“Mr. Fugit, I am enraged!”
To be terribly honest, at the time, I did not particularly care. Mr. Barberwart sought, or so it seemed, to turn his mayoral office into a debate hall, but I was hardly about to take the bait.
“You hardly seem concerned, Mr. Fugit. Three days you’ve had, and in three days you’ve turned no results! And now this murder!”
My full attention was acquired. “I hardly think that the Gallows murder can be accredited to my lack of findings, Mr. Barberwart, and I must say that you expect expedient results in a matter that you cannot comprehend! The scientific method takes time, good sir. If you wanted a charlatan to dole out quick answers then you came to the wrong person!”
The mayor put his hands out defensively, suddenly assuming a resigned tone. “Ours is a small town, Mr. Fugit. A small town with a small purse. Mrs. Tellman charges a nominal fee, but even that running tab severely affects our forecasted budget.”
“Then perhaps,” I countered, “you should allot a large lump sum in future budgets for ‘Strange Occurrences’. Until then I must discourteously inform you that it is not my problem, but your own.”
To this he had no reply, rather he gruffly re-lit his pipe and panned down over some paperwork at his desk. “It seems as though young Mr. Gallows, living, will be transferred to a county prison in the morning. Our vicar, Mr. Grisham, will be permitted to take his confession, but beyond that he is to receive no visitors.”
“They are not allowed?” I asked.
“I have been advised against it. He is quite aware of his crime, but offers no explanation. He is horrified as to why he committed such a deed, and seems to have more questions for us than we do for him. He has suffered through various lines of inquiry, and it was suggested that we apply no additional pressure, lest we further his state of mental distress. He is the county's puzzle to solve now - we are only to hand him over.”
“And at who's advice was this?”
“The vicar,” Mr. Barberwart offered. “While criminal psychology is not in his profession, I do feel it is sound advice.” His thoughts turned back to the Gallows boys. “It is really quite disheartening. Their father was a close friend of mine. It makes me all the more proud of my own son, I tell you.”
“Your own son?” I asked. “And what is his profession?”
“You’ve already met and dealt with him,” he said with a proud, fatherly smile. “The constable.”
Now there are reasons as to why Constable Richards would have a different last name from his father. A failed marriage and subsequent re-marriage, a step-son treated as a first born son, or even a change of name so as not to relay family bias when in public capacities. Either way it was of no concern to me at the time. Dismissed from the Mayor’s Office, I left the small city hall to find Jill waiting for me outside.
“Did you tell him anything?”
“Nothing at all,” I muttered.
“Good,” she said, then punched me lightly in the shoulder. “Thanks.”
She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, which were hardly as militant an appearance as the day before, but still a difference from her usual disguise. “Not working today?” I asked, descending the stairs and checking the time on my pocket watch.
“Nah. Day off. Where ya going?”
I did not answer her question. “Tell me something,” I said, speaking without turning. “Where is your brother?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
I closed my watch and placed it back in my pocket. “I would very much like to have a talk to him about the condition in which things should be returned.”
She hesitated. “What’s he done?”
I explained to her, in as little detail as necessary, but as much required to get the point across. Her face dropped, and for the first time she actually looked like a girl of only fifteen. “I...I don’t know what to say...”
“Then say nothing,” I replied shortly, “other than where he is. I will not take it upon myself to punish him, but I do wish to confront him. Nine years old or not, he must learn to confront his transgressions like a man.”
“Give me a chance,” she insisted. “Give me a chance to find him, to talk to him...and I’ll come and get you. Okay? I just...this just sounds so unlike him.”
“Young lady I assure you it was.”
It was then that she challenged me, but in the given situation, and to her credit, she took no enjoyment in it. “Are you not the one who said that all possibilities must be weighed before jumping to conclusions?”
I sighed deeply, angry at the irrational course my emotions led me upon. “I’ll be in the pub,” I said, pointing needlessly to it. “I need to take a census of the locals and their attitudes. You will find me there.”
She thanked me for my allowance of time, then ran off to find him, acting as her brother’s keeper.
I entered the King’s Heart at noon hour to find it bustling with life, or at least as close to it as Greyfield came. With about eight patrons the small establishment was filled to capacity, and the barman looked as though he had never been so busy. It was both a daunting and a relief to see new faces, for it only offered more information and more stories to tell. The general hum of conversation, however, immediately ceased when I entered the establishment. Was it that they were working class men and felt as though I invaded their sanctuary? Or perhaps was it because I was the stranger in town and thus associated with the Mews and all of it’s frightful mystery?
“Oi! Tempus!”
Never did I ever suspect to be relieved to be beckoned by Mr. Coaltree, but amongst the sea of staring eyes it was suddenly glad to be at least familiar with one set of them.
“Ah, Mr. Coaltree, just the man I was looking for,” I called, attempting to resume a calm and casual outlook.
The hum of conversation picked up once more. As I took a place at the bar alongside him he ordered me a duplicate of whatever it was he was drinking. I knew that, in order to maintain social civility, I would have to take at least a few sips, but after the other night’s fiasco I had intended to swear off of alcohol for good.
“How has the leg been?” I asked.
“Recovering nicely,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be back to work in no time.” For this he did not sound too pleased.
“And has the artifact been successful in warding off the spirit that assailed you?”
“Aye it has,” he said, thumping my chest with the back of his hand. “Saved me from two old hags, that did. By the way, what do I owe you for that?”
“Oh think nothing of it,” I insisted quietly. “It’s of no use to me. Not anymore.”
A drink arrived before me. “Here, get this down you.” He then looked to the bartender. “Stick that on me tab, will you?”
“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, saved from sipping the brew. I reached into my coat pocket and withdrew Mr. Coaltree’s wallet. “I found this and I suspect that you’d be missing it.”
Mr. Coaltree’s expression was indescribable, as though he could not believe my audacity. He held it up for all to see, and spoke aloud to address the entire pub. “Not only does he waltz into the bowels of Hell, but he brings back me wallet for me!”
Suddenly the crowd of strangers became my friends, cheering me on and patting me on the back. It was as though I had suddenly become a sports star and everyone wanted to know what my secret was. I did not really intend to address them all, but it kept me away from my pint and I was able to work a few questions into each conversation, such as what each individual’s occupation was and on what part of town they resided. I didn't acquire much new or useful information, however. They were all simple tradesmen with simple lives, hardly likely to form or be inducted into any secret society or sect. The Freemasons, maybe, but hardly anything so far underground that they had to literally dig themselves out.
“So the little man makes good, hm?” a voice called.
We all turned and saw a woman st
anding at the entrance to the pub.
“Nicolette, my most esteemed betrothed, please join us,” I invited.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh don’t start that again. It’s just not funny.”
“Betrothed?” Mr. Coaltree asked. I wasn’t sure if it was the word he didn’t understand or the context I used it in.
“Oh never mind that,” she sighed, taking her place alongside him, at his right. “Buy me a drink, will you?
“Whatever you like,” he said, fawning over her in a manner that was not appropriate for a married man, especially over a woman who was promised to another.
“Hang about you lot, hm? I’ve got to go freshen myself up.” She then excused herself and went into the lady’s room.
I noted Mr. Coaltree as he watched her walk away. “Cor, that don’t come for free, do it?” He was joined in his chortling by a number of others. He then looked to me. “How has it been, staying at Chateau de Bonk?”
“I assure you I have no idea what you mean,” I said coldly. “She has been the picture of grace and humility. We are to be married, I’ll have you know.”
Everyone fell silent once again. It was as though they were waiting for me to explain, but as I opened my mouth to do so they all erupted into monstrous laughter.
“Tempus, that’s a flamin’ good one,” he said, thumping me on the back. I spit out whatever small amount of ale I had graciously sipped. “Now be honest, there’s only one reason why people stay at Mrs. Tellman’s place. Have you got to know Nicolette a little better yet?”
“Yes,” I said indignantly. “Quite well, actually.”
The small crowd whooped as I was apparently back in their favour. I wanted to remain in their good graces in case I needed more information, but their social patterns were quite difficult to understand.
“I have to say, I’m impressed. I thought you were a bit like her brother, if you know what I mean.”
Ah, the typical male banter. I thought it best to play along.
“Oh I am not too far unlike Justin,” I insisted. “I’ve come to know him quite well, too.”
Then there was silence. Mr. Coaltree looked to me with an almost fatherly concern, leaning over to speak to me in confidence. “Tempus...you realize that he’s a homo, right?”
“Of course I do,” I said, emulating their banter as best I could. “But tell me, my good man...aren’t we all just a little bit ‘homo sexual’ too?”
Ufologists often lay claim to accounts of something called ‘missing time’, an occurrence where someone suddenly realizes that time has past and they have no recollection or memory of what happened for its duration. These researchers believe it is due to alien abduction, whilst others feel that it happens to block out traumatic memories. The third explanation is that the occurrences that transpire during these ‘blocked out’ phases are just so mundane and uneventful that the brain neglects to encode them into it’s long term memory. Though I doubt that I was visited by aliens in my missing time, I am nonetheless at a loss for explanation, sufficed to say that I awoke a half an hour later outside the pub, around the side and laying amongst the garbage bins. It was only the concerned and panicked voice of Jill that roused me from my unconscious state.
“Tempus! Oh my God, what happened?”
I opened one eye first, peered about, then the other followed. I immediately stood, assuming my usual stoic posture, and brushed myself off as best I could. “Nothing of any concern,” I said a little too quickly. “Let us away from here.” I led her down the lane, towards the other end of town and where I assumed she lived.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, brushing off the back of my jacket. “It was those blokes in the pub, wasn’t it?”
“Did you find Jack?”
“Yes,” she said, reluctant to change the subject on two counts. “I had a good talk to him. I really don’t know what happened to him, Tempus. He acknowledges what he’s done, but he doesn’t know why.”
This sounded too familiar. “Was he...repentant?”
She perhaps found it odd to hear me use such a religious term, but nonetheless replied. “Yes, actually. He’s been sobbing his eyes out all morning, apparently.”
“Good.”
She looked up at me, shocked.
“What I mean,” I clarified, “is that the Gallows lad was unrepentant.”
“My mother told me about that,” she said with a gasp. “It was completely out of the blue, too. I mean, they argued, but they had never threatened each other. Not like that.” She stopped me, placed a hand on each shoulder, and looked me in the eye. “I’m very sorry, Tempus. If I had thought for a moment that he was capable then I...”
I shook my head. “It is of no great concern.”
She retracted her hands and crossed herself, lowering her gaze to her feet.
“I think you’re lying. I had a guinea pig once. I called him Guinea Pig. You know, to avoid any sort of confusion. I had wanted to call him Archimedes, but me mum said that it was too difficult for me. Too difficult for her, more like.”
“Archimedes?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know. You must know. Born in 200 BC. Discovered water displacement. Strutted about naked shouting ‘Eureka’. Invented a slew of anti-Roman war machines. Archimedes’ Screw. Archimedes’ Claw. Archimedes’ Bloody Great Ass-Tearing Death Device. You know him, right?”
It was actually 287 BC, but I give the child credit for trying.
“Of course,” I said, flabbergasted. “I’m just surprised that you seem to know so much about him.”
“Yeah, well, I used to think science was cool until they started ranting on about the periodic tables. I like the earlier discoveries, back when they were simpler to understand. We had to do a project on a historical scientist. Everyone was doing Einstein or Alfred Nobel. I dug through a few then decided to go old school and learned about Archimedes. He’s keen. Anyway, this guinea pig, Guinea Pig his name was, and he had a run in with our cat and...”
“It’s alright, Jill,” I said, patting her shoulder. “You’ve cheered me up.”
“Have I?”
“Definitely.”
We walked in silence for a moment, until the question begged to be asked.
“I attest to having my own favourites, but if you had to liken me to one such historical figure, who would you suppose?”
We walked for a moment before she answered.
“Ever hear of Henry Cavendish?”
A man who measured electrical current through electrodes attached to his body and estimating the degree of pain.
I sighed.
“I liked you better when you were toting a rifle.”
CHAPTER NINE
Daedalian Muse Page 8