by A. C. Cobble
McCready studied his supervisor, wondering what the man was getting at. There were only two apothecaries in Harwick, and Gallen was a frequent client and sometimes friend of both. With his peculiar interests and midnight practices, he’d know more about the apothecaries and their rivalries than anyone.
“You know them both better than I do,” mentioned McCready. “You think Fielding killed Holmes? Would that have happened before or after the woman below?”
Senior Inspector Gallen shrugged uncomfortably. “That man Fielding has always struck me as strange. The symbols downstairs… We should keep him in mind, that is all. I’m-I’m not thinking right, Pat.”
“He’s an apothecary. They’re all strange,” declared McCready. He glanced at the body of Edwin Holmes. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“It could be a common thief,” offered Gallen, pointing to the side of the room, turning from the body of his friend. “Look at that.”
A wardrobe was hanging open, out of sorts with the neatness that pervaded the rest of the building. A polished teak box was open on the floor next to it.
“Velvet lining,” murmured Senior Inspector Gallen, walking over to peer down into the box. “Could be his silver was in here or some valuable family heirloom. I’m comfortable reporting this as a robbery that ended in bloodshed. Pat, what do you think? Continue to investigate as you see fit, I trust your judgement, but I don’t want any wild theories making it into the public, you understand? We need to manage what information goes to Eastundon on this one. A robbery fits.”
“I understand your concern, sir. I do believe you are right and some items were taken,” allowed McCready. “I think that box held a knife. Look closely. You can see the impression in the velvet. You know Holmes better than I, sir. Do you recognize that box? Did the man own a knife or a dagger fine enough to be kept in a box such as this? I wonder if it was his or if it was brought here.”
“Brought here?” wondered Gallen, looking up at McCready. “Why would a thief bring an empty box?”
“I don’t believe a robbery explains all of these circumstances,” replied the inspector. “Look over here.”
McCready showed his supervisor a cabinet across the room where several drawers had been slid open. Gaps showed in the jars and containers where items appeared to be missing. On a shelf below the apothecary’s supplies was a fine silk dress, neatly folded, two delicate slippers, undergarments, and a pile of sparkling jewelry beside the dress. The jewelry was silver, studded with rubies. It was the attire of a wealthy merchant’s wife or even a member of the peerage, a noblewoman’s baubles.
McCready gently separated the pile of items so Gallen could see. “This dress is tailored. I’m not familiar with the mark, but it’s fine work. Maybe even from Southundon? Any quality tailor should be able to identify the stitching or at least the region it came from. Then, we can try to trace it to a client. The slippers, just as fine. Look at the bottoms. There is no wear on them. The woman arrived by carriage, I suspect. This jewelry must be worth several years of my salary, if not considerably more. If the killer had been acting for economic reasons, if this was a simple robbery, then certainly they would have taken it.”
“You think the killer left Harwick, Pat?” croaked Gallen, his forehead creased with furrows. “Why?”
McCready turned and eyed his supervisor, noting the man’s gaze was fixed on the jewelry. Even Gallen wouldn’t be willing to write it off as a simple robbery and bury the case with such wealth lying in the open. Whoever the woman was, she was no prostitute. Someone was going to miss her.
“If it’s not something darker like I mentioned below, then another theory is that this could have been a paid assassination. I don’t know of any paid assassins lurking amongst our citizens, or any… any people associated with dark magic, for that matter. It could be either one, I suppose, and I’ll leave it up to you how you think it’s best to report to Eastundon. Whichever it is, though, my assumption holds. I believe it’s likely the killer left by sea or on the rail early this morning.”
Senior Inspector Gallen did not respond. His eyes were locked on the pile of silver and rubies. His breathing was quick, and McCready noted the man’s fists were clenched at his side.
McCready glanced back at the jewelry. “What is it, sir?”
Gallen shook himself and then stepped forward. With his pointer finger, he pushed one item out from the sparkling pile.
“A necklace, sir?” queried McCready. “Do you recognize it?”
“A pair of ewes,” whispered Gallen. “This is the symbol for House Dalyrimple.”
“Dalyrimple,” murmured McCready. “The name sounds familiar. Is that the family down in Derbycross?”
Gallen swallowed. “It is.”
“Derbycross,” said McCready, slapping his notebook against his open palm, lost in thought. “Sheep down there, which I suppose explains the family crest? Baron Daly… no, Earl, is it?”
“Earl Dalyrimple,” confirmed Gallen, “though he spends little time in Derbycross now. Sebastian Dalyrimple is the governor of the Company’s Archtan Atoll colony.”
“Archtan Atoll?” asked McCready. “Why, that’s the most—”
“McCready,” instructed Senior Inspector Gallen, “if I recall correctly, the earl’s wife, Countess Hathia Dalyrimple, is about forty winters. Jet-black hair, beautiful both in body and… and in face.”
“S-Sir—” stammered McCready, his throat dry, his heart pounding in his chest.
“We need confirmation, Pat,” said Gallen, his eyes closed. “Get us confirmation the woman below is who I think she is. Then, we must send a transmission on the glae worm filament to Eastundon. Today, Pat. We must send the transmission today. Preserve what evidence you can. Draw pictures of what you cannot preserve. Log everything. I mean everything. This investigation will be out of our hands now, but that doesn’t mean we won’t pay for every tiny little screw up.”
The Cartographer I
“M’lord,” called a voice, soft and apologetic. “M’lord.”
He yawned, his jaw cracking, a dull throb of pain greeting him as he swam to wakefulness. He slipped his hands from underneath the silk blankets and pressed them against the sides of his head, pushing his palms against his temples, temporarily squeezing the headache into submission. He worked his mouth, trying to get moisture into it, but his lips, tongue, and cheeks remained stubbornly dry.
Hoarsely, his head still tightly gripped between his hands, he called out, “Coffee. Coffee and water.”
The tentative voice which had been calling for him quieted, and he barely heard the patter of departing feet over the pounding of the blood in his head. Winchester, his valet, had been with him for years. The little fellow was frustratingly timid and rarely got drunk — even when it was suggested to him — but he had learned his master’s needs well.
Moments later, the sound of soft steps on thick carpet returned, and the rich scent of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room. Winchester likely had the stuff on boil, knowing Oliver would wake craving the perk of the brewed beans.
Light bloomed behind his eye lids, and he blinked, sitting up and glancing around the room. His valet had lit a lamp, illuminating the room and the black windows.
“What hour is it?” he asked, confused.
“Early, m’lord. Still several turns of the clock until dawn.”
“Then why—”
“Winchester,” murmured a honeyed voice, still buried within the silk sheets. “A plate of fruit and some pastries?”
“Of course, ah, Baroness…”
A blond head emerged from underneath the blankets. Tussled curls followed by blue eyes, red lips, a delicate, smooth-skinned neck, and bare shoulders.
“It’s Aria, Winchester.”
“Yes, m’lady,” offered the valet, proffering a quick bow before spinning on one heel and darting out of the room.
“Isabella, I don’t know why you toy with the poor man so.”
“Oliver,” purred the bl
ond, shifting underneath the sheets and crawling onto him, her warm, soft breasts pressing against his arm. “It’s me, Aria.”
He snorted and flicked back the sheets, grinning at the yelp of surprise as cool air rushed over the girl’s naked body. He smiled, his gaze roving over the unmarred pale skin of her back, her rounded buttocks, and her long legs stretching down the length of his bed.
“Baroness Isabella Child,” he murmured. “Surely the most beautiful sight in this city or any city.”
“My hair is a mess,” complained the baroness, pushing a bouncy curl from her face, rising onto her elbow so her pert breast hung in front of his face. “And how do you know I’m not Aria, you scamp?”
“Your twin has a small strawberry colored birthmark right around here,” he said, grabbing a handful of the girl’s firm bottom. “All unblemished skin from what I can see.”
“Maybe you should look closer,” suggested the blonde, inching closer to him so the length of her body warmed his side.
“Winchester will be back in a moment,” complained Oliver.
“If we’re engaged, he’ll leave my fruit in the sitting room. He knows better than to bother us when we’re busy,” said the baroness, running a hand down his chest, trailing her fingers over his shoulders, his ribs, across his abdomen, down toward—
“M’lord,” called Winchester, his voice cracking with embarrassment.
The baroness sat up, glaring at the valet. “Winchester, as you can see, we’re about to be rather busy.”
Oliver glared at the man.
Winchester, his face beet red, coughed into his hand then finally looked Oliver in the eye. “M’lord, your brother is requesting a meeting urgently.”
“Urgent? That was the exact word?” asked Oliver, his voice tight, one hand clenching the sheets beside him, the other fluttering uncertainly. He was unsure if he should wave off Winchester, make a rude gesture at the valet, or feel the delightful curves next to him.
“We can be quick,” murmured the baroness, her hand warm on his bare skin.
“Urgent,” mumbled Winchester. “The message specifically instructed me to wake you for an urgent meeting. I am sorry, m’lord.”
Closing his eyes, feeling himself respond to Isabella’s demanding touch, Oliver groaned. “Later, Baroness. Later this afternoon or this evening, I promise.”
He opened his eyes and saw a pout form on the girl’s face. She didn’t seem interested in waiting.
Winchester coughed again.
“I’ll go, man, just-just give me a moment.”
“You, ah, I must remind you, m’lord. You have a prior appointment this evening.”
“An appointment!” said the baroness, rising onto her knees, hovering over him. He guessed she meant to look angry, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about.
“I have to go,” he groaned, silently cursing his brother. He brushed her hand away and struggled out of the bed. A moment longer, and he was certain he wouldn’t be urgently responding to his brother’s request, no matter how many times Winchester discreetly coughed.
“What appointment do I have, Winchester?” he asked, snatching up a pair of dark wool trousers the valet had laid out. Turning to Isabella, he claimed, “I’ll cancel it.”
“A-Ah…” stammered Winchester.
Crossing her arms beneath her bare breasts, Baroness Isabella Child sat on her knees, her naked body on display for both Oliver and his valet.
“It’s-It’s a private dinner with Baroness Aria Child, m’lord.”
Pausing outside of his brother’s study, Duke Oliver Wellesley adjusted his trousers again, cursing Winchester for selecting such a tight pair. Fashion was fine as long as it was practical. Didn’t the man know… Oliver drew a deep breath and released it, admitting to himself Winchester probably had not anticipated the scenario they found themselves in a quarter hour ago. Still, his frustration needed an outlet, and that was what one employed a valet for. Tucking himself away as best he was able, he knocked on the door.
“Come,” called a voice from the other side.
Oliver opened the door and stepped in, quickly fighting to keep a grimace from his face. His brother was seated behind his desk, as usual, and across from him sat two serious-looking men. Lamps framed a window that was just beginning to show the hesitant glow of the sunrise. His brother waking him early was one thing, but the other two…
“Oliver, I hope you don’t mind. This meeting will include Director Randolph Raffles and Bishop Gabriel Yates,” declared Prince Philip Wellesley.
“Of course,” replied Oliver, moving to shake the two men’s hands, wondering about what sort of meeting was necessary to call at such an awful hour.
The two gentlemen eyed each other, as if deciding which should vacate one of the chairs in front of Philip’s desk to make room for Oliver.
“Please, stay seated,” offered Oliver, avoiding the awkwardness of the two trying to figure out who was more important. He moved to lean against a hutch beside his brother’s desk, briefly wondering how well he’d hid the softening evidence of his morning’s frustration, but quickly losing the thought when his brother began speaking.
“Oliver,” stated Prince Philip, “there’s been a murder.”
He blinked at his brother. “Who?”
“Countess Hathia Dalyrimple.”
“She’s in Archtan Atoll, isn’t she, with the governor?” Oliver turned to Director Raffles, raising an eyebrow.
“As far as I knew, she was,” answered the man, a hand reaching up to absentmindedly scratch his bristly, mutton chop beard. “Evidently, that wasn’t the case.”
The director turned to Prince Philip, and the prince inclined his head.
Director Raffles explained, “Your brother passed on a report from the hamlet of Harwick. The inspectors there claim that they found the body of Countess Hathia Dalyrimple in… in rather unusual circumstances. She was murdered, that much is clear from the report, but the nature of the crime as they have described it is rather bizarre. The inspectors have requested additional assistance in investigating the matter. It’s obvious to me they aim to wash their hands of the incident.”
“Can you blame them?” asked Prince Philip. “A member of the peerage killed in such an unfortunate way. If I was a village inspector, I would want nothing to do with this.”
“It is their job,” chided Raffles. “They should be doing it.”
Prince Philip smirked. “I am confident the inspectors are putting all of their efforts into solving this crime. They know the consequences if they do not.”
Oliver cleared his throat, drawing the attention of his brother. “I know the governor from my time mapping the Vendatt Islands. We used Archtan Atoll as a base of operation, but I do not know him well. While I feel terrible for his loss, I’m confused. What does this have to do with any of us? Harwick is in Eastundon Province, and I’m certain our brother Franklin will hurry to apply all of his resources to the matter. The governor and his family should get justice, but I don’t see what we can do to facilitate that from here.”
“You’re right, brother,” acknowledged Philip. “There is little we can do about it here.”
Oliver frowned.
“When the reports of Countess Dalyrimple’s murder first arrived, our uncle William suggested you travel to Harwick to assist in the investigation. He thought you might be uniquely suited to find out what happened to Countess Dalyrimple. I agree with his advice.”
Oliver blinked at his brother. “I-I know nothing of investigating a crime — a murder even! Besides, you know I’m scheduled to embark on an expedition next week. Director Raffles, you’re aware of the mission to the Westlands, of course.”
“Of course, but your brother has insisted on your involvement with this matter,” remarked the director. “And we want to do right by the governor as well. The Company is here for the Crown, and we’re here for our own. The governor of our most important colony lost his wife, a peer! The Company is content to delay
the expedition until this matter is resolved.”
“But the cost of delay,” argued Oliver. “We’ll have an airship on dock in five days with two score men scheduled to depart. It will cost a fortune to keep the vessel tethered down. I don’t know if I can reach Harwick, conduct even a cursory investigation, and return in that time.”
“Prime Minister William has agreed that the Crown will compensate the Company for any cost of delay,” confided Director Raffles. “I’m as eager as you to further our footprint in the Westlands, but Countess Dalyrimple must come first.”
The duke ran his hand over his hair, checking that the ponytail in the back was securely tied. He frowned at the director.
“He is your brother,” remarked Raffles, shrugging and nodding toward Prince Philip. “We’re all subject to his rule.”
Prince Philip leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “What do you say, brother?”
Oliver dropped his hand from his hair and crossed his arms. “Do I have a choice?”
“For Crown and Company,” replied Philip.
Oliver sighed.
Prince Philip continued, “Bishop Yates was informed of this matter as well due to the unusual circumstances of the murder. He’s agreed to assist in the investigation. His people have already arranged passage for you and a companion on this afternoon’s northbound rail. The Church has priests skilled in these… terrible matters. You should reach Harwick by nightfall tomorrow.”
“Have it all sketched out, do we?” grumbled Oliver.
“Crown and Company, brother,” replied the Prince. “Were you going to say no?”
“The Westlands aren’t going anywhere,” added Director Raffles. “There’s sterling to be made, but the Company looks after its own. We’d do the same for any of our partners that lost a loved one in such unusual circumstances.”