Magic Outside the Box

by Honor Raconteur

  “No, thank you, Mr. Walterson,” I demurred. “You know why we’ve come to speak with you, I take it?”

  “I’ve got a jolly good idea, yes. Sorry I didn’t come in sooner. Truth is, after the card party, I left. I took the early morning train into Crammer’s Port, slept on the way there. My daughter’s at university there, you see.” A wide, proud smile crossed his face. As well it should. It was difficult for women to go to university, and if she were attending Crammer’s, then she was very bright indeed. Crammers was a well-known medical school.

  Jamie pulled out her notebook. “You went to visit?”

  “She had a spot of trouble,” Walterson explained, getting more settled in his chair, and further rucking up his shirt against the back of it in the process. “Some dastard knocked the books right out of her hands—she did say it was accidental—and then refused to pay for their replacement. She needed the books for class today, so I went up and bought her a new set. I was gone till…well, I did stay long enough to take her out for an early lunch. Came back in the afternoon.”

  “And that’s when you heard?”

  “Impossible not to. Word was all over the place. I was heartbroken at the news, we all were. It’s such a bloody terrible business.” He sighed deeply, a rough growl echoing deep in his throat in a manner only a canine could produce.

  “Can you tell me who was at the party that night?” Jamie continued calmly.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve actually been writing it all down. I think I’ve got everyone. I’d ask my wife, but,” he grimaced here with an apologetic look, “she’s too distraught, you know. Can’t get a word out without bawling.”

  I took the list from him and scanned it. Twenty-six people. A respectable enough gathering, especially for a house of this size. “And did anyone have harsh words with RM Burtchell that night?”

  “No, no. We were all in high spirits, in fact. Burtchell was on something of a losing streak, could barely keep a hand in. It was odd for him, but he wasn’t upset about it. Just a string of bad luck. He kept laughing and changing games, seeing if that would help. Nothing did, but it didn’t stop him from playing.” Walterson’s face fell, his pointed, upright ears going down and flat. “He did love to play.”

  Jamie pressed him, although she kept her tone level. “Did he mention any trouble with gambling debts? Or someone who took issue with him winning?”

  Walterson’s head came back up and his whiskers twitched again as he thought. “No. No, can’t say he did. But he wasn’t the type to blab his business about, either. Oscar might know. Have you spoken with Oscar Villarreal?”

  I nodded. “We just came from there. He couldn’t think of anyone.”

  “Well, there you have it. If Oscar couldn’t think of anyone, then there isn’t anyone to be had.”

  Jamie didn’t quite roll her eyes, but I was sure she did so internally. “Clearly someone did have issue with RM Burtchell, Mr. Walterson. They killed him, after all.”

  “Oh.” Walterson’s ears went down again. “That is a good point. Yes, that’s a very good point. Oh dear. Well, what I can tell you is, no one was in a murderous frame of mind at my house, at least. We all left in good spirits, if tired after a full night of fun. I saw Joseph out myself, and he walked home alone. I went into town and caught the train shortly afterward.”

  And that didn’t help us whatsoever. Although the list of people at least gave us something to look at.

  “Thank you, Mr. Walterson.” Jamie stood, signaling the interview was at a close. “Here’s my card. We’re staying at the Brighton Hotel while investigating everything. Please contact me there if you think of anything else.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to. Thank you, Detective. Doctor.”

  Walterson politely showed us out, and I was glad to escape into the clean, fresh sea air. I was tempted to take the wheel so Jamie couldn’t drive us back into town, but in truth I was sleep-deprived to the point of exhaustion. It was better for her to drive us back. She caught my false start for the driver’s side and gave me a knowing look as she slipped into the seat.

  As she started up the engine, I inquired, “I suppose we start in on that potential suspect list?”

  Jamie looked at it with a resigned sigh. “Yes, although I don’t hold out much hopes for it. This case smacks of rage, but also cold calculation. It took someone very clever to get past all of those wards, and it wasn’t done in spur of the moment. If this was a case of someone accusing Burtchell cheating at cards, I’d think they do something more on the spot, rather than finding a way to sneak into his house.”

  “I rather agree with you. But we don’t have any other leads to follow, not really.”

  She stared at me hard, head canted. I knew that expression well. She was weighing the pros and cons of something. “You think the magical research he was doing is a dead end?”

  “We did find it all in his house,” I reminded her.

  “Granted, but it could be the murderer just didn’t have time to search for it, either. I think we should ask the queen.”

  I blinked at her and felt more than a little alarm at this idea. “You want to ask her? Surely there are other people to ask!”

  “Sure there are,” she agreed casually, already taking out her pad. “But Henri, that woman is desperate not only for updates, but to be able to help. She’s delegated this investigation to us because she’s a: smart enough to realize she wouldn’t know how to investigate, and b: responsible enough to know she can’t. But it doesn’t mean she’s not invested, that she doesn’t want to help. Trust me, keeping a woman in the loop is always a smart decision. You might not get any real help from her, but you’ll be considerate of her feelings, and that leads to happy things later.”

  Considering my own history with my mother, sister, and now my partner…she made a fair point.

  “And the woman’s been blowing up my pad with requests for an update,” Jamie tacked on while making a face. “If I don’t talk to her soon, she’s going to send the Kingsmen after me.”

  “Ah. Well, I can play scribe for you?”

  “Hmm? Naw, it’s fine, I’ll just call her.” I felt a little horrified when she casually pressed the phone spell button and commanded, “Call Queen Regina.”

  It barely took two seconds for the call to connect and the queen’s tinny voice responded eagerly, “Jamie! Tell me you’ve good news.”

  “I wish I could. I actually called with a question for you. You might be able to help us.”

  The change was audible in the queen’s voice. She went from eager to tautly alert. “Yes, of course, please ask.”

  “We found some of Belladonna’s paperwork in Burtchell’s study, along with his own notes. I understand he was researching the portal spells?”

  “Yes, so he was. I asked him to take it on, as really there is—was, no better expert. He was very happy to have something to mentally cut his teeth on, or so he said. I’d get random reports from him that he was making some headway, although I hadn’t seen anything he’d done. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re stuck on a motive for his murder.” Jamie wrinkled her nose in distaste, not that the queen could see the gesture. “We’re not sure why anyone wanted to kill him. Everyone in Sheffield apparently loved him, and despite all the card games he liked to play, he rarely did it for money. It doesn’t look like gambling led him into a tight spot. I thought, maybe someone was after the research?”

  “But you found it intact in his study, did you not?”

  “Well, I don’t know if we did. There was no sign of forced entry, or that anyone used seeking spells to find it, but it’s feasible he had part of Belladonna’s work on his desk when the killer came in. The man was reading a letter at the time of his death, after all. Who said he didn’t step away from his work for a moment to look through his mail? How much of Belladonna’s work was given to him?”

  “I’m not entirely clear on that. But I know who to ask to find out. You sent what you found at his house back to Kin
gston, did you not?”

  “Sherard did this morning, by special courier.”

  “He likely sent it to Langley. She’s in charge of Belladonna’s work and cave, as you know. Langley will be able to tell if something is missing. I’ll have her get in contact with you as soon as she has an answer.”

  “That would be very helpful, thank you. Ask her, too, if anyone’s shown any unhealthy interest in that research, or if anyone made noises about it. Is Gibson still in charge of all that?”

  “I believe so. I’ll have him message you with anything he knows.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Be patient, Your Majesty. I know you’re chomping at the bit to know who did this, but this is early days yet. We’re still putting together a timeline. I at least know who all was in the house and how narrow of a window the killer had now.”

  “Oh? How long?”

  “About ten or fifteen minutes, it looks like. A very narrow window. It suggests to me that whoever did this was watching Burtchell closely. They must have, to have taken such perfect advantage of that gap in his defenses. It’s why I wonder if the magical research had something to do with it. He didn’t apparently tell many people he had it, but he did tell a few. And a few is sometimes all it takes.”

  “Sadly true. Oh, is it that time already? Monkey balls. Jamie, I’ve got to go, I’ve a function to attend, but I’ll contact both Langley and Gibson on the way. Keep me updated, I implore you.”

  “I promise I will. I’ll speak with you later.” The connection ended and Jamie sat back with a sigh. “That was more or less the answer I expected, but maybe we’ll get lucky and either Langley or Gibson can point us in the right direction.”

  I gave her a flat look. “You realize if either of them had heard of potential trouble surrounding that research, they’d already have contacted you and said something?”

  She screwed her mouth up in a strange looking pout. “What is it with you and bursting my bubble? I like my bubble.”

  “Don’t hand me a line, woman, I know better.”

  Pointing imperiously forward, she commanded, “Let’s just go. Cross-check Walterson’s list with the one the hotel manager gave us to eliminate any duplicates. We’ll still have quite a few to get through, and we still have to find all their addresses.”

  As Jamie started the motor up, I lodged in a final protest. “We’re stopping midday for lunch.”

  “And dessert,” she added firmly.

  “Deities, yes.” With multiple interviews to get through, we’d both need it.

  “The bullet killed him.”

  I regarded Weber with considerable exasperation. Jamie looked ready to skewer him with her eyes alone.

  “Tell us something we don’t know!” my partner exclaimed, throwing up both hands.

  After twelve straight interviews today (all conducted at the witnesses’ houses, which meant a great deal of driving about town), neither Jamie nor I were in a particularly patient mood. Twelve was better than twenty-six, but we had still done a great deal of legwork with little result to show for it, and the feeling grated. I certainly wasn’t in the mood for Weber’s cryptic remarks. I wanted answers, something I could sink my teeth into and give me the necessary momentum to solve this case.

  We were in the conference room, basically awaiting Weber before getting dinner and calling it quits for the day. The hardest thing to learn when first becoming a detective was how to pace oneself. Too often, especially in high profile cases like this, the colossal pressure on the investigating team pushed them to work incredible hours. But unless the case demanded speed—such as kidnapping cases—it was unwise to work like that. For one, it burned out even the most dedicated workers. For another, it dulled the mind and senses. Many a case had been bungled or left unsolved because the investigating team was too tired to properly manage the clues right in front of them.

  Jamie, fortunately, was seasoned enough she knew better than to fall into that potential trap. Although I might have to stop her from coshing Weber’s head in.

  Weber was clean of any blood or ichor, yet I could see the work he’d put in the past two days by the tired sloop in his shoulders. He sat slumped in the head chair of the table, his bag at his feet, literally ready to report to us and leave.

  “I’m sorry for the delay. I had a hovering doctor at my elbow who slowed me down considerably. Sadly, there wasn’t much else I discovered,” he stated, voice rasping with fatigue. “I went over every part of the body three times, looking. The bullet oddly told me more than the body did. Good job for finding it. We’d be up a creek with no paddles otherwise.”

  In a very Jamie move, Seaton held a hand up to me. I played along and smacked mine against his, completing the ‘high-five,’ as she called it.

  Weber seemed amused at this byplay, if that quirk of his mouth was anything to judge by. “Brace yourselves. I’m about to add to the strangeness.”

  McSparrin made a disgusted sound and glared at him. We all more or less imitated her. More strangeness was the last thing this case needed.

  Undeterred, our coroner kept going. “The bullet was not fired from a gun. There’s no trace of gunpowder residue around it. The blood splatter on the back is a perfect match to Burtchell’s. It was definitely the bullet that killed him, I’ll stake my reputation on it, but it was not fired from any sort of weapon.”

  That more or less confirmed what I already knew. I hadn’t tested the bullet for gunpowder, but that was more because I didn’t have the right equipment to test it. I’d requested Weber do it for that very reason. He’d come more prepared in terms of equipment than I had.

  “Now, what is interesting to me is the trajectory angle. What I believe happened is this.” Weber stood, then went to McSparrin and gestured for her to turn in the chair to face him. She promptly did, acting the part of the deceased. “I believe Burtchell was sitting, reading his mail. The killer came in with the bullet in his hand, like so,” Weber held his hand at hip level, much like he was in the act of reaching into a coat pocket, “and somehow fired the bullet from there. It was in a perfectly straight line, only a little off-center from the epicenter of his forehead and angled slightly upwards. I believe Burtchell was looking into the eyes of his killer when he was shot.”

  “So,” Jamie pointed to the two of them, reasoning out loud, “Burtchell perhaps wasn’t expecting another visitor? Or this wasn’t necessarily someone he knew? He was just sitting, reading his mail, and this guy walks in. He looks up, then bam! Lights out.”

  “Quite possibly. I can’t say for sure. I can say there’s no defensive wounds, no signs he struggled or was even properly aware of the danger. The doctor’s report to me was that when they found Burtchell, both of his hands rested in his lap, one hand gripping the letter. I don’t think he had time to react to his assailant.”

  “How did the murderer even get in, is my question.” Seaton sounded one breath away from beating his head against the desk.

  I shared the frustration, but mine was fixated on another point. How was the bullet fired if not from a gun? Was it magic, after all? I couldn’t think of a single device that could fire a bullet without somehow leaving a mark on the casing. But if it were magic, that made less sense. None of the spells in that room had been in the least remarkable, all of them expected from a mage’s house. Had the murderer somehow wiped his own magical footsteps, erased his presence altogether?

  “Seaton, focus for a moment. Not on the entry point, but on the means of firing the bullet. Is it possible to erase magical energy from an area?”

  Seaton stared with dark amusement, brows quirking. “You felt stupid for asking that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, quite,” I sighed morosely. “No need to rub it in. I just can’t think of how this was accomplished.”

  Weber seemed intrigued by our discourse and paused where he was, eyes bouncing between us. “Why is it impossible? To do what you’re suggesting.”

  “Magical energy is much like…air. That might be the easies
t way to explain this.” I rubbed at my jaw, trying to put this in layman’s terms. “It’s quite impossible to block air completely from a space, correct? It’s much the same with magical energy. It flows and is part of everything. You can’t dismiss it, especially once used. It disintegrates on its own.”

  Jamie cleared her throat. “Actually, you can suck all air from a space. It’s called a vacuum.”

  We all blinked at her.

  Perhaps feeling a little put on the spot, she added, “Takes very specialized equipment to do it. And you definitely feel it.”

  Truly, the things she knew…. I waved a hand. “Perhaps not the best analogy to use, then. At any rate, what I’m suggesting is truly impossible. Fortunately for us investigators. A criminal using magic can never completely erase their tracks. Muddle, yes.”

  “This might be a case of muddling.” Seaton crossed both arms over his chest and sank back in the chair. “I feel like we’re missing the obvious.”

  “You might be,” Jamie pointed out. “It’s easy sometimes to lose your perspective and not see the forest for the trees. Let me play devil’s advocate for a bit. Walk me through each spell you saw traces of in that room.”

  Seaton didn’t feel inclined to play and waved me on. I’d learned to humor Jamie in situations like this. It might not bring about an immediate answer, but often it raised the right question that led us further along. We could use either at this moment. My mind felt foggy with fatigue, and at the moment I regretted every minute I had stayed awake to create a new spell instead of resting, like a sensible person, and tackling it the next morning. My focus was more on a nap even as I answered, “Very well. Cleaning spells.”

  “That one seems obvious enough. How old was it?”

  “The night before, I would say. It was barely distinguishable.”

  “And the next?”

  “Warming spell. It was centered around a cup, also from the night before.”

  “And the next?”

  “Wind spell. Dead in the center of the room.”

  Jamie got a strange look on her face. “And you’re not questioning this one because…?”