by A. C. Cobble
“The Mouth of Set, you are familiar with it?” Sam asked.
“A secret society, though, it’s not much of a secret amongst the social set,” he replied. “They get together at the light of a full moon, perform some rituals, drink odd concoctions with wormwood in them… that sort of thing.”
“Rituals?” asked Sam.
“Initiation rites, some chanting, I imagine.”
“Real rituals?” she wondered. “The name Set is well-documented in texts that are best left unread. It could have been plucked from those pages by some bored nobleman, or…”
“Real rituals? I do not think so, but I’ve never been, and I wouldn’t recognize the real thing if I saw it,” replied the duke, shaking his head as the carriage bounced over a series of uneven cobbles. “The Crown is aware of the group, and no one has ever moved to stop them. I think it’s just bored, wealthy, old peers and pretty young boys and girls. There are half a dozen of these societies between the provincial capitals. They’re a sort of extension of the social clubs, and they all have their quirks. They’re harmless, as far as I know, but when confronted with strange rituals and a killer that’s apparently connected…”
“Connected to someone who was connected,” corrected Sam.
Oliver shrugged. “I think we’ll just find some old men and women chanting and having an orgy, but we have no other leads unless you think there’s more to that crematorium angle than you’ve said.”
“You’re probably right, and it’s just foolish peers playacting,” murmured Sam, shaking her head, “but what happened in the apothecary was real. That man killing Inspector McCready was real.”
“One thing I do know about these secret societies,” said the duke, “is that they use odd preparations in their rituals. Preparations with ingredients that one may purchase from an apothecary. This organization will likely turn out to be pretend, but…”
“Not all of it is,” remarked Sam. “Real sorcery involves odd ingredients as well.”
“Interesting,” replied Oliver, eyeing her.
Sam asked, “How do you think the senior inspector is involved? He was reluctant to share with us. Was he embarrassed about this society, or is he hiding something?”
Oliver shrugged.
“He looked legitimately upset about the death of his man McCready,” she continued, fingering the hilt of her kris, “but why was he reluctant to tell us about the merchant? Perhaps he feels some obligation because of their relationship in the society? In this small village, certainly any prominent member would socialize with the others. The senior inspector, the apothecary, the merchant… They must all know each other well.”
“I imagine you’re right,” he replied. “Gallen strikes me as a man who would attach himself to anyone of a higher station. The question is, what is the nature of the relationships he has with these people? It’s quite possible even if Robertson or this Mouth of Set is involved, Gallen doesn’t know. My understanding is that these groups have several ranks where purported secrets are shared as one advances. They keep their initiates in the dark.”
“They may keep us in the dark as well,” said Sam with a sigh. “To be honest, the Church functions in much the same way. Secrets are power, after all. Hidden knowledge, a masked face…”
He grinned. “I’m a duke. If they think a mask is going to stop me, they aren’t very familiar with my family or the royal marines. I’ll send word down to the harbor if necessary and we’ll have a score of well-armed chaps up here in moments. Those boys would love nothing more than smashing through some high-society secret meeting and disrobing the participants.”
“Being a duke has its perks,” conceded Sam.
“It does,” he agreed.
“So, what do we do? Just bust in and demand everyone strip off their masks?” asked Sam.
“I don’t have a better idea.”
“Good,” she said, tapping a finger on the hilt of her dagger. “You are right. This is a better option than the crematorium, and I think it’s going to be a lot more fun.”
He banged on the door impatiently. Behind him, the carriage stood in the center of the dark street, its horse snorting softly and shifting in the traces. Sam and Senior Inspector Gallen watched, the senior inspector cringing from the lantern light.
Oliver knew the man would face the wrath of the members of the Mouth of Set as soon as they saw Gallen had brought him to the meeting, but there was no time for social niceties. Besides, a minor society on the fringes of Enhover did not rate his caution. There was no amount of noise they could raise that would bother him. If it meant the senior inspector was ostracized from the social circles of the place, well, he should have caught the killer before his subordinate had been stabbed to death in the street.
Starting to feel more angry than impatient, he pounded on the door again, rattling the heavy wood in its frame. Finally, a bolt slid in the door and it swung open. A man with wispy, white hair, sallow skin, and the general mien of a cadaver stood calmly in the doorway.
“We’re here for the meeting,” Oliver claimed.
The man blinked back at him. “What meeting, sir?”
“You know what meeting,” barked the duke.
The old man shifted but was in no hurry to permit entrance, or to do anything at all, it seemed.
“Duke,” called Sam, “tell him we’re with the inspector.”
Grunting, Oliver stepped aside and hooked a thumb behind his back toward Senior Inspector Gallen.
The butler eyed the senior inspector, a question in his eyes. Gallen, for his part, gave the man a curt nod.
“Very well,” offered the butler, evidently recognizing the inspector and evidently without the authority to keep such a man outside.
They followed the slow-shuffling servant into a wood-paneled foyer. A crystal chandelier hung above, lighting the space brightly. A brace of painted and framed seascapes hung on the walls. Silver candlesticks graced a polished mahogany table, and a plush carpet hid the sounds of their boots as they stomped inside.
Sam whistled.
He glanced at her, confused.
“This is nice,” she whispered.
“Is it?” he asked, turning to study the room. It was rather small, and he didn’t spot a bit of gold. The paintings were second quality at best, and there were only two of them. The carpet was a decent weave, though. Shrugging, he left his study of the foyer and turned to glare at Gallen.
“Take us in, Jeeves,” instructed the senior inspector, clearly reluctant but just as clearly sure that refusing the wants of the king’s son was going to be even worse than whatever his friends in the Mouth of Set would do to him.
The butler’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he did not object. He turned and led them deeper into the manse. It was a larger place than it appeared outside, narrow but deep. Oliver guessed it must extend all the way back to the cliffs that rose above the hamlet.
“Jeeves?” whispered Sam. “That has to be a fake name, right?”
“When you’re inquiring about a position, you tell them what they want to hear,” replied the duke.
Near the back, they reached a closed door and heard the mumble of voices on the other side.
“Chants?” wondered Sam, her hand gripping the hilt of one of her kris daggers.
“I told you,” said Oliver. He turned to Senior Inspector Gallen. “What are they doing in there?”
The man was nervously looking to the side. “Ah, there’s an initiation ritual tonight. It’s… it’s not like what we saw in the apothecary. This is just—”
“All right then,” Oliver said, interrupting the man. He strode forward and gripped the doorknob. It was locked.
Shame-faced, the senior inspector crept forward and knocked three times on the door, then once, then three times again. A muffled call came from the other side, and Gallen repeated it, sounding like a sick scavenger bird and then what Oliver thought might have represented donkey, though he admitted that made no sense.
Sam rolled her eyes.
Glacially slow, the door opened, and a cloaked figure stood in the entrance.
“Brother Tiger,” intoned a deep baritone, “once the initiation begins, there… Who are these people, Brother Tiger?”
“We’ve come to ask you some questions,” said Oliver, moving forward and pushing the figure back into the room by the determination of his stride.
The party followed him in. They found almost a dozen cloaked people standing above black silk pillows. Sconces held black wax candles, and the walls were sheathed in black shimmering silk. It gave the impression of stars, twinkling in the night sky.
“Masks off, please,” requested Oliver, thinking to himself that a little color would brighten the windowless room up considerably.
The man who opened the door shook his head. “We do not allow strangers in our midst, and we will not remove the masks until our ceremony is over. You must leave, at once.”
“I’m not leaving until our questions are answered,” declared Oliver.
Sam sidled around the edge of the room, keeping her back against the wall, her eyes on the figures. The robed men and women displayed no overt threat, but one of them was connected to the assassin who’d stabbed an inspector to death in the middle of the street. They may not look it, but the twelve, no, eleven of them were dangerous.
She turned to Oliver and whispered, “Eleven of them, twelve counting the senior inspector.”
He frowned at her, not understanding, and then turned back to the members of the Mouth of Set.
“We refrain from violence,” boomed the cloaked figure, apparently the leader, “but that does not mean we refrain from enforcing our laws. If you do not leave, we will be forced to put a hex upon you!”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
Silence met him.
“He is Duke Oliver Wellesley,” mumbled Senior Inspector Gallen, his eyes on his shoes.
“Wellesley…”
“That Wellesley,” advised Oliver, drawing himself up and shooting a glance at Sam. “Do not make me ask again. Remove your masks. A man dressed in similar attire to yours attacked me a turn of the clock ago. The same man killed one of Inspector Gallen’s subordinates as well. The assassin is connected to a member of this society. You must be aware that an attack on a royal person is a capital crime, and if I decide you are all involved in the conspiracy, the royal marines will be happy to march up here and behead every one of you the moment dawn lightens the sky.”
“All of you, do as he says,” quaked Gallen.
Quickly, hoods were pushed back and masks were stripped off.
“Thank you,” Oliver said, smirking.
It felt a bit childish to threaten such a severe outcome, but he had little respect for those who hid behind masks and even less for those who wouldn’t want to assist solving the spate murders in their village.
He took his time and studied the revealed faces. He was not surprised to see mostly older visages staring back at him — merchants, members of the peerage if there were any in such the small hamlet, and a handful of attractive young men and women. Ceremonial sexual rites were a part of many secret societies, and if the members wanted to get naked with someone their own age, they would have done it with their spouses. The younger members, at the expense of making themselves available, gained access to the elite members of society. It made him queasy thinking about it, but it wasn’t unusual.
None of the members of the Mouth of Set appeared remarkable or anything different than what he would expect in such a group, though. He didn’t recognize any of them, even just in passing. He doubted any of them were peers, and few would have mercantile interests outside of Harwick. They’d all be far below Countess Darlyrimple’s station, he thought, which only deepened the mystery.
“Who is missing?” asked Sam. “There are eleven of you, twelve counting the senior inspector. There should be thirteen.”
Duke turned and raised an eyebrow in question.
“I know nothing about the Mouth of Set,” she explained, “but I do know there should be thirteen in this circle.”
The man who’d opened the door for them cleared his throat. “Duke Wellesley, please, you must understand we did not recognize you at first. If we did—”
“Answer the question,” he interjected. “We’re trying to solve a murder.”
“Robertson is the one missing,” offered Senior Inspector Gallen. He turned to the leader. “He did not come tonight?”
“He did not,” confirmed the leader. “When neither of you arrived on time, we elected to begin the ritual. I thought there must have been… We couldn’t miss the moon cycle.”
Sam snorted from the corner, her eyes boring into the back of Senior Inspector Gallen.
“It’s not real, I know,” muttered Gallen, his eyes on his feet. “Truly, I did not know the assassin was… I did not know the man was an associate of Robertson’s. I don’t know where the merchant is now.”
“Who is being initiated?” inquired Oliver, interrupting the inspector. “And whose spot are they filling?”
A young man, back pressed against the wall, raised his hand. “I-I’m to be initiated this evening, sir. M’lord, I mean.”
An older woman hovered protectively by his side, a hand reaching out to brush the edge of his robes.
Oliver dismissed the young man quickly and turned back to the apparent leader. “If he is being initiated, then who left?”
“Robertson’s wife,” said the man, shifting his weight nervously. “She left Robertson and Harwick two weeks ago. We do our initiations at the new moon, the height of its—”
Sam guffawed.
Oliver turned to her. “What?”
“First and third quarter,” she said, shaking her head. “First and third quarter moons are the height of its power. Half light, half dark, in balance, everyone knows… Ah, never mind. Duke, I do not think these people are involved in what happened at the apothecary. We should find Merchant Robertson.”
He turned and scanned the group one more time then demanded, “No one leave Harwick. No one speak of this outside of the group. No one remove or destroy any item associated with this society. Consider that a royal order. The harbormaster and railmaster will be given each of your names and descriptions with strict orders to keep you here. If you flee, I can only assume you were involved in the murder of a countess and crown inspector. Understood?”
They received quick, murmured assent, and Oliver led his party back out the door, waving for the trembling Senior Inspector Gallen to follow. They exited the home, and Oliver glanced between Sam and Gallen.
“I agree we should find Robertson,” remarked Sam, “but there’s more we could—”
“No,” replied Duke. “There may be more clues in that room, but we need to find Merchant Robertson before he hears what is happening and has a chance to flee. We can always come back to the Mouth of Set. Besides, we have the senior inspector with us, and I suspect he’s going to be very cooperative.”
Gallen rubbed his bulbous nose. “Robertson’s house, then?”
The house, befitting a mildly successful merchant, was vacant. Neither the man Robertson nor his servants answered when Oliver banged on the door.
“Is it usual for a house to be unattended like this in Harwick?” the duke demanded, staring at the senior inspector. “Not even night staff?”
The senior inspector swallowed. “I-I am not sure, m’lord. I have no servants of my own.”
Grumbling, Oliver instructed the man to batter down the door. The senior inspector shook it a bit, pushed on it, and then jumped when the duke snapped at him to get out of the way. He reared back and smashed a boot against the handle, bursting the door open on the first kick.
“Let’s go see what we can find,” said Oliver, stepping through the threshold.
The first thing of note that they found was the body of Merchant Robertson. He was lying dead in his study, just off the foyer, leaning back in the chair behind
his desk. A bloody puncture in the center of his chest told them all they needed to know his cause of death. The second thing of note was a slept-in guest bedroom with a trunk of clothing suitable for a lady of the peerage. The third thing of note was the body of Miss Robertson, a nasty slash across her throat, her body crammed into the icebox in the kitchen.
“They sent the servants away,” guessed Oliver, “Sometime after that, Miss Robertson was murdered. Unless the man hasn’t eaten food from the icebox in two weeks, her husband had to be in on it. It looks as if once the servants and wife were out of the way, he put up Countess Dalyrimple. She was killed three days ago, and he was killed sometime this evening.”
“It appears that way,” agreed Sam, “but why?”
The duke ran a hand over his hair, checking the knot in the back, and then shrugged. He had no answer to that. He glanced at Senior Inspector Gallen.
The man swallowed and held up his hands, “I was with you most of the evening, m’lord. I saw Robertson some few days past for pipes at the Cliffwatch, but nothing seemed amiss. I didn’t notice any distress or suspicious behavior.”
“You don’t notice much, do you?” chastised Sam.
Gallen looked away, his face beet red. Oliver thought the man showed honest remorse at the loss of Inspector McCready, even if he showed little else of value.
Wishing it wasn’t necessary, but with no other insight from Gallen, they shuffled through what they believed were the Countess Dalyrimple’s possessions and then returned to the study to look through the dead Merchant Robertson’s documents and effects. Oliver tried to ignore the man’s stiffening body as he brushed past it, opening the drawers in the desk.
“Robertson owned three vessels used in whaling, it seems,” remarked Oliver a quarter hour later, leafing through a thick stack of papers. “He could have brought her onshore from the United Territories easily, but I doubt any whaling vessel is seaworthy enough to make the journey to Archtan Atoll.”
Sam, standing from where she’d crouched by the merchant’s body, grunted in acknowledgement. She began to pace around the room, opening boxes and peering inside, shuffling through the knickknacks that were stored on a shelf behind the desk.