Death's Executioner

by Charlotte E. English

  If not, well, there was still the lunch-club tomorrow, where he would at last encounter his quarry. And he might have an opportunity to investigate the waiters, too, while he was at it. If they wouldn’t talk to the inspector’s men, he would just have to terrorise them a bit, and see what happened.

  Such ruthless plans being evidence enough of his being thoroughly out of humour, he prescribed himself a hearty dinner and a large glass of brandy, to be taken forthwith. Perhaps even two glasses. He stepped down from his carriage at his own front door, heartened by these reflections, but before he had taken two steps, Ootapi shattered his peace with a single word, uttered like the crack of a whip.

  Master!

  Yes?

  He is in there.

  Konrad stopped in the street, to the irritation of a passing woman, who almost collided with him. In there? In my house? Who?

  The one you seek. Ootapi seemed pleased.

  Konrad was not. Kristov Balandin is in my house? Are you certain?

  Ootapi did not precisely answer. Konrad experienced the serpent’s degree of certainty by way of a wash of sensation: predominantly, dithering.

  ‘Well,’ Konrad said aloud. ‘Let’s find out.’ He strode up to the door and let himself in without hesitation, determined not to be cowed by this unlikely and unpromising development.

  Gorev stood in the hall.

  ‘You have a visitor, sir,’ said he gravely. ‘I have put him in the library.’

  Which said much. A better class of guest — or one who was at least expected — would be shown into the best parlour, or even the drawing-room. No one was ever abandoned in the library. ‘His name?’ said Konrad.

  ‘Balandin, sir.’

  Konrad paused a moment. How could it be, that the man he had spent the afternoon chasing all over the city had beaten him home? A stranger, too, who could have such reason to seek Konrad as Konrad had to seek him? His skin crawled with misgiving. Something was not right.

  Well, nothing would be resolved by hovering in his hallway. ‘Thank you, Gorev,’ said Konrad to his butler, permitting himself to be divested of his hat, cane and coat. ‘Have you sent in refreshments?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘We should at least feed the fellow, should we not? Have Mrs. Aristova send up a few things, if you please.’

  ‘Not the delectables, sir?’ Gorev seemed mildly appalled.

  ‘Yes, why not? Let us not be accused of lacking in hospitality.’

  Gorev bowed stiffly, and withdrew, leaving Konrad to wonder just what manner of person awaited him in his library. Gorev was not usually such a high stickler.

  He braced himself for some unknowable trouble, and walked quickly into the library.

  His guest had not chosen to take a seat. Whether that was because he had only just arrived, or whether because he scorned to lounge at his ease in Konrad’s house, there was no saying. He ignored the hundreds of cloth-bound books packed into the carved bookcases and stood instead at a far window, staring out at the drifting snowfall, his hands clasped behind his back. Gorev had at least ordered a fire to be lit, and the wall-sconces; a pleasant glow filled the room, affording Konrad more than sufficient light by which to scrutinise his guest.

  Kristov Balandin was a big, big man: that was the first impression Konrad received. Taller than Konrad by half a head, at least, and broad; his bulky shoulders strained at the seams of his coat. Intimidating. Not at all what one expected in a man of business. Little could be determined about that coat save that it bore a suitably dark hue, and was well-cut. Probably not the height of fashion, but respectable. He had a thick head of hair, black but going to grey, and rather unkempt.

  ‘Mr. Balandin, I understand?’ said Konrad, when the man did not turn around. Had he not heard Konrad come in?

  ‘Aye,’ said Balandin in a low growl, still without moving. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Savast.’

  ‘Are you? But you haven’t, precisely, so I must ask what you are doing in my library.’

  ‘I would have preferred a decent parlour myself,’ said Balandin, turning about at last. ‘Your butler had other ideas.’

  ‘I’m afraid you did not present a very promising appearance,’ said Konrad, and found himself surveyed with the same keen curiosity with which he was examining Balandin. The man had the weathered face of one given to striding about outdoors a great deal, and could not be below forty-five or so years of age. He stood with proud posture and even a faint air of menace; some very tall men sought to mitigate the effects with a slight stoop, but Mr. Balandin clearly took pleasure in looming over all those around him. Especially Konrad, perhaps. His narrowed eyes were steely in expression.

  ‘Not fine enough for your servants, am I?’ said Balandin. ‘I don’t see what is wrong with my appearance.’

  Nor did Konrad, in truth, for nothing in his attire seemed amiss. But his manner — nothing about that spoke of the gentleman. He gave off the appearance of a thug dressed up in fine clothes.

  ‘It is not your garments,’ said Konrad, advancing into the room. ‘It is your obvious intent to present a threatening appearance. Why exactly am I to have the pleasure of your company this evening? I don’t believe you have yet explained that.’

  ‘You’ve been asking for me all over town.’

  Konrad’s eyes narrowed. ‘So I have. How did you come to know of it?’

  ‘And you have spies on me at this very moment.’ Balandin cast a scornful glance towards the ceiling, where the serpents hovered. Incorporeal. Invisible. Supposedly.

  ‘They are not here to spy on you. They are here to attend me.’

  ‘And what an ordinary toff wants with a pair of bonded spirit-slaves is beyond me.’

  ‘They are not slaves,’ Konrad grated. If the man had the power to charm the likes of Verinka, he had yet to see any sign of it. ‘And I might ask how an ordinary man of business has any idea of their presence. Are you a ghostspeaker, sir?’

  ‘No. Only a man with eyes to see.’

  ‘Like your rival, Tsevar Tarasovich Manin,’ said Konrad. ‘And, I begin to imagine, his sister.’

  Balandin inclined his head. ‘You’ve been seen with a police inspector,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘I am friends with a Mr. Nuritov, yes.’

  ‘You appear unusually hand-in-glove with the police, sir, if you are doing their work for them.’

  ‘I do my own work.’

  ‘Oh? And what is that work?’

  Konrad did not know how to answer. The silence stretched a fraction too long, and Balandin gave a bitter, mocking smile.

  ‘Just why would an idle gentleman such as yourself do investigative work? There are other pursuits, better suited to a bored toff.’

  ‘That’s twice you’ve called me a toff, and you appear to be casting aspersions upon my motives—’ Konrad broke off, interrupted, perhaps fortunately, before he could work himself into a rage, by the arrival of a maid with a tray. Mrs. Aristova, he saw, had obeyed his directions and sent up her best: a delicate array of pastries and cakes, each one exquisite, occupied a tiered porcelain stand.

  Balandin’s only reaction to the delicacies was a sneer. That, or he took exception to their being delivered upon a silver tray, courtesy of a paid servant.

  Konrad, tiring of Balandin’s attitude, and content for the moment that he stood in no immediate physical danger, threw himself into a chair by the fire and gestured to the one opposite. ‘We can continue to bristle at each other from opposite sides of the room, or we may finish this conversation in something resembling comfort.’

  His guest looked disconcerted, his mouth opening and closing again in silence. With that stature and the demeanour to match, he was doubtless used to cowing people into deference.

  After a moment, he consented to come away from the window and install himself in the proffered chair, though he continued to disdain Mrs. Aristova’s work.

  Konrad didn’t. He was starving, and if this irritating brute of a man pr
oposed to keep him from his dinner then he would take what he could get. Four of them, in fact.

  He was halfway through the second buttery something, aware the while of Balandin’s scrutiny, before his guest spoke again.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Balandin, and this time at least he sounded more confused than angered.

  ‘Konrad Savast,’ said Konrad, swallowing a mouthful. ‘Not quite so idle toff of Ekamet. I had the misfortune to discover the body of Verinka Tarasovna this week.’

  Perhaps the man would conclude that to be reason enough for Konrad’s interest in the case and he need answer no further probing questions.

  Alas, no.

  ‘This is not the first case in which you’ve taken an interest,’ said Balandin.

  Konrad irritably flicked pastry crumbs off his waistcoat. ‘You’ve been very curious.’

  ‘If you may ask questions about me, I may do the same about you.’

  ‘I suppose that’s fair. Why exactly did you come here? If we could establish what you were hoping to get out of the visit, we may be able to draw this interview to a close a little sooner.’

  ‘I came to tell you,’ growled Balandin, ‘that you are wasting your time. It is of no use investigating me for the murder of my beloved Verinka. I did not kill her.’

  ‘Was she your beloved?’ said Konrad. ‘It is convenient that she happened to be the sister of your nearest rival.’

  Balandin snorted. ‘Manin is a paranoid fool. He is successful, I grant you, but he is not my nearest rival and I had little interest in his doings beyond what was public knowledge.’

  ‘So he was wrong to think that Verinka was spying on him at your behest?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, she was spying on him, but not because I asked her to. She thought she could please me by bringing me information — all of it useless, I’m afraid. No doubt she, like you, was influenced by his absurd ideas. He would make an enemy of me, but I had no interest in him.’

  Konrad said nothing.

  ‘Even if I had,’ added Balandin. ‘Why would I kill Verinka? What could that possibly have accomplished?

  Since Konrad had asked himself the same question, he had no retort to offer. ‘The pipe Verinka had with her,’ he said instead. ‘Do you chance to know anything of it?’

  ‘A graceless filigree thing? If it is the one she tried to give to me, then I know of it. I bade her return it to her brother.’

  Konrad looked at him, nonplussed. It was hard to doubt him; what reason could he have for lying? His possible espionage via Verinka did not seem to have any bearing on the case. If anyone had killed her over it, it would far more likely have been Tsevar.

  Perhaps it had nothing to do with her death at all.

  ‘Did you know that she was ill?’ he said, his thoughts taking an abrupt swerve in direction.

  Balandin’s brows rose. ‘Of course I knew. I saw much of her. I took her to the best doctors. No one could help her — but no one imagined her to be in such danger, either.’

  ‘You speak of her death with remarkable composure,’ Konrad noted.

  ‘Whatever my feelings are, I need not make a theatre-display of them.’

  ‘You had no reason, then, to think that she was being poisoned?’

  ‘How could I?’

  A fair question. Konrad took another pastry, and sat munching upon it in glowering discontent. The case positively refused to afford him a break. He wanted to believe that this brute of a man was guilty. Because he looked like he could be, as though that had ever meant anything. Because he was rude and boorish and had irritated Konrad. Because then the case would be over and he could get back to Nanda.

  In truth, though, he had no good reasons to suspect him whatsoever.

  ‘Right,’ said Konrad. ‘Setting aside for now my right, or lack thereof, to ask questions. Will you tell me one thing?’

  ‘If it will get you off my back.’

  ‘You seem to have known Verinka very well. Do you know of anybody who might have wanted to harm her? Anybody she quarrelled with?’

  ‘She hated Tsevar,’ said Balandin.

  Konrad blinked. ‘Tsevar claims they were close, at least until recently.’

  The bitter smile returned. ‘Until I got hold of her, you mean? Yes, so he has said to me. Actually, he is a blind fool. Verinka always despised him. He thought of nothing but money, she said, and patronised her daily. They were never close. He could have done it.’

  Konrad felt like hurling something at… something. Pure frustration. Why did he have to care about the convoluted rivalries and affections between these three? None of their accounts matched up with one another. If Verinka had always hated her brother, she certainly hadn’t behaved like it. How could Tsevar genuinely believe they’d been close if she had? Then again, why would she imagine her brother capable of her murder if she hadn’t despised him?

  Had she just said those things to Balandin because it was what he wanted to hear? He’d said she was a pleaser.

  Konrad did not care who loved or hated whom. He did not care whether Balandin was a canny sneak, using Verinka for her connections, or a man in love; he did not care whether those two wretched siblings had adored or hated one another. He didn’t care.

  He thought back to Tasha’s questions. Do you like being a detective? Whether he did or no, he wasn’t a very good one. Not if he couldn’t take the right kind of interest in these kinds of details.

  ‘Anyone else Verinka fought with?’ he forced himself to say. ‘Or was it love and peace with all the rest of the world?’

  Balandin shrugged. ‘Not that I— wait, though. One day when I arrived to collect her, she was having some kind of quarrel with a woman who’d stopped in front of her house. She seemed very angry.’

  ‘What was the fight about?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say.’

  ‘All right. Describe this woman.’

  ‘Will you take this information to the police, and stop hounding me?’

  ‘That will be up to the police.’

  ‘I asked if you will stop hounding me.’

  He wasn’t angry again, precisely, but some kind of peculiar emphasis lay behind the words. Konrad looked long at him, and saw a shadow of something behind his eyes. Fear perhaps.

  And that put the fear into Konrad, too, for why would a man like this fear a mere Konrad Savast, unless he had asked himself why such a man might chase all over town in search of a killer, and come up with an answer uncomfortably close to the truth?

  ‘I am just assisting the police,’ said Konrad evenly. ‘The inspector makes all the decisions.’

  Balandin shook his head, showing some of the same frustration Konrad felt. ‘As you will. The woman was stout, older than Verinka. Same colouring as half the city. Nothing much out of the way about her.’

  ‘And you have no idea how Verinka knew her?’

  ‘No. Verinka would not speak of her.’

  Konrad, recognising the moment when the interview must draw to a close, waved a hand in irritation. ‘I should find another hobby,’ he muttered.

  Balandin regarded him with a curious tilt to his head. ‘Is this how you spend much of your time?’

  ‘Assisting the police, or eating pastries by the fire?’

  ‘The latter,’ said Balandin.

  ‘Yes,’ Konrad said, it being, after all, the truth. At least since Nanda had become a regular part of his life.

  ‘No bad thing, independent wealth.’

  That, thought Konrad sourly, depended on how you came by it. And he’d done worse things with his time. Far worse. ‘I cannot promise that I won’t have more questions,’ he warned. ‘Or the inspector might.’

  Balandin rose to his feet. ‘That’s as maybe. But you’d better have a good reason, Mr. Savast. If you keep asking questions about me, I’d have to keep asking questions about you.’

  On which happy note, he left. Konrad did not trouble himself to get up, or show his unwanted guest out. Balandin was a clever man; he could find his own w
ay to the front door.

  The interview left him feeling, above everything else, tired. Exhausted. Wearied to the core of his bones with the whole mess of it all.

  That was the drawback to developing something like a life, he thought sourly. He’d developed the power of contrast, and a divided personality with it. The Konrad who gloried in quiet nights by the fire with his favourite people around him couldn’t help but detest the other Konrad. The one who had to get up at the eerie hours of the morning and go chasing after miscreants with a sharpened bone in hand. The one who had to spend his afternoons haring all over the city, asking stupid questions of people who didn’t want to talk to him and probably hadn’t committed a crime anyway.

  Grumpy, Master, chided Eetapi, floating down from the ceiling and draping herself around his neck.

  ‘It is my very favourite mood.’

  Yes, but how tiresome you are when you’re in it.

  He needed Nanda to jolly him out of it. Or mock him out of it, that usually worked as well. But she had enough troubles of her own, and a real friend would not needlessly burden her with his trials as well.

  Stifling a sigh, he hauled himself out of his chair with two errands in mind. One: send a note to the inspector. They sought an unnamed woman of unknowable abode, stout and middle-aged and looking like half the rest of the women in the city. Good luck with that.

  Two: finally get his dinner, if his cook hadn’t given up on him altogether. Perhaps his mood had soured because he was half starved. That was often Nanda’s theory, anyway. Perhaps that was why she was always pressing food on him: she found him a tiresome grump, too.

  Meat, Master, recommended Eetapi. And lots of it.

  Konrad exited his library, with the intention of applying himself to just that.

  At one of the aforementioned eerie hours of the following morning — approximately three o’clock, to be exact — Konrad was roused from a mildly drunken slumber by the freezing wind to outdo all other freezing winds. The bone-chilling current drifting suddenly through his room brought him awake with a start, greeting him with the sensation of having been entombed in ice.