unknown exit for our killer,” he said. “Quite ingenious, Inspector Rainey.”
“And he would have had a whole day to do it,” Satrine said. “Since the pub was closed on Saint Ilmer’s.”
“This revelation clarifies things immensely.” He smirked at her, triumphantly. “Westley Earn is a stonemason. Furthermore, his alibi is a sister whose honesty I found dubious. Her demeanor was mousy and subjugated, and she repeated her story to me verbatim several times.”
“A practiced speech,” Satrine said. She remembered back in the day, someone like Idre would make the other kids repeat their stories over and over until they got them right. She never believed that would fool the sticks. “Motive?”
“Were I to hazard a guess, Earn was the only one who insisted Holcomb’s demeanor was ‘flirtatious.’ Perhaps he returned to the pub with amorous intentions, and when denied, reacted with violence.”
A little too clinical for Satrine’s taste. Her hand instinctively went to her face, remembering a few too many moments of “amorous intentions” that ended with a violent reaction.
Welling was already climbing his way out of the root cellar. By the time Satrine caught up with him, he was back in the street, blowing his whistle to call a page. He took the slateboard off the door and wiped it clean with his sleeve. “Inspector Rainey, I am quite pleased with your investigative eye, and your unique perspective on the neighborhood.”
“Glad to be of service.”
Welling had produced a piece of chalk from a pocket and scrawled some notes on the slateboard. A page had arrived as he wrote. “Page, deliver this to Captain Cinellan, with instructions that he should send footpatrol and lockwagon to the home of Westley Earn—I have indicated the address here—and have him ironed and brought in for the murder of Jeyanne Holcomb. I will be along shortly to clarify points.”
The page took the slate and ran off.
“All done quite nicely,” Welling said. “Now we have only one officially open case. However, we will not make further progress on it now.”
“Why not?”
He pointed over to the clock tower of Saint Limarre’s. “It is nearly five bells,” Welling said. “End of shift.”
“Not for you,” Satrine said. “I’m sorry you got stuck with transfer duty.”
Welling shrugged. “Given the circumstances, my presence is logical. Should Missus Tomar, or her Circle brethren, make some sort of escape attempt, I’m the best suited to defend the lockwagon.”
“What did happen in the questioning room, Welling?” Satrine asked. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you.”
“As am I,” Welling said. “Though I am not entirely certain what did happen.” He shook his head. With a clipped tone, he said, “It is of no moment. For now, you should return home. We will continue fresh in the morning.”
He turned and walked off toward the stationhouse before Satrine could respond.
Satrine walked toward the bridges. She could hardly believe this had been only one day.
Chapter 9
SATRINE’S LEGS ACHED MORE than she could ever remember on the walk across the bridges back to the northern bank. She wanted to flag a cab, or at least hop on a tick-wagon, but she couldn’t afford to waste a tick, even a pence, at this point. If that meant walking back and forth over the bridge each day, her feet bloody and callused, that would be what she would do.
The sun was nearly set by the time she reached the north bank. The streets and walkways widened here, and pedestrians and carriages moved around each other at a relaxed pace. Cottonwood and poplar trees cast long shadows down Upper Bank Road. Several shopkeepers were pulling their shutters down, exchanging pleasantries with their neighbors. The streetside tables of the High River Wine Club were overflowing with well-dressed students from the Royal College of Maradaine, drinking and arguing over politics or philosophy. Lightboys ran along, burning tapers in hand, lighting each streetlamp. Several people noted her as she walked past, smiles faded to respectful nods, stepping to the side of the walkway to let her pass. She was almost home before she realized why: she wore the coat and vest of a Constable Inspector. In this neighborhood, people gave that some respect.
The sight of the warm red bricks of Beltner Street—both the buildings and the road itself—filled Satrine with warmth. Home. She went down the side steps of number 14 to the basement apartment. She knocked on the door sharply—it would be locked, of course. She needed to get back in the habit of carrying the key on her person.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Satrine, Missus Abernand.”
The door unlatched and opened, revealing the lean old face of Missus Abernand, lit by the flickering candle in her hand. “Got here later than you said.”
“It’s been quite a day, Missus Abernand,” Satrine said, entering her home.
“This going to be regular?” The woman coughed out as she latched the door back behind her.
“Most likely, saints willing.” Satrine hung her coat and vest by the door. “How is he?”
Missus Abernand shrugged. “He is. Ate some soup. Messed himself. Same as yesterday.”
“Thank you, Missus Abernand.” Satrine reached out to the old woman, who brushed her hand away and walked into the kitchen, the cramped centerpiece of the Rainey apartment.
“I made a stew,” Missus Abernand said. “Beets and parsnips.”
“Fine, thank you,” Satrine said. “The girls
?”
“I sent them to get bread,” Missus Abernand said. “Heckman usually knocks it down a tick around six bells, you know.” She slid the pile of schoolbooks off the table onto one of the chairs.
“Yes, I know.” Missus Abernand made that comment three or four times a week.
The old woman narrowed her eyes at Satrine and pointed a bony finger at her. “You need to know that. More than ever.” Her voice was a sharp rasp.
“I know, Missus Abernand.”
“Hmph.” The old woman looked about the kitchen. “I also swept. I’m going up now.” She made her way to the inside stairway that led to her own home upstairs.
“Thank you for everything,” Satrine called after her.
“It’s nothing. See you in the morning.” Missus Abernand gave a dismissive wave without turning around as she went up the steps.
Satrine crept over to the bedroom, opening the door enough to look in. Loren lay there asleep, a dim oil lamp burning low next to the bed. In moments like this, Satrine swore he looked like everything was fine, that he would wake up and get out of bed and be exactly how he was.
The front door opened. “We got it, Missus Abernand!” a girl’s voice called out.
“She’s gone up, Caribet,” Satrine responded, closing the bedroom door.
“Mama!” Satrine’s daughter ran over, grabbing her in a tight embrace. “Did you really work today?” Caribet’s bright face was wide with joy and excitement.
“I did,” Satrine said.
“As an inspector?” Rian, the elder daughter, had latched the door shut and was regarding the vest hanging on the hook. Rian took after Satrine, in coloring as well as her sharp eye. She had the same red hair and knowing smirk Satrine had always worn at that age. Caribet, of course, was her father’s daughter. She had Loren’s brown hair and caring eyes.
“That’s right,” Satrine said.
Rian brought the loaf of dark bread over to the table. “Did you see any dead bodies?”
“Rian!” Caribet squealed. “Don’t be grotesque!”
“It’s her job, Cari.”
Caribet turned back to her mother, her eyes wide with horror. “Is it really?”
“It—” Satrine hesitated. The day had been filled with such lies and hidden truths, she couldn’t bring herself to hide anything from her daughters. “It is an aspect. And yes, we did.”
“We?” Rian’s eyebrow went up.
“I have a partner, young lady. Do you think I’d manage better than Inspector Third Class?”
“I really can’t believe you managed that, Mother,” Rian said. She started ladling out bowls of stew. “I don’t suppose you got your salary already.”
“Not yet,” Satrine said. She dug into her pocket and took out some coins. “But the sticks there had, you know—” She faltered.
“Passed the hat around for Father’s sake?” Rian asked.
“Yes, that’s right.” Satrine glanced involuntarily back at the bedroom door.
“Good.” Rian scooped up the coins and put them into a clay jar on the counter. “Wash your face, Caribet.”
“Don’t give me orders.”
“Do it,” Satrine added.
Caribet sighed and went off to the water closet.
Rian put bowls of stew on the table, glancing down to the door of the water closet. “I said before, Mother, I can stop school, go apprentice.”
“Not a chance, Rian.” Satrine was both proud and annoyed at how readily her eldest daughter was willing to sacrifice her education for the good of the family. Rian was her mother’s daughter, no doubt. “Only one person is going to break her fingers over this business, and it’s my job.”
“We’re together in this, Mother.”
“Good,” Satrine said. “Finish school, then go to university. Then you can take over working.”
“You never did university. Or school.”
Caribet came back to the kitchen, going straight to the teapot on the stove. “Can you stop it, Rian? Mother knows what she’s doing.”
Rian put a bowl of stew on the table in front of Satrine. “Do you, Mother?”
“Of course I do,” she lied. She didn’t need her daughters to hear otherwise.
Chapter 10
MINOX LIT HIS PIPE while waiting outside the stationhouse barn doors. The sun had set, the cool night wind whipped through the back alley. It was a dark night; both moons were only slivers.
“What’s this I heard about a blasted skirt walking in the blazing door and being made a goddamned inspector?”
Minox didn’t have to turn around. He knew the profane voice of his sister well enough, and knew that she would be at his side in seconds. “That’s simplifying things to a degree.”
Sure enough, Corrie came over to him. Her horsepatrol uniform was impeccably neat, long brown hair tied in a tight tail, covered partially by her riding cap. “Don’t feed me sewage, Mine.”
Minox winced slightly. He hated his sister’s habit of shortening his name almost as much as the “Jinx” nickname. “That wouldn’t be healthy.”
Corrie gave a playful punch to his shoulder. “Blazing well right it wouldn’t. So what’s the rutting story? Did this skirt walk in the door and become inspector?”
“You have a correct order of events, but you’re short on details. Missus Rainey came in with a letter from the commissioner, orders to hire her at the rank of Inspector Third Class.” Saying it out loud, Inspector Rainey’s unnamed subterfuge was suddenly clear. He tried not to let it show on his face. “While she may have not taken a traditional path to the rank, she has skill and clarity of thought.”
Corrie’s eyes went wide. “She’s your blazing partner, isn’t she?”
“And has proven herself to be the most suitable one I’ve been assigned to date.”
“I bet she’s suitable,” Corrie said. “You heading to the house?”
“Not yet,” Minox said. “Wagon escort out to Eastwood.”
“That’s a wash of blazing sewage,” Corrie said. “You going to need a ride along?”
Despite a twinge in his gut telling him otherwise, Minox shook his head. “No need to make this bigger than it needs to be.”
“Well, get it done and get home, hear? Everyone will probably want to ask you about your rutting skirt partner.” She clapped him on the shoulder once more and headed to the stables.
Minox looked out into the alley. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
“Bad night for a wagon escort, eh?” The voice from inside the barn echoed his own thoughts. Minox turned to see the craggy features of Inspector Mirrell.
“How’s your nose?” Minox asked, noting it was still purple and swollen.
“Been worse,” Mirrell said. He stepped out of the barn, taking out his own pipe. “Heard the City Protector was making a lot of hay out of this one.”
“I don’t know much about that,” Minox said. “He’s kicking it up to the Archduchy Court.”
“Feh,” Mirrell said. He puffed on his pipe. “She doesn’t deserve this.” He glanced over at the lockwagon, where two footmen were chaining Jaelia Tomar into the seat.
“I agree,” Minox said cautiously. He wasn’t sure what Mirrell was up to. “I’m surprised you care.”
Mirrell turned quick on Minox, his eyes hard. “What kind of stick you take me for, Jinx? I know what justice is supposed to be, and this ain’t it. Woman’s husband was killed, you should be dragging in the man who did it, not making her life worse.”
“Is there some evidence I haven’t seen, Inspector Mirrell?” Minox asked. “Some bit of diligence I haven’t done?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Jinx.” Mirrell scowled as he took another puff from his pipe.
“Then what are you saying?”
“Just . . . something stinks
here. I don’t know what.” He glanced over to the lockwagon, where Jaelia Tomar was being loaded and locked in. Minox knew there was something out of sorts about Mirrell, but he also knew well enough that he wasn’t going to get anything out of the laconic man that he didn’t want to share. Normally, he wouldn’t even engage the man, but he was curious about other matters.
“Your sewer worker case, what happened?”
“Nothing worth noting. Two men dead, each of them with a knife in their hand. Looked to us like they killed each other, and Leppin thinks it’s likely.”
“Possibly over jealousy?” Minox asked. “Or an unfaithful wife?”
“Blazes if I know.” He turned back to Jaelia in the lockwagon, scowling. “Hardly matters. Both dead by each other’s hand. Closed book.”
“You aren’t curious, though?”
Mirrell opened his mouth, but anything he was about to say was interrupted by the wagonmaster calling out that he was ready to drive. Mirrell snuffed his pipe and went to the far side of the wagon, and took his place on the runner.
“Eastwood facility, gents?” the driver asked.
“That’s right,” Minox said.
The driver nodded. “All right. Easting to Lowbridge, then Waterpath out to Eastwood.”
Mirrell offered his own navigation advice. “Fannen cuts you through East Maradaine straight across.”
“Narrows in that neighborhood, Inspector. Blazing hard on a two-horse wagon. Would take half a bell longer.”
Mirrell grumbled but said nothing audible. Minox understood Mirrell’s annoyance. At earliest, Minox could hope to be at his home by half-past seven bells. Mirrell lived out west in Gelmoor, so it might be as late as nine bells before he was home.
The lockwagon rolled out of the barn. Minox snuffed out his pipe and took his place on the side. It turned out of the alley onto Easting.
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