Death's Executioner

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Since it seems our Mr. Kristov Balandin also made himself regular opportunities to feed Verinka, yes.’

  ‘Quite so. If she wasn’t poisoned at home, then the likelihood is that one of her two lunch-companions did it. Possibly with the assistance of a hard-up waiter.’

  The Larch, said Verinka suddenly. I will have the salmon.

  Verinka? Konrad said sharply.

  And a glass of wine.

  ‘She liked to order the salmon,’ Konrad reported. ‘And she seems to have been a tippler.’

  ‘Ah!’ The inspector’s face cleared. ‘It was a good idea to dine here.’

  Konrad ordered the salmon. As the waiter retreated, he allowed his spirit-sight to fade in, just enough to detect any unusual presences. He did not see Verinka; not enough of her spirit remained for so much coherence, it seemed.

  Alexander emerged from a cloud of thought. ‘I wonder if you could hide widow weed in a glass of wine?’

  Remembering what Nan had said, Konrad replied: ‘I haven’t a doubt of it.’

  Chapter Four

  The inspector soon dispatched one of his men to take another look at Verinka’s house. His instructions were to look for signs of regular drinking, and in particular for any bottles of wine, opened or unopened, that might linger in the home.

  There were none. She did not even own wine-glasses, the man reported. She drank only at the luncheon-club, it seemed.

  Konrad hoped Alexander’s investigations into the waiters would be productive of something. If the widow weed had been administered in her wine, someone had availed themselves of a weekly opportunity to dose her with it, and how better to do so than by bribing a waiter? Any old story might be employed to explain it. Stubborn woman refusing to take her medication. Concerned brother/friend. That was how Konrad would have done it, anyway.

  He himself was growing ever more intrigued by the hazy picture emerging of the mysterious Kristov. None of the facts about him made sense with one another. Verinka, supposedly a contented spinster, had nonetheless encouraged Kristov Balandin as a suitor, and had been doing so, apparently, for some time. But they had not been engaged. She’d known her brother disapproved, so strongly as to suspect him of murdering her over it; but that hadn’t discouraged her from meeting him.

  Meanwhile, Tsevar had described the man as an upstart. But if the manager was to be believed, Kristov Balandin was very well-heeled. Why, then, did Tsevar consider him an upstart? And on what grounds did he disapprove of the man’s courtship of his sister? Few brothers would object to a man of means and influence proposing to marry into the family.

  If he had intended to marry her. There was the lack of engagement to consider. Had he been shy of asking her? Had she refused? Had either of them had marriage in mind at all?

  Perhaps Tsevar disapproved because their relationship had been less… formal. But if that were the case, he’d likely have said something to that effect.

  Friday was two days away. Konrad intended to be ensconced at the Larch Club promptly at noon, awaiting the arrival of this much-feted man.

  In the meantime, he had thoughts of pursuing Tsevar Tarasovich Manin and squeezing him for further information. But before he could embark upon this project, Tasha barrelled in to Alexander’s office like a tiny, dark whirlwind, finding the inspector engaged in scrawling hasty notes, and Konrad leafing through a stack of vaguely relevant reports delivered by Alexander’s men.

  ‘It’s widow weed,’ she said breathlessly, whipping off her black cap and collapsing heavily into a vacant chair.

  ‘Nanda thought so, too,’ said Konrad.

  Tasha deflated a little. ‘How repulsive you are sometimes, Konrad.’

  ‘I’m afraid I was born that way. Did you find out anything else? We are still in the dark as to how anybody got hold of any.’

  Upon these words, Tasha brightened again, and sat up. ‘No easy task, is it? I asked around. Nobody’s heard of it in years. No one seemed interested — I was pretending to be in the market for some, you understand. Couldn’t find out that anyone else has been trying to buy any in years, either. It’s a dead trade.’

  ‘We sort of assumed as much,’ said Konrad.

  ‘But.’ Tasha glowered.

  Konrad meekly fell silent.

  ‘But. When I switched to the role of a seller… well, nothing much was different to be honest, nobody wants to buy that rubbish either, it’s worthless. Hardly surprising. Who wants a medicine that can kill you? Who wants a poison that takes weeks to work? Most people are in a lot more of a hurry. After all, if you’ve decided to kill someone you sort of want it out of the way, don’t you? Over and done with, quick-crunch, so you can get on with enjoying the rewards and pretending it never happened. So anyway—’

  ‘Tasha.’ Alexander looked up from his notes, and directed a quelling look at his ward.

  ‘Just enjoying the spotlight a bit, sir. It’s easy to be overlooked when you’re this short.’

  ‘Nonetheless, could you perhaps move it along a bit?’

  Tasha gave a salute. ‘I gave up on the traders, but decided on a hunch to try the, er, women’s facilities—’

  ‘The what?’ Konrad interrupted.

  Tasha’s brows went up. ‘What exactly is the question?’

  ‘What are women’s facilities?’

  She rolled her eyes, and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Picture this. You’re a lady of questionable repute wanting to not get pregnant. Or you’re a respectable female who is pregnant under conditions where you’d rather not be. Or you’re simply so destroyed with pain every time your cycle comes to its inevitable close that you’d genuinely risk death in order to make it go away. Do you think your above-board, primand-proper apothecaries cater to those kinds of problems?’

  ‘So there’s an underworld for, er, women’s troubles too?’

  ‘Konrad, sometimes your naivety astounds me.’

  Konrad shifted in his seat under Tasha’s skewering stare, and found himself with nothing to say.

  The only thing that could somewhat lessen his discomfort was the realisation that Alexander, too, was trying his best to hide a betraying flush behind a sheaf of notes.

  ‘So anyway,’ Tasha continued. ‘If anybody in the city might be harbouring an illegal supply of widow weed it’s probably one of those. No?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Konrad, sitting up. ‘I’d never have thought of that.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Konrad blushed. ‘So, er, did any of them have…?’

  ‘A huge jar of widow weed stashed in a dark room somewhere? Why, yes. Yes they did.’

  ‘And has anybody lately bought any?’

  ‘A few people. All of them female.’

  Konrad blinked. ‘So not Tsevar or Kristov?’

  ‘Not unless they sent someone else to do the purchasing for them, which they might have. Those places don’t deal much with men.’

  ‘Did you get any names?’

  ‘Kind of. People aren’t in a hurry to give out their real name when they’re procuring illegal medicine, for some reason.’

  ‘Tasha—’

  ‘I have a description. Will that do? All the women who’ve bought widow weed in the past year were known to the seller. They showed up regularly, took the herb under close supervision, no mysteries there. Except one. About six months ago, a lady procured a large supply of the stuff in one go, supposedly for medicinal use, but she refused any further assistance. They never saw her again after that.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to them that she intended to cause harm with it?’

  Tasha grinned. ‘They described her as middle-aged, nicely dressed, polite. Kindly. Can you picture anyone less likely to be pegged as a murderer?’

  Perfect choice of emissary, then, and very clever. ‘That’s good, Tasha,’ Konrad said. ‘Thank you. Did they remember any physical characteristics?’

  ‘Hair colour, brown. Pale skin. Medium height. Nothing very helpful.’

  ‘That could almost be a
description of Verinka herself,’ Alexander mused.

  ‘You mean maybe she was self-medicating, and her death was an accident?’ Konrad frowned. ‘I have to trust the serpents on this.’

  ‘Probably you’re right to,’ Alexander said. ‘But it’s fair to bear the possibility in mind. Not everyone has supernatural assistants; we have to rely on our own wits.’

  ‘I’m not sure how reliable their “wits” are,’ Konrad muttered. ‘Their senses, though, I am not in the habit of questioning.’

  Master, we are aware, said Ootapi snippily.

  I know, the snakes are always listening. I owed you that one.

  Konrad chose to take Ootapi’s silence as either victory or assent.

  ‘Of course,’ said Alexander, ‘it’s not guaranteed that this woman is a person of interest here, or that the weed she purchased was the same stuff used to kill Verinka. But it looks like a likely fit. You’ve done well, Tasha.’

  Tasha gave an ironic little half-bow from her seated position. ‘Anytime, Inspector.’

  Konrad stood up. ‘Hopefully we’ll have the means to trace this woman at some point. For now, I want to talk more to Tsevar. I have a feeling there’s more he could have said about all this.’

  But before he could get out of the room, a knock came upon the door and Karyavin came in.

  ‘See that?’ Konrad murmured to Tasha. ‘That is how you’re supposed to enter a room.’

  Tasha ignored him.

  Karyavin, Konrad was interested to note, held Verinka’s odd filigree pipe in his hands. ‘The dealers found one or two interesting things to say about this, sir.’

  ‘Aha. The antiques fellows? What did they say?’

  ‘There’s one on the corner of the Verender that’s an expert in pipes, sir. He had a good look at it. Said it’s a fake.’

  ‘A fake? A fake what?’

  ‘Fake antique. It’s been made after a traditional style, used to be popular maybe seventy, eighty years ago. Only it’s of recent make. And he said there’s something different about the style, but couldn’t say why. See the thickness around the bowl? And there is some kind of opaque lacquer there that isn’t needed.’

  Alexander frowned fiercely at the pipe, as though doing so might cause it to surrender its secrets. ‘He did not say what these alterations might be about?’

  ‘He couldn’t say, sir. Not without breaking it apart.’

  ‘Right.’ Alexander got up, taking the pipe off Karyavin. ‘On the corner of Verender, you said?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Coming, Konrad? We’re going to have a chat with this knowledgeable shopkeeper.’

  ‘And have him smash valuable evidence to bits?’

  ‘Something like that, yes. We need something definite, and if this is a freshly-made fake, I doubt anyone out there is going to miss it.’

  The antiques expert turned out to be a diminutive man, slight of frame, with a quantity of flyaway grey hair and a hunched posture. But his eyes were bright and keen, and he appeared full of energy, greeting his visitors with apparent delight.

  So engaging were the man’s manners, Konrad felt faintly guilty for the nature of their errand. He was not about to gratify the man’s evident hopes with a large purchase.

  Then again, maybe he could. Later. A glance around revealed that he had a good eye for fine, unusual pieces.

  ‘You spoke to one of my men a little while ago,’ said the inspector, showing the pipe. ‘About this. I understand you believe the design to have been changed?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s unmistakeable. If you’ll excuse me for a moment…’ The man spoke with a faint accent, Kayesiri perhaps. He wandered away into his shop, and came back after a few minutes with another pipe in his hands. A similar piece, though clearly old, streaked with the patina of ages. Rather more than seventy years old, Konrad guessed. The elegantly curved shape was the same, and it bore the same distinctive bowl, with a flaring rim. The filigree ornamentation, too, was an exact match for the pattern, near enough, but Konrad saw at once what Karyavin had meant. Verinka’s pipe bore an extra ornament: a little circular nub at the base of the bowl, inexplicably gilded, and not in especially good taste. The lacquer thickly coated the filigree. Unnecessarily, even to Konrad’s inexperienced eyes. The dealer pointed out all of these discrepancies with his quick, deft gestures. ‘I do not understand why it has been done,’ he concluded. ‘Somebody wished to pretend that this is an old piece, clearly, but in that case why these changes?’

  ‘I would like you to look more closely,’ said the inspector.

  ‘That will involve causing damage to the pipe.’

  ‘So be it. I need to know what this pipe is for. We, er, received it from a lady who does not smoke, and had no possible use for such a piece.’

  Tools were fetched, and the obliging dealer went to work. He scraped first at the lacquer, and examined the peelings under a magnifying lense. ‘It is not a standard lacquer,’ he mused. ‘Something in it… it should not shine like that.’

  ‘What of this bit, here?’ Alexander pointed out the gilded section with a finger. Not a large space, in truth: perhaps a quarter of an inch across at most. But its presence in the pattern was anomalous, and it stood out.

  ‘May I have your permission to break it open?’ said the dealer.

  ‘Please do.’

  This procedure took a minute or two, for despite its lowly status as a fake the dealer treated it with exquisite care. He inserted a sharp implement into the base in two or three places, and prised.

  The surface cracked and came away, and something fell out — something minuscule, but which nonetheless sparkled with a strange intensity.

  Konrad drew in a breath.

  ‘A diamond?’ said the dealer, in puzzlement. ‘That is… unthinkable. To adorn a pipe with precious stones is not unheard of, of course, but it is a wasteful practice and highly unusual. To inset a diamond and then conceal it — ah! And that is the peculiarity with the lacquer! It has a little dust in it, perhaps.’

  ‘Dust?’ said Konrad. ‘You mean, derived from diamonds?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is not easy to produce, but by a determined man it may be done. I do not, however, see why it would be in this instance. Of what possible use is it? The dust is so sparse, scarcely any extra glitter is imparted. It resembles ordinary lacquer, except by close examination.’

  Carefully, Konrad picked up the fallen diamond. It did not deserve the designation of a stone, fairly, for it was too small, and a mere jagged shard; not cut or worked. But why would it be, when its purpose was not decorative?

  The dealer may not know of any reason why a diamond might be secreted in such an object, but Konrad could think of one. He let his spirit-sight fade in, just for a moment, which was long enough to confirm his suspicion.

  The shard shone with a faint but distinct glow, pale as the moon, and oddly flickering.

  Serpents. What do you make of this?

  He felt them draw nearer, felt it in the way his neck prickled and goosebumps rose on his arms. We have seen something of this sort before, said Ootapi.

  Indeed we have, Konrad replied. Is there much remaining here?

  Little, said Eetapi. Now that the jewel is released, she will not linger long.

  The shard served as a trap, the dust as a net closing around it. Konrad felt a flicker of anger, together with a powerful curiosity. A clever scheme, bordering upon the diabolical. Just who had been responsible for this?

  He had to ignore Alexander’s enquiring looks while they remained in the shop. Only once they regained the street did he explain.

  ‘It is a manner of soul-trap. Diamonds, you see, are receptive to spirit energies; I don’t believe anybody knows why, but spirits torn asunder are terribly attracted to them. Sometimes. If they are prepared for such.’ By a ghostspeaker, typically, though some few others occasionally displayed a similar knack with the mesmerising jewels. Konrad had encountered the scheme before, when an ambitious ghostspeaker had used an
unusually enormous diamond to entrap a number of souls, both human and otherwise.

  Which was a point of interest. The size of the diamond did matter; the human soul was complex, and in order to swallow an entire… person… a diamond of some magnitude was needed.

  This tiny sliver of a gem could never manage it. But it could catch, and preserve, a few shreds, as his serpents put it.

  ‘This is why Verinka has been still floating about,’ Konrad continued. ‘Or, bits of her. She was carrying the thing around. Doing so must have somewhat attuned it to her, if it wasn’t especially handed to her for this very purpose, which is possible. Either way, when she died, some severed bits and pieces of her spirit were absorbed.’

  ‘Clever,’ Alexander agreed. ‘But why? What purpose does that serve?’

  ‘I don’t know. Was this an isolated piece? Did someone make it especially on Verinka’s account, perhaps the person who spent weeks arranging for her death? But in that case, why didn’t he or she reclaim the pipe afterwards?’

  ‘Perhaps they might have, if we hadn’t taken it. You did arrive on the scene very promptly, did you not?’

  ‘Perhaps. But. What if it wasn’t like that at all? What if there are more?’

  ‘More spirit-sucking pipes?’

  Konrad grimaced at the turn of phrase. ‘Something like that. Not necessarily pipes, either. Fake antiques with a hidden purpose.’

  ‘Again, why?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I do badly need to ask Tsevar Manin a few questions. I wonder if he was the one who gave Verinka the pipe?’

  Chapter Five

  By Konrad’s request, the obliging antiques dealer patched up the damaged pipe as best he could. At a glance, it would pass for pristine, and a glance was all Konrad expected to need.

  The hour growing advanced, however, he remembered his invitation to Nanda, and hesitated. Should he pursue Tsevar immediately, or visit with Nanda first? Professionalism demanded the former. Everything else required the latter.

  Konrad went home.