Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  Limp, paralyzed, Tesara was manhandled into a boat. She lay in the damp, wrapped like a spider victim, as the men settled at the oars, pulling hard out to sea. Tesara stared up at the overcast night sky, unable to see anything, and salt water and tears intermingled on her cheeks.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Gruesome Discovery at House Mederos!

  The troubles of the trading house Mederos continue apace. Engineers from the engineering firm of Alcestri & Family discovered the body of merchant Barabias Parr, last seen six months ago after a devilish dinner party hosted by none other than the fugitive Guildmaster Trune. The dinner party was held at House Mederos during its brief heyday as Guild headquarters and Trune’s own residence.

  The Gazette has spoken with attendees of the dinner party who were shocked to discover the nefarious doings of Trune had potentially extended to murder.

  “Trune had clearly gone off the rails,” said one distinguished merchant who asked not to be identified while the Guild investigates. “As soon as I and my colleagues saw which way the wind blew, we wanted nothing more to do with him. Parr, on the other hand, had thrown in his lot with Trune. See where that got him.”

  When asked if they had left Parr at the house at the end of the dinner party when it all descended into chaos, our source frowned and said he thought that Parr had exited with the others.

  There has been no comment from the putative head of House Mederos, Miss Yvienne Mederos, the eldest daughter, nor from a member of the distaff House, Samwell Balinchard. It is known that there was bad blood between Parr and Balinchard, owing to Mr Balinchard’s unique approach to investment partnerships.

  The Gazette, Evening Edition

  Yvienne almost leaped out of her seat when Albero came in with additional fortifications of tea and sandwiches. She and Uncle Samwell sat in the parlor, curtains drawn, under siege from the reporters and the idly curious massed outside the gate.

  “Any word?” she asked. He shook his head, his expression as somber as her own, and her heart sank. Oh, Tes, she thought. Her sister had not come home all day. It was now nearing ten o’clock at night, and they had heard nothing of her.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Samwell said, though he was not so shaken that he could not help himself to a sandwich.

  Once word escaped that the constabulary was called to the Mederos house to investigate a murder, the news spread like fire unchecked. The extra edition of the paper only incited the crowds. Some enterprising fellows had climbed upon the top of the spiky, iron fence that surrounded the house, propping themselves up on ladders and peering towards it with spyglasses, waiting for movement from the occupants.

  “None, miss. We’ve sent out discreet inquiries but we don’t want to draw more attention and so it’s hard to get a straight answer.” Albero looked both determined and worried. He was losing some of the correctness with which he comported himself. If Yvienne didn’t know better, she would even have called him scruffy, though to an outsider the only indications were ruffled hair as if he had swept his hand through it, and a tiny bit of fluff on his chin from a shaving mishap.

  “Did she give you any indication of where she meant to go today?”

  “She said errands, Miss Yvienne. I didn’t think – I should have asked more questions,” Albero said, looking guilty. She felt a pang because she so badly wanted to shout at him that yes, he should have asked more questions, and failing a satisfactory answer, locked Tesara in her bedroom like an autocratic father in a ten-groat novel.

  “No, of course not,” she said. She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “If only there was a clew – something to tell us where she might have gone.”

  Albero gasped. “Miss Yvienne! She received a letter in the morning post. I just now remembered it.”

  It was their only lead. Yvienne ran up the stairs to her sister’s bedroom, followed by Albero and Uncle Samwell, passing a wide-eyed Noe on the stairs, hoping against hope that her sister had left the letter behind.

  And there it was – as if it were of absolutely no consequence, the letter with its scarlet seal lay on Tesara’s dressing table amidst her hairpins, a comb, and other odds and ends of her daily life. Thrusting away her guilt at reading her sister’s mail, Yvienne unfolded the letter. She scanned the curt summons with growing fury. How dare Madam Saint Frey speak to a Mederos that way?

  “Is it helpful, Miss Yvienne?” Albero asked.

  “What’s the girl gone and done this time?” Uncle Samwell said.

  Yvienne folded the letter and tucked it into the small purse at her waist. “Somewhat helpful,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. “She seems to have answered an invitation to the Saint Frey mansion early today. Albero, perhaps you could call a hack for me? I will go fetch her.” At the expression of horror on the face of her butler and her uncle, she demanded, “What?”

  “Vivi,” Samwell said. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “There was a fire, miss,” Albero said. “In all the commotion around here, we never had a chance to tell you. The Saint Frey mansion had a fire, and Madam Saint Frey was removed to Ravenne, clinging to life.”

  Yvienne found she had trouble breathing.

  “Miss Vivi,” Albero went on, sympathetic and adamant, “shouldn’t we call the constables and tell them she’s missing? There’s already been an attack on her. I don’t think we should do this ourselves.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “That would be a good idea, except for one thing, Albero.” She met his trusting, open face with as much honesty as she could muster. “You see – knowing Tesara, she may have caused that fire. So I don’t know that calling the constables would be very helpful in that case.”

  “Miss Vivi!” he said, shocked to his core. Samwell only grunted, and said, “Nothing’s beyond that girl.”

  Albero refused to give up. “Be that as it may,” he said, quiet but firm. “She’s our Tesara, Miss Vivi.”

  Our Tesara. The quiet way Albero said it cut to Yvienne’s core. This was not butler to employer, but friend to friend. Dare she say it – family to family? It warmed her, and she gave him a rueful smile, laying a quick hand on his sleeve.

  “I want to find her as badly as you do, if only to scold her within an inch of her life. But if the report of the fire was so thorough as to include Madam Saint Frey’s whereabouts, I wonder that it was silent upon Tesara’s? If she– if she were injured, or… no doubt we would have had news of that. There would be no stopping the press from reporting it.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Uncle Samwell grunted. “The Gazette would have been on it.”

  “So we can only hope that she had nothing to do with the fire, but if we send the constables snooping in that direction, well… they might think her guilty first and deal with the truth later.”

  Albero nodded but reluctantly. She could tell she hadn’t convinced him.

  “You know, she’s probably found a game and is head down winning money,” Samwell added, a clumsy attempt to comfort.

  “I devoutly hope so,” she said.

  “So what do we do?” Albero asked. “Miss Vivi, there has to be something we can do.”

  Yvienne knew exactly what she was going to do, but as none of it could be imparted to her butler and her uncle, she tried to be encouraging.

  “I know it’s hard to wait. It’s the hardest thing. But Albero, I trust Tesara to… well, to be foolhardy, yes, but she has inner depths. We’ll follow all the evidence, and we’ll find her.”

  “I say!” Samwell said. “I could go to the docks. Do my usual. Ask around.”

  “No!” Yvienne and Albero shouted together. Yvienne closed her eyes and wished for strength. “Uncle, please. We must not let anyone know that Tes is missing or that she could have anything to do with the fire. The House needs no more bad press.”

  “See, there you go again,” Samwell grumbled. “Always assuming the worst. I just think it’s best to put the right story
out, not the sensational one they’ll be bound to come up with. The paper says there was bad blood between Parr and me. Not at all. We had a simple misunderstanding, and it wasn’t even my fault after all.”

  “Nevertheless, we must not give them any more fodder in our direction.”

  At least for the moment the paper was assuming that Parr’s death was at Trune’s hands. At what point would the city begin to consider House Mederos a suspect?

  “I don’t know, Vivi,” Samwell said, still grumbling. “I don’t think much of your reasoning. But if you don’t want me to try to find out what happened to Tes, well, it’s on you.”

  “So it is, uncle,” Yvienne said, trying to hide her own sudden stab of self-doubt. No, she told herself. Uncle would just blab and they would have more problems than before.

  She peeked out behind the drapes. The crowds remained clustered at the front gate. She hoped that the bad weather would chase them off, but no – the intrepid watchers had set a fire and clearly settled in for the night. Gawkers, she thought, and shook her head. Didn’t they have anything better to do?

  She reread the letter from Madam Saint Frey, trying to find additional clews and failing. Oh Tes, she thought. What have you done?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Yvienne made sure that her bedroom drapes were drawn tight before setting down the candle on her dressing table and kneeling beside her bed. She pulled out the boy’s clothes from under the mattress. They were clean and serviceable, but she had filled out in the past six months, owing to Mrs Francini’s good food. She had curves now where before, still half-starved from her stay at Madam Callier’s, she had been flat as a board. It would be the matter of moments to let out the waist and hem of the trousers and she would have to take the additional step of binding her bosom to fit into the shirt.

  Twilight and darkness fell early during Fog Season. What better disguise than a messenger boy who melted into the crowd? Tesara was last seen at the Saint Frey mansion. It was time to find her and bring her home.

  A knock on the door made Yvienne start and she hastily shoved everything under the covers.

  “Who is it?” she called, standing in front of the bed. Noe’s voice came through the door.

  “Mister Demaris to see you, miss.”

  “At this hour?” she said, aghast.

  “He apologized, miss, but he was most insistent. He said he’d come up himself if we didn’t let him in.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake… he was acting like a lover in a play in a Milias theater. Yvienne screwed up her eyes and clenched her fists. When she relaxed she said, “Thank you, Noe. I will be right down.”

  Inigho was standing by the fireplace in the parlor. He came toward her, hand outstretched, concern writ all over him. Noe had taken his coat, and rain spattered his hair and his shoes. “I was at business in Ravenne when I heard. I came as soon as I could,” he said, pressing her hand in a way that made her heart sink. It was meant to be comforting but it was the sort of thing that a man with a romantic interest did, and she had no time for that now. And I never did, she thought with sudden clarity. Uncle was right. Inigho would never in a million years understand her family or approve of her sister – and how could she tell him about her activities as the Gentleman Bandit?

  “Nonsense,” she said, shaking his hand in return, hoping to convey a hearty co-equal friendship. “You needn’t have come at all.” She sat on the sofa across the room and indicated the chair opposite, but instead, he perched on the other end of the sofa.

  “We’re friends, Yvienne. I’d come to any friend in need.”

  She didn’t bother to contradict him; the kisses had obscured the matter. See – this is why I should never act impulsively, she thought, and stifled a sigh.

  “It’s just that now you’re fodder for the newspaper,” she said. She smiled. “I would rather not wish that on anyone.”

  “Eh,” he shrugged. “Today’s news is tomorrow’s fishwrap. So tell me what happened. I can’t believe what I’ve read in the Gazette.”

  Yvienne gave a brief summary, omitting Tesara, and he reacted with shock and dismay.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, when she finished. He put his hand forward as if to hold hers again, but she drew back and he stopped himself with a rueful expression. “I can’t imagine how dreadful that was for you. No doubt the tradesmen spilled everything to the paper.”

  “Don’t malign the Alcestris,” Yvienne said. “They were most helpful. Anyway, it was bound to come out, and I don’t know that they were the source.”

  “But that you had to assist in pulling the body up – I don’t count that helpful, Yvienne.”

  Impatience welled up in her. “Inigho, that is the least important concern I have right now. Have you come for a reason other than sympathy?”

  His eyes widened at her sharp words. “I came to offer what help I could,” he said, with undertones of injury.

  “For which I’m grateful,” she said, and this time she reached out and pressed his hand, and he returned the clasp. “But we’re fine, really. And you said it yourself; tomorrow’s fishwrap, eh?”

  He smiled, but he said, “You know, there is something I can do. The Guild has hired a Harrier, you know, to investigate Trune’s disappearance. I’m sure I can send the man over here. He’ll figure out who murdered Parr and stuffed him in the dumbwaiter in a hurry, I should think.”

  Good God. “That is very kind but entirely unnecessary,” she said, struggling for words. “I think we know who the murderer is, or was – Trune himself.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s best to be sure,” Inigho said. “I would almost certainly believe that, and I’m sure I would not be surprised if the investigators come to that conclusion. But what if it’s someone else, someone who had a grudge against the Guild and the man himself?”

  He stopped suddenly and reddened. “I– I didn’t mean…” He faltered to a halt.

  “We didn’t kill Parr,” Yvienne said, and this time she made no attempt to modulate her tones. Fury rose in her, fury at his stupidity and blindness and complete wrongness for her, fury that any hope that she might have had in his direction was all misplaced. “But as long as we’re discussing the old days, Inigho, where were you the night of the fateful dinner party, when my sister was humiliated and endangered by Guildmaster Trune and his cronies? Where was House Demaris six years ago when my family’s business was stripped from us?”

  He shot to his feet. “House Demaris was not involved,” he said. “You can’t seriously believe–?”

  “But you can believe my family capable of murder!” she snapped back. She stood too.

  “I never said–!”

  “You didn’t have to! It was in your face!” She pointed out the window. “They all think it! Every single one of them thinks House Mederos got a bit of revenge six months ago, and why not? We were wronged, Mr Demaris, brutally wronged. But we did not kill Barabias Parr and leave him to rot inside our own walls!”

  He straightened. “Yvienne…” He stopped. His expression became cold. “You’re distraught,” he said. “It was a mistake to come. I meant only the best. Good day, Miss Mederos.”

  She refused him the courtesy of a reply and watched in silence as he took his leave. When the door closed behind him, she let out her breath and sank down on the sofa. Doubt and fear hammered at her. She didn’t have time for this. She needed to find her sister.

  Doc was not going to be happy, Abel thought, even though he himself had taught Abel to trust his instincts. Half of those instincts said this was a wild goose chase. But the rest – the conversation that night at the Bailet bar was all about two stories: the discovery of the dead body at the Mederos house, and at the other end of the city, the fire at the Saint Frey mansion. The gossips didn’t need much encouragement to talk about either family to a stranger in town, and each time, two names kept on coming up together – Jone Saint Frey and Tesara Mederos. He taught her to gamble; the student had outstr
ipped the teacher. Now she visited private gaming clubs, and made a pretty penny. And Jone was rumored to have proposed to a cousin – the niece who was staying at the mansion.

  It was the off-duty constable who proclaimed he had seen the dead body in the dumbwaiter that gave Abel’s instincts the final push.

  “Must have sent the sisters into hysterics,” Abel said, as he signaled the barkeep for another round for the copper.

  “Nah,” said the constable, pleased as punch to have impressed a Harrier, of all people. “Miss Yvienne is cool as a cucumber. Nothing fazes her – the smartest girl in Port Saint Frey.”

  “And the younger sister?” Abel prompted.

  “Oh, didn’t see her. Probably out spending daddy’s money, what’s left of it.” He laughed raucously.

  The clock of the cathedral struck eleven as Abel sat on his bed and unlocked his trunk. He slipped out of his clothes, hurrying because of the cold, and drew on his night gear. Gone was the slightly portly young man with the nondescript face and the thinning hair, the portliness effected by a bit of padding in his waistcoat. He was slight and wiry, muscle and skin over bone. Abel pulled on the black garb, painted eyeblack around his eyes, and drew on the mask. He attached a toolbelt with his pistol, a small flask of anaesthetic, and a twenty-foot length of deceptively thin, fragile-looking rope. He drew on padded slippers with roughened soles and gloves of the same texture, and snuffed the light in the lantern. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

  In a second he was out of the window. The cold and the wet slapped at him through the fabric, but Abel was soon warmed through, every muscle moving smoothly and professionally as he clambered up the side of the old hotel, catching handholds and footholds with ease. He eased himself onto the roof and surveyed the dark city. Even in the fog he could see lights below, smeared with mist, and the great swooping lighthouse light from Nag’s Point. It swept over him like an accusing eye and back out to sea.