Mason hoisted his eyebrows.
“Yes, I was wondering if I might speak with him alone.”
THE INTERROGATION ROOM WASN’T BUILT FOR COMFORT. A SINGLE METAL table, bolted to the floor. A plastic chair for the perp, light enough that even if he threw it at someone, it wouldn’t do any real damage. The walls were a dim, unhealthy green. The CCTV camera sat in the corner, so that the image on the monitor was tilted like something in a funhouse mirror. Maury Sobinski looked up into the camera sometimes, like he was trying to decide whether it was on or not. Mason had disabled the red light-emitting diode on the side months ago. Sobinski’s wrists were in cuffs, his ankles hobbled, and a chain ran around the bolted desk. If Scarrey got himself hurt in there, it wouldn’t be because Mason hadn’t tried to keep him safe.
“This is a bad idea, partner,” Anderson said.
“If I leave them in lockup, someone might overhear, right?” Mason said. “Interrogation rooms are soundproof. No one goes in or out without making enough noise to know they’re coming. Chief’s guest wants privacy, I give him privacy.”
“Except for the part where you put him where you can snoop on him.”
“Yeah, except for that.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Shh. Here he comes.”
At the table, Sobinski sat up a little straighter. Mason turned up the monitor’s volume a little. Scarrey’s footsteps came before the little man walked into the frame. The relative positions of Scarrey and the camera meant that Mason could only see the back of his head, and that from the top. Perfect angle to see how much the guy was balding. Sobinski’s head shifted in the weird almost-broken way he had. His voice through the monitor was perfectly clear. What had seemed creepy and ominous before came across as theatrical and pretentious now.
“You return, little man. You’ve come for Maury, but you cannot have him.”
“That isn’t entirely true,” Scarrey said. “You can stop. It’s all right. I understand.”
Sobinski’s laughter rattled his chains and scooted his chair across the floor.
“You will bow before the King of Hell,” Sobinski said. “Beleth will eat your heart, little man. Only open up. Let him in. Everything will end for you.”
“Maury, you should stop this. It’s undignified.”
“I am the angel at the gate!” Sobinski screamed, his shoulders twisting in ways that looked unlikely and painful. “I am the archon of the last days!”
“You’re Maury Sobinski. And you’re a very bad person. I’ve come here to fix that.”
Anderson leaned forward, his hand on Mason’s shoulder.
“Mason?” he said. “What’s he mean, fix that?”
But Sobinski was already lost in a peal of maniacal laughter. On the screen, Scarrey shrugged. His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried over the prisoner’s pandemonium.
“Really. Stop.”
They were standing five feet apart, maybe six. But Sobinski coughed, choked like someone had him by the throat. His eyes were on Scarrey, and the fake demon show was gone.
“I don’t know what happened to you,” Scarrey said. His hands were in the pockets of his slacks. “You were bullied when you were a boy? Abused, maybe? That’s how it is with some people. Or you just never found a place in the world. It was like that for me.”
“What’s he talking about?” Anderson asked. He was whispering now, even though there was no way Scarrey could hear him. Without thinking, Mason whispered back.
“Fuck if I know.”
“Vampires. Did you ever want to be a vampire? God, I did. The interesting thing about them is that they have to be invited,” Scarrey said. “I think you were like I was. Never comfortable in your skin. You can’t keep friends very long. You can’t keep your mind focused. The chances are very, very good that you’re mentally ill and undiagnosed. But it doesn’t matter. Here’s what does. You killed that girl because you wanted something. You wanted to let go, am I right? You wanted someone else to take over the hard parts. You wanted to be safe from the world?”
“What do you want?” Sobinski asked.
“Nothing you wouldn’t be willing to part with. What do you say? Only open up? You’ll go to prison, of course, but it will be much, much easier with our help. And afterward, we can take care of things for you. Keep you from hurting anybody unintentionally. Keep you from being lost. And we’ll be there, with you. It’s what you’ve been looking for. And the price is very, very small. Considering.”
“Who are you?”
“We’re legion,” Scarrey said, almost apologetically. “But we have to be invited.”
“Come in,” Sobinski said. Scarrey nodded.
“This is going to hurt, but it won’t last long.”
“What game is he playing?” Anderson whispered, and Sobinski screamed, bent backward, and collapsed. Mason was halfway to the interrogation room before he knew that he was going. The door was open when he reached it. Scarrey’s wide back was retreating down the hall, his hands in his pockets, his stride casual and at ease.
“Hey!” Mason called.
Scarrey turned to look over his shoulder, grinned, and waved like a man seeing an old friend. He didn’t stop. Mason leaned into the interrogation room. Sobinski sat on the floor; his chair had skittered away. He looked dazed. Mason went to him, his belly tight. If he’d let a civilian hurt a suspect in custody, there would be hell to pay. But already he didn’t think that was what had happened.
“You okay?” Mason said.
“Hey, Detective,” the prisoner said. He sounded winded, like he was trying to catch his breath. “Good you’re here.”
“You need a glass of water or something?”
“No, no,” Sobinski said, with an odd, lopsided grin. “It’s cool. What I wanted to say is, I killed Osterman. It was a dick move, but y’know. Anyway, it was me that did it. On the record. D’you know what I have to do to plead guilty?”
“You’re confessing?”
“Sure,” Sobinski said.
“Why?”
“Because I did it.”
When the man smiled, he looked like Scarrey.
MASON SAT AT HIS DESK. THE WEEKEND HAD BEEN BUSY. TWO CORPSES AT a hotel down by the river in what might have been a bad drug deal or else a queer love affair gone badly wrong. A dead six-year-old in Presbyterian Hospital with head wounds that didn’t match the story his dad told. A woman living down by the country club who had gotten her head caved in by burglars, except that she’d just filed for divorce. Plus which, the perp in the Miawashi vehicular homicide was still hiding out.
The week was going to be hell.
“Hey,” Winehart said. “Diaz and Roper are taking the hotel gig. You and Anderson want the kid or the rich bitch?”
Before Mason could answer, the chief stepped in. He looked old. He looked tired. He looked human. Mason figured he looked just the way he wanted to look. Their eyes met for a moment, each daring the other to look away. They both knew that Mason had seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. Knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. The question was, what were they both going to do about it?
“How’s it going, Detective?” the chief asked, carefully.
“Just another day doing the work of angels, sir,” Mason said. Winehart seemed confused when the chief chuckled. She didn’t get the joke.
THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF THE DEODAND
by Lisa Tuttle
Lisa Tuttle made her first sale in 1972 to the anthology Clarion II, after attending the Clarion workshop, and by 1974 she had won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer of the Year. She has gone on to become one of the most respected writers of her generation, winning the Nebula Award in 1981—which, in a stillcontroversial move, she refused to accept—the British Science Fiction Award in 1987, and the International Horror Guild Award in 2007, all for short stories. Her books include a collaboration with George R. R. Martin, Windhaven; the solo novels Familiar Spirit, Gabriel, The Pillow Friend, Lost
Futures, The Mysteries, and The Silver Bough; as well as several books for children, the nonfiction works Heroines and Encyclopaedia of Feminism, and, as editor, Skin of the Soul: New Horror Stories by Women. Her short work has been collected in A Nest of Nightmares , A Spaceship Built of Stone, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation, Ghosts and Other Lovers, and My Pathology. Born in Texas, she moved to Great Britain in 1980, and now lives with her family in Scotland.
Here she introduces us to a proper young nineteenth-century gentlewoman who is about to try out a new role, that of “Watson” to an eccentric Sherlock Holmes–like figure—and who will discover a surprising aptitude for that role before their first case is through.
ONCE IT HAD BECOME PAINFULLY CLEAR THAT I COULD NO LONGER CONTINUE to work in association with Miss G—F—, I departed Scotland and returned to London, where I hoped I would quickly find employment. I had no bank account, no property, nothing of any value to pawn or sell, and, after I had paid my train fare, little more than twelve shillings to my name. Although I had friends in London who would open their homes to me, I had imposed before, and was determined not to be a burden. It was therefore a matter of the utmost urgency that I should obtain a position: I emphasize this point to account for what might appear a precipitous decision.
Arriving so early in the morning at King’s Cross, it seemed logical enough to set off at once, on foot, for the ladies’ employment bureau in Oxford Street.
The bag that had seemed light enough when I took it down from the train grew heavier with every step, so that I was often obliged to stop and set it down for a few moments. One such rest took place outside a newsagent’s shop, and while I caught my breath and rubbed my aching arm I glanced at the notices on display in the window. One, among the descriptions of lost pets and offers of rooms to let, caught my attention.
CONSULTING DETECTIVE
REQUIRES ASSISTANT
MUST BE LITERATE, BRAVE, CONGENIAL, WITH A GOOD MEMORY, &
WILLING TO WORK ALL HOURS.
APPLY IN PERSON TO
J. JESPERSON,
203-A GOWER STREET
Even as my heart leapt, I scolded myself for being a silly girl. Certainly, I was sharp and brave, blessed with good health and a strong constitution, but when you came right down to it, I was a woman, small and weak. What detective would take on such a liability?
But the card said nothing about weapons or physical strength. I read it again, and then glanced up from the number on the card—203A—to the number painted above the shop premises: 203.
There were two doors. One, to the left, led into the little shop, but the other, painted glistening black, bore a brass plate inscribed Jesperson.
My knock was answered by a lady in early middle age, too genteel in dress and appearance to be mistaken for a servant.
“Mrs. Jesperson?” I asked.
“Yes?”
I told her I had come in response to the advertisement, and she let me in. There was a lingering smell of fried bacon and toasted bread that reminded me I’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon.
“Jasper,” she said, opening another door and beckoning me on. “Your notice has already borne fruit! Here is a lady . . . Miss . . . ?”
“I am Miss Lane,” I said, going in.
I entered a warm, crowded, busy, comfortable, cheerful place. I relaxed, the general atmosphere, with the familiar scent of books, tobacco, toast, and ink that imbued it, making me feel at home even before I’d had a chance to look around. The room obviously combined an office and living room in one. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with volumes, gave it the look of a study, as did the very large, very cluttered desk piled with papers and journals. But there were also armchairs near the fireplace—the hearth cold on this warm June morning; the mantelpiece so laden with such a variety of objects I simply could not take them in at a glance—and a table bearing the remains of breakfast for two. This quick impression was all I had time to absorb before the man, springing up from his place at the table, commanded my attention.
I say man, yet the first word that came to mind was boy, for despite his size—he was, I later learned, six feet four inches tall—the smooth, pale, lightly freckled face beneath a crown of red-gold curls was that of an angelic child.
He fixed penetrating blue eyes upon me. “How do you do, Miss Lane? So, you fancy yourself a detective?” His voice at any rate was a man’s; deep and well modulated.
“I would not say so. But you advertised for an assistant, someone literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory, and willing to work all hours. I believe I possess all those qualities, and I am in search of . . . interesting employment.”
Something sparked between us. It was not that romantic passion that poets and sentimental novelists consider the only connection worth writing about between a man and a woman. It was, rather, a liking, a recognition of congeniality of mind and spirit.
Mr. Jesperson nodded his head and rubbed his hands together, the mannerisms of an older man. “Well, very well,” he murmured to himself, before fixing me again with his piercing gaze.
“You have worked before, of course, in some capacity requiring sharp perceptions, careful observation, and a bold spirit, yet you are now cut adrift—”
“Jasper, please,” Mrs. Jesperson interrupted. “Show the lady common courtesy, at least.” Laying one hand gently on my arm, she invited me to sit, indicating a chair, and offered tea.
“I’d love some, thank you. But that’s your chair, surely?”
“Oh, no, I won’t intrude any further.” As she spoke, she lifted the fine white china teapot, assessing the weight of the contents with a practiced turn of her wrist. “I’ll leave the two of you to your interview while I fetch more tea. Would you like bread and butter, or anything else?”
A lady always refuses food when she hasn’t been invited to a meal—but I was too hungry for good manners. “That would be most welcome, thank you.”
“I’ll have more toast, if you please, and jam would be nice, too, Mother.”
She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed as she went away.
He’d already returned his attention to me. “You have been in the Highlands, in the country home of one of our titled families. You were expecting to be there for the rest of the summer, until an unfortunate . . . occurrence . . . led to an abrupt termination of your visit, and you were forced to leave at once, taking the first train to London where you have . . . a sister? No, nothing closer than an aunt or a cousin, I think. And you were on your way there when, pausing to rest, you spotted my notice.” He stopped, watching me expectantly.
I shook my head to chide him.
He gaped, crestfallen. “I’m wrong?”
“Only about a few things, but anyone with eyes might guess I’d been in Scotland, considering the time of day, and the fact that I’ve had no breakfast, but there are no foreign stickers on my portmanteau.”
“And the abrupt departure?”
“I was on foot, alone, there not having been time for a letter to inform my friends—there is no aunt or cousin—of my arrival.”
“The job is yours,” he said suddenly. “Don’t worry about references—you are your own best reference. The job is yours—if you still want it.”
“I should like to know more about it, first,” I replied, thinking I should at least appear to be cautious. “What would be my duties?”
“Duties seems to me the wrong word. Your role, if you like, would be that of an associate, helping me to solve crimes, assisting in deduction, and, well, whatever is required. You’ve read the Sherlock Holmes stories?”
“Of course. I should point out that, unlike Dr. Watson, I’d be no good in a fight. I have a few basic nursing skills, so I could bind your wounds, but don’t expect me to recognize the symptoms of dengue fever, or—or—”
He laughed. “I don’t ask for any of that. My mother’s the nurse. I’m a crack shot, and I’ve also mastered certain skills imported fro
m the Orient which give me an advantage in unarmed combat. I cannot promise to keep you out of danger entirely, but if danger does not frighten you—” He took the answer from my face and gave me a broad smile. “Very well, then. We’re agreed?”
How I longed to return that smile, and take the hand he offered to shake on it! But with no home, and only twelve shillings in my purse, I needed more.
“What’s the matter?”
“This is awkward,” I said. “Unlike Dr. Watson, I don’t have a medical practice to provide me with an income . . .”
“Oh, money!” he exclaimed, with that careless intonation possible only to people who’ve never had to worry about the lack of it. “Why, of course, I mean for you to get something more than the thrill of the chase out of this business. A man’s got to live! A woman, too. How are you at writing? Nothing fancy, just setting down events in proper order, in a way that anyone might understand. Ever tried your hand at such a narrative?”
“I’ve written a few articles; most recently, reports for the Society for Psychical Research, which were published, although not above my own name.”
His eyes widened when I mentioned the S.P.R., and he burst out excitedly, “C—House! By Jove, is that where you’ve been? Are you ‘Miss X’?”
I must have looked pained, for he quickly apologized.
I didn’t like to explain how hearing her name—one of her silly pseudonyms—when I was feeling so far from her, so safe and comfortable, had unsettled me, so I only remarked that I’d been startled by his swift, accurate deduction. “ ‘Miss X’ was the name assigned in authorship to my reports, but in actual fact I was her . . . her assistant, until yesterday, when a disagreement about some events in C—House led to my sudden departure. But how do you know of it? The investigation is incomplete, and no report has yet been published.”
Without taking his eyes from my face—and what secrets he read there, I didn’t want to know!—Jesperson waved one long-fingered hand toward the desk piled with papers and journals. “Although not myself a member of the S.P.R., I take a keen interest in their findings. I have read the correspondence; I knew there was an investigation of the house planned for this summer.
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