by A. C. Cobble
“You observed the body?” drawled the senior inspector, spitting a viscous stream of brown liquid against the gray granite wall of the apothecary.
McCready tore his eyes from the sparkling waters of the sea and nodded to his supervisor. “I did.”
“And?”
“And we’ve got a problem,” remarked McCready.
Senior Inspector Gallen’s eyebrows peaked and his fists found resting spots on his hips, “Frozen hell, Pat. I assigned you this case because—”
McCready held up a hand. “You should follow me inside.”
He led the senior inspector into the apothecary and stepped out of the way so the man could see the mutilated woman.
“A prostitute, most likely,” muttered Gallen, his eyes darting around the room, finding the stairwell in the back, viewing the scene but not seeing it. “Some out-of-town grifter could have found her down by the docks.”
“I don’t think so,” remarked McCready. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I believe this was a ritual killing. Dark magic, sir.”
Senior Inspector Gallen gaped at him. “Dark magic? You mean sorcery? Have you gone mad, Pat? It’s been nigh on twenty years since anyone… since anyone did that sort of thing. The king stamped it out when he pushed the raiders back from Northundon and marched on the Coldlands. Not even the Church talks about that… that stuff, anymore. Why would you even consider such a thing!”
McCready met his supervisor’s gaze patiently, waiting for the man to calm down.
“Who have you told about this, Pat?” questioned Senior Inspector Gallen. “If word gets out in town, you know how the rumors fly around this place. Or worse, can you even imagine the circus if the papers down in Eastundon got wind of it? Pat, you’re the best man I’ve got, but we’ve got to be sensible here. Sorcery is history, you know it.”
The inspector ignored his superior’s remonstration. Gallen hadn’t been involved in the Coldlands War like Pat McCready had. History was something written down in books. It wasn’t something you’d seen. It wasn’t something you touched and that you still dreamt about. Night terrors, his wife called them, his imagination getting the best of him. She hadn’t seen what he’d seen either. She didn’t know that the world contained worse than his imagination ever would. His body trembled, and he forced himself to still. Instead of thinking, he began to talk.
“Here, sir, beneath the woman’s arms, legs, and head, are triangles drawn in a dark chalk or ash,” explained McCready. “Look. You can see where the blood stopped a finger-width from the lines. This floor is sloped, sir. Like most of the buildings in this district, it’s built to allow water to drain down toward the harbor. See the way the blood is pooled? That is not natural. Can you see? And then there is the obvious mutilation of the woman’s face. It was done carefully, sir, with a razor-sharp blade. There are no hesitation marks and no signs of struggle. Just clean wounds. It wasn’t the first time for whoever did this. The woman herself, ah, I’ll need the physician to confirm, but I believe she was engaged sexually prior to her death. It does not appear it was forced.”
“A prostitute like I thought!” snapped Gallen. “We’ve seen it before. Some sailor who’s been at sea too long, gets odd ideas. You’ve caught as many of the bastards as I have, Pat.”
“Behind you, sir,” continued McCready.
Gallen frowned at his inspector and then turned.
With the light of the newly risen sun spilling across Harwick, the windows of the apothecary let in a glow that illuminated dancing motes of dust. In the sparkling morning light, the two men could see strange symbols drawn onto the window. A bird, an eye, and a skull along with several geometric shapes. In the center of the configuration, a five-pointed star was drawn within a circle.
“A common symbol of the occult,” grumbled Senior Inspector Gallen, turning from the window. “Any thug knows how to draw a pentagram. It was likely done by the killer to throw us off the scent.”
“There and there as well,” advised McCready, turning to point at the back walls of the room.
“Well—”
“Sir,” interrupted McCready, “this building is fashioned as a wedge, three-sides. There can’t be more than half a dozen buildings in Harwick with similar dimensions. I’m sure you know the triangle is rumored to be a powerful sorcerous binding symbol. A trinity, as it’s called.”
“Coincidence,” responded Gallen, the certainty faded from his voice.
“Look beneath her body, sir,” suggested McCready.
The senior inspector hesitated then inhaled sharply when he finally looked. The chalk below the woman was fashioned into another pentagram, this one perfectly filled with her blood.
Gallen swallowed uncomfortably. “What if you’re right, McCready? If there’s some… some sorcerer running around Harwick, what does it mean? Will there be more murders, do you think?”
“I don’t believe so, sir,” replied McCready.
“Why not?” wondered the senior inspector.
“I believe whoever did this is already gone,” claimed McCready.
His supervisor crossed his arms over his chest, waiting on an explanation.
“Upstairs, in the proprietor’s quarters,” said McCready, leading the senior inspector through a curtained alcove in the back of the room and then up a creaking set of stairs.
At the top, they found the apothecary. The man was sitting at a small table he evidently used for measuring and mixing his potions and tinctures. The tools of his trade were there — a handful of sealed jars, a small bowl, a pestle, measuring spoons, and an herb knife that was stuck to the hilt in the man’s chest.
The apothecary’s eyes and mouth were open wide, as if he’d been in the midst of asking his assailant whether he’d like a pinch of fennel in his preparation. There was no fear on the man’s face, only shock.
“Edwin Holmes… Well, that’s one possible suspect accounted for,” remarked Senior Inspector Gallen darkly, rubbing a hand vigorously over his face. “The same killer, you think, or was Holmes involved in the scene below? And what about this makes you think the killer has fled? I wonder if perhaps a rival struck and staged the scene?”
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 blond, 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 flu
ttering 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.
