Death's Executioner

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Why would anybody bother to attend?’

  ‘Surely you aren’t suggesting that mere weather should get in the way of making an appearance at a highly select social event. Not when everybody who is anybody will be there.’

  ‘You weren’t,’ said Nanda shrewdly.

  ‘Let us assume that my having been born, approximately, in the gutter renders me immune to some of the worst excesses of the rich.’

  ‘But not all of them.’ The twinkle was back in her eye.

  ‘Not quite all. A man has to have some fun.’

  ‘Do you though?’

  ‘What? Have fun?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Like? When was the last time?’

  Konrad didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Last night, in the parlour with you.’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant.’

  ‘I know.’

  She grinned, rueful. ‘Touché. Very well, supposing somebody was idiot enough to plan a ball for last night, perhaps the papers made mention of it. Unfortunately, they are at my house, and we are not.’

  ‘Perhaps it is more likely to appear in today’s paper, no?’

  ‘True.’ Nanda got up from the breakfast table, abandoning a stray crust of toast, and gulped the last of her coffee in one swallow. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall stage an emergency shopping trip.’

  ‘Many a woman has dreamed of being able to say something like that with a straight face.’

  ‘Many a man, has, too, in his secret heart. I shall return.’ Nanda did not wait for him to accompany her. She whirled out into the hallway, and moments later Konrad heard the front door open and close.

  He cast an unhappy glance out of the window. The snow had come in again with the dawn, and the sky was a white blur. Poor conditions for a walk.

  Do not worry for her, Master, said Eetapi. She is stronger than you.

  ‘I know. But people don’t worry for their friends because they doubt their strength. We worry because we know that it isn’t always enough.’

  Eetapi dismissed this with a sniff. I would like to see the blizzard that can carry off Irinanda.

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  He did not waste time wondering whether the papers would appear at all in such inclement conditions. He knew better. Assevan was a harsh country year-round, and its winters were always brutal; no newspaper worth its salt could afford to be deterred by bad weather. And that went double for the tabloids. Relentless, those, like packs of wolves. He had never chosen to ask Nanda what they said about him; doubtless he would be devastated, if he knew. Or far too pleased.

  An idea occurred to him — too late, alas, to call Nanda back — and he sat up. He rang the bell, and when the maid appeared — new girl, he had forgotten her name — he asked for his butler.

  Gorev appeared promptly. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Gorev. It is true, is it not, that invitations and such occasionally come through the door?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. And what becomes of them?’

  ‘You ordered that they should be burned, sir.’

  Konrad blinked. ‘Burned? Did I indeed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That seems unreasonable of me.’

  ‘I believe it was on one of your… bad days, sir.’

  ‘My bad days.’

  ‘When you were in… poor spirits, sir.’

  ‘You mean when I was being a tiresome, self-pitying idiot.’

  Gorev’s lips twitched. ‘I cannot be expected to agree with that, sir.’

  ‘Nor shall you, at least out loud. Well, but you did not say they have been burned, did you? Only that I gave instructions to that effect.’

  ‘I took the liberty of making other arrangements for them.’

  ‘In other words, you blatantly ignored my orders. Why might you do that, my good Gorev?’

  ‘I thought you might think better of it, sir.’

  ‘And I cannot be displeased with you, for you appear to have been right. Could you by chance produce any such invitations that might have arrived in, say, the past month?’

  ‘Instantly, sir.’ Gorev bowed and withdrew, returning mere minutes later with a stack of white envelopes in his hands. These he set before Konrad.

  ‘You are a prince among butlers, Gorev. Thank you.’

  ‘I know, sir.’ Gorev left Konrad to his perusal of the promising stack.

  Konrad steeled himself. He needed a stronger stomach than he possessed, to tackle such a pile. The majority of these kinds of missives fell into two categories: those that flattered and fawned over Konrad in hopes of coaxing him to attend, and those who invited him with the lofty air of those condescending from a great height. The former were bedazzled by Mr. Savast’s purportedly enormous wealth, together with his reputation as something of a hermit; he did not often attend evening engagements, and had become therefore an exclusive prize to adorn some ambitious hostess’s drawing-room. The latter like to consider themselves superior to a mere Mr. Savast. Perhaps because he was only a commoner, however wealthy; perhaps because his gypsy blood, and the swarthy countenance that went with it, was difficult for a few particularly elitist hosts to accept.

  All of them turned his stomach. Leafing through these, he found the usual mixture of the two, and soon remembered why he might, in a black mood, have ordered that they all go into the fire.

  The pile rose higher than Nanda would readily believe; many a courageous hostess had flatly refused to wait for better weather. He discovered no fewer than three invitations to events on the previous evening, one of which he discarded for being too far distant.

  Two remained. There had been two events last night, held in houses just about close enough to the fatal alley to qualify. Neither house backed onto the alley itself, however, to Konrad’s disappointment. The mystery man must have crossed a street or two after he had left the party.

  Supposing, of course, that he’d been at a party at all. Konrad reminded himself that the clothes might mean nothing. He could have been wearing them as some kind of costume, or as a disguise.

  Still, he had a way to proceed. One invitation was to a “select” soirée at the house of Lady Lysak, a bowing acquaintance. He tried, and failed, to recall her face. The other announced a glittering ball to be held at Kravets House, its host a Mrs. Petrova. He did not so much as remember her name.

  He had permitted himself to drift farther from city society than he ought, of course. He had been installed at Bakar House not merely to secure his comfort, though the luxury was perhaps one of the compensations of his job. He had also been given the means to command a place among the city’s highest echelon, because rich people committed crimes, too. He had to be able to wander the houses of the wealthy at need, and here he was losing his grip.

  If only sparkling social events were not such a bore. He would far rather be playing cards with Nan, and Alexander.

  Thousands would kill to attend either one of those parties, hissed Eetapi, interrupting his reverie. You must realise that.

  ‘I hope they would not literally kill for it. But if you mean that I am being ungrateful, perhaps that’s true.’

  Take Irinanda with you, next time, said Eetapi with a snicker. That might cheer you up.

  Konrad was about to object that Nanda would never agree, but then he remembered all the times she had jumped at the chance to rig herself out in finery. And there was the matter of the gossip papers, too. For all her protestations, she was as drawn to luxury as she pretended to be repelled by it.

  He put the idea away for future consideration. For all he knew, she might be delighted at the prospect.

  Nanda returned nearly two hours later. Konrad had long since taken to standing at the window, glaring at the driving snow as he watched for her approach. Just as he was on the point of sending Eetapi out in search of her, he spotted her. Her usual brisk, purposeful walk must be impossible in such conditions; she trudged her way up the street, he
ad bent, one hand clutching the brim of her hat against the wind’s attempts to snatch it off her head.

  When the doorbell rang a few moments later, Konrad was waiting to answer it himself.

  ‘That took a long time,’ he said, holding the door wide open for Nanda as she bustled inside.

  ‘I apologise for keeping you waiting,’ she said dryly, shrugging off her snow-covered coat. A pool of water quickly formed under her feet as the snow melted off her.

  ‘I just meant—’

  ‘I know. I am only being difficult. Here.’ She withdrew a folded newspaper, slightly crinkled, from within the folds of her coat, handing the latter to Gorev, who waited with silent solicitude to assist.

  ‘I shall ask Mrs. Aristova to send in something warming to the parlour,’ said Gorev.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Konrad absently, shepherding Nanda in the direction of said parlour, and the blazing fire that waited there. ‘I am not fussing,’ he said, when she opened her mouth to — most likely — object.

  Nanda rolled her eyes, but permitted herself to be ushered to the comfiest chair before Konrad opened up the paper.

  ‘Page seventeen,’ said Nanda, sagging into the chair’s soft velvets with obvious gratitude. She gave a final shiver, and closed her eyes, a slight smile on her lips.

  Konrad turned his attention to page seventeen. ‘I don’t know how they find so much to say about us,’ he murmured, having turned through multiple pages of society reports before he arrived at the relevant one.

  ‘You are endlessly interesting, I assure you. When there are so many rules governing behaviour and etiquette, there are naturally a thousand ways to break them, so there’s always another scandal. And if there is nothing dramatic to be reported, enquiring minds will always want to know about Lady X’s daring new fashions, or Lord X’s rumoured indiscretion with his sister-in-law.’

  ‘You make it all sound so sordid.’

  ‘If it were not sordid, I’m afraid no one would be interested at all.’

  Konrad grunted, and fell silent as a maid appeared with a tray, compliments of his wonderful cook. Nanda applied herself to a pot of some steaming beverage. Konrad ignored the lot.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Lady Lysak’s soirée. Has to be this one.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Konrad read aloud. ‘Fracas at Surnin Place. Lady Lysak’s Select Soirée — capital S — suffered a moment of tension when the evening’s illustrious hostess fell into conflict with one of her guests. The nature of the dispute is not known to this writer, but the affair ended with the abrupt departure of her co-disputant Mr. Bogdan Zolin, a shining light in Ekamet society. Such a fracas comes as an embarrassment to her ladyship, whose record, previously without blemish, etc etc.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s the right one?’ said Nanda, pouring out something in a soft cloud of steam.

  Konrad discovered that a cup of whatever it was had materialised before him. ‘It fits,’ he said, and set Lady Lysak’s invitation before her. ‘Surnin Place is only two streets away. It isn’t adjacent to the alley, but it’s close enough. Mr. Zolin could easily have walked that far.’

  ‘That does narrow it down.’

  Konrad put Mrs. Petrova’s invitation down beside the first. ‘This house is also close enough, and ought to be investigated, but this argument seems significant. We had better find out if Mr. Bogdan Zolin ever made it home last night.’

  Nanda nodded. ‘I will bet you one cake that he did not.’

  ‘No bet. Too easy.’

  ‘All right, two cakes.’

  ‘That’s not how this works.’

  The parlour door, closed against the draughty hallway, flew open. ‘Report from Inspector Nuritov,’ announced Tasha, removing her cap and vigorously shaking the snow from it.

  ‘Hey,’ said Konrad, as freezing water splattered over his arm. ‘Customarily one removes outer garments first, then charges into a private parlour without invitation or announcement.’

  ‘I’m here to do a job,’ Tasha said, subjecting her dark coat to the same treatment. ‘Nobody ever said anything about manners.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘So do you want the report?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘The head,’ said Tasha, and paused dramatically.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has been found.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Or at least, a severed head has been found, and it’s a man’s head, and Nuritov says he can’t imagine there are two bodiless men’s heads floating around people’s drawing-rooms this week, so it is probably the one we want.’

  ‘People’s drawing-rooms?’ Konrad repeated.

  ‘Right. It was discovered this morning by a housemaid. She went in to clean the grate and passed out from the shock.’ The words dripped with scorn. Tasha did not approve of fainting females.

  Nanda sat up a bit. ‘Just where exactly was the head?’

  ‘Set on the mantelpiece. Like it was some kind of ornament.’

  ‘Which house?’ Konrad pressed.

  Tasha took in the litter of invitations and newsprint scattered among Mrs. Aristova’s delicacies. ‘You look like you already know.’

  ‘Surnin Place?’ Konrad guessed.

  ‘I bow before your awe-inspiring detecting skills.’ Tasha literally bowed.

  ‘If I thought you meant a word of it, I might be flattered.’ Konrad got up. ‘Nuritov’s already on his way there, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes. He said to join him. Can I finish this cake?’

  ‘You’re… asking permission?’

  ‘Oh. You’re right.’ Tasha picked up the remains of a cake already decimated by Nanda, and shoved half of it in her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know why you eat cake at all,’ said Konrad. ‘It’s not like you gain any benefit from it.’

  ‘I gain pleasure from it,’ said Tasha thickly. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Justified,’ said Nanda, rising from her own seat. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  ‘I’ll follow.’ Tasha applied herself to her plate, and Konrad made for the door.

  Chapter Three

  When Konrad and Nanda arrived at Surnin Place some twenty minutes later, they were not immediately granted admittance.

  ‘I am sorry, sir,’ said an ashen-faced butler, clutching the red-painted front door as though his knees might otherwise melt from under him. ‘There can be no guests admitted today.’

  ‘We are not guests,’ said Konrad firmly. ‘We are here at Inspector Nuritov’s insistence. Go and ask him, if you please.’

  ‘I have strict orders, sir—’

  ‘Go and ask him.’

  ‘Konrad?’ came Alexander’s voice, and the door swung wider, revealing the inspector himself. ‘Come in, come in. Haven’t moved the head yet; thought you might like a look at it before we do.’

  Konrad moved past the butler, receiving a goggle-eyed look of horror as he did so. What did the fool man think, that Konrad was some manner of eccentric with macabre tastes, for some reason pandered to by the police? Nobody derived pleasure, as Tasha put it, from viewing severed heads. Nobody sane, anyway. ‘How long has it been there?’ he asked of Alexander, ignoring the butler. ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘There’s little blood. Likely that the thing was outside for some time before it was brought in. Half frozen, you know.’

  Konrad thought of the red-stained snow around the fallen man’s head. ‘Perhaps it was let lie a while, before being taken.’

  Alexander nodded. ‘Killer might even have left it where it fell, for a while, and gone back for it later.’

  ‘Or,’ said Nanda, ‘somebody else found the body before we did, and took the head.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Konrad.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The inspector led them through the house as they talked, through several rooms and up a flight of stairs devoid of servants or other inhabitants. ‘Here we go,’ he said as they entered a handsome drawing-room. He gestured in the direction
of the fireplace.

  Konrad spent only a moment in contemplation of the macabre display. The fire had been permitted to die down; the housemaid, he supposed, had not had courage enough to tend to it after her shocking discovery. The mantel above was of pale marble, set with a pair of tall golden candlesticks and twin porcelain ornaments. In the centre, where there might more rightly stand a clock, was the head. If it was Bogdan Zolin, he’d had dark blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and the smooth complexion of a young man — not yet thirty, Konrad judged. His dead eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Konrad.

  Serpents? Konrad called.

  Ootapi answered. Yes, Master.

  Is there perchance any trace of his spirit, hereabouts? Konrad held only a small hope for a positive response, but he thought it worth the asking. When the head was severed from the rest of the body, which part of its erstwhile physical form might the ghost attach itself to?

  None, Master, said Ootapi. He is too long dead.

  There was also that. Too many hours had passed since death.

  Konrad turned his attention to the rest of the room. Everything in Lady Lysak’s drawing-room spoke of money and taste, not much to his surprise. Marble and fine oak, velvet and silk, a little gilding but not much. The room lacked personality. Elegant, beautiful as it was, it could have graced any of the city’s finer houses. Konrad could have replicated it at Bakar House, and it would not have looked out of place. Nothing in here so much as hinted at the personality of its owner.

  ‘Have you yet interviewed Lady Lysak?’ Konrad asked.

  ‘She is not here.’

  Konrad’s brows went up at that. ‘Not? Where could she possibly have gone?’

  ‘The servants say she went out early, in some kind of hurry. They didn’t know whether she had seen the head or not. The first housemaid thought not, or she’d have heard her ladyship walking about up here — she was in the next room, cleaning, for nearly half an hour before she heard the front door open and shut.’

  ‘Might be true, might not be,’ Konrad mused.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Has news of the death reached the media yet?’

  ‘No. Your people removed the body well before dawn, and we won’t be releasing a police report until this afternoon.’