Death's Executioner

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Indeed you did. Specifically, Verinka Tarasovna. Whom you hated.’

  Mrs. Usova, damn her, had control of herself again. She smiled benignly upon Konrad, and said in a sweet way: ‘Who could have hated poor Verinka?’

  ‘That isn’t what you said earlier, either,’ said Tasha furiously.

  Konrad gave an inward sigh. Tasha had uttered the words “properly motivated”, too. What had she done to motivate so wily a woman to speak openly about her hatred, her guilt? It did not bear thinking about.

  Having temporarily bested Tasha, the dratted woman had guile enough to try to rescue herself even after so damning a tirade. And she was convincing. Konrad did not know quite how to proceed. He did not doubt Tasha’s word, for surely she would not invent such a story — and it did dovetail with a few other scant facts Konrad possessed about the case. But it wasn’t proof. Much as he would like to skewer the woman then and there and be done with the matter, he had to be certain beyond all doubt that he had the right killer.

  ‘Can she be locked up for the night?’ Konrad said to Alexander. ‘Perhaps in the morning, someone can investigate the herb. If it is widow-weed, there can be little doubt of her guilt.’

  ‘My guilt?’ snapped Mrs. Usova. ‘I have explained the herbs! What about your filthy ward, breaking into people’s houses at night and accusing them of crimes! I demand assistance!’

  The inspector pulled his pipe from a pocket, and lit it. ‘See,’ he said to Konrad. ‘This is why I didn’t give her the address.’

  ‘I stand rebuked.’

  ‘I did find her, though,’ said Tasha staunchly. ‘You have to give me credit for that.’

  ‘I do,’ said Alexander, fragrant smoke pouring from his lips. ‘Madam, if your intent was to discredit a girl you took for a jumped-up street orphan, you have badly miscalculated. Any story of Tasha’s is considered credible, and she can have no reason to lie about you.’

  ‘But she has,’ insisted the infernal woman. ‘And really, what could one expect?’

  Pitting her carefully cultivated air of respectability against Tasha’s obvious lack of it? Konrad shook his head, privately wishing Tasha a thousand miles away. Yes, she’d found their killer — probably — but with such infernal complications, he did not know how to proceed.

  ‘The weed,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. And if Balandin can be found to identify this woman as the same one he saw quarrelling with Verinka, that would help, too.’

  ‘Right,’ said Alexander.

  Mrs. Usova’s mouth dropped open. She stood frozen in indignation, or horror, or both — and then made a break for the door.

  Konrad was ready for that. He stepped smoothly to block the doorway, seeming, suddenly, taller. Darker. More menacing. She could not have said why, later, she had shrunk from an ordinary man, wearing a pleasant smile as he barred the door before her. But she saw something in him that terrified the small, primal part of her soul that knew when to run.

  Konrad made sure of it.

  ‘You’ll remain in police custody,’ he told her. ‘If you are indeed innocent, you will be released soon.’

  ‘And if not?’ she said, her wide, horrified eyes fixed upon Konrad’s face.

  Konrad had no answer to offer her. He turned away, leaving the inspector and Tasha to deal with her between them.

  Quietly, he stole up to Alexander’s office, and took up a station in his usual chair there, waiting.

  Some quarter of an hour later, the inspector returned.

  ‘Got her into a cell,’ he reported. ‘She isn’t happy.’

  ‘If she said half the things Tasha claims, I struggle to believe she is ever happy,’ Konrad replied.

  Alexander grunted. He did not sit down, hovering instead near his desk, still clutching his pipe. ‘Anything I can do for you, Savast?’

  ‘It is an ungodly hour, isn’t it? I was wondering what you were doing here at such a time.’

  Alexander fiddled with his pipe, perhaps in order to avoid meeting Konrad’s gaze. ‘I am often here late.’

  ‘I know it,’ Konrad said. ‘But there is late, and then there is four in the morning.’

  No reply came.

  ‘I am… concerned,’ Konrad persevered. ‘Why do you not go home?’

  ‘Perhaps I am simply dedicated to my job.’

  ‘There can be no doubt of that.’

  Silence.

  ‘Is there no one waiting for you at home?’ Thinking back over the course of their friendship, Konrad realised — with some shame at his obliviousness — that the inspector had never spoken of his home life. Nor of his family, if he had any.

  ‘There isn’t,’ said Alexander, more or less neutrally, but Konrad sensed that there was more.

  ‘Will you tell me?’ he said. ‘I am ready to help, if I can.’

  ‘You cannot.’ Alexander took a seat at last, and sat there with the slumped posture of a man without hope, as though half the animating life force of him had vanished with the words.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Alexander was silent for some time. Konrad would not push him again. He would speak, or he was free to hold his peace.

  Finally he said, ‘I had family.’

  Konrad, noticing the past tense, said nothing.

  ‘My wife died many years ago. And my daughter — Magriet — last year.’

  ‘She— was she—’ Konrad swallowed the word killed.

  ‘Sickness,’ said the inspector. ‘A fever. She was — about Tasha’s age.’

  Konrad was silent, putting pieces together in his mind.

  ‘Tasha appeared here a few months after Mag died,’ Alexander continued. ‘She needed a place, and I… hadn’t the heart to turn her away.’

  ‘I did wonder about that.’

  ‘Well.’ Alexander finished cleaning his pipe, and put it back in his pocket. ‘The house is so empty, I… prefer it here.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Konrad said. ‘For the loss. I can’t imagine…’

  Alexander looked up at last. ‘Never had children?’

  ‘No.’

  He smiled faintly, a pained smile, and said nothing else.

  Konrad struggled for something else to say, something that might express the way his heart hurt for the inspector’s pain. But he came up with nothing. No mere syllables could ever make any difference to him.

  But there was one thing he could do.

  ‘It’s still early,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come back for breakfast with me? Mrs. Aristova says you’re her favourite guest.’

  That brought a spark of amusement to the inspector’s eyes. ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘Because you’re so appreciative. Always a clean plate, she says, and always a kind word sent down to the kitchen.’

  ‘Konrad. You aren’t trying to set me up with your cook, are you? I’m sure she is a lovely woman, but—’

  ‘No, no,’ Konrad said hastily. ‘Just with her fresh-baked bread, her excellent coffee, those perfect eggs she does, perhaps a bit of that smoked fish you like…’

  ‘Now you sound like Nanda. Trying to mend me with food.’

  ‘Not with food,’ Konrad said, rising from his chair. ‘Maybe with company.’

  Alexander thought this over, and eventually stood up. He moved slowly, heavy with weariness and grief and lack of sleep. Watching the play of exhaustion and pain across his face, Konrad chided himself for his inattention. The inspector had been grieving for months, and he hadn’t known. Yes, he was a private man; he hadn’t chosen to confide in Konrad about his life, for reasons of his own. But Konrad ought to have seen. Something.

  ‘If there’s going to be smoked fish,’ said Alexander, ‘I daresay Mrs. Aristova could persuade me to a bite.’

  ‘Right.’ Konrad donned his hat again, and collected his cane. ‘Breakfast’s this way.’

  Chapter Nine

  Strange, to set off for “work” at a reasonable hour later that day, his destination the police house. Especially considering the nature of the wo
rk that awaited him there.

  The inspector had departed an hour or two before, having disposed of a hearty portion of smoked fish and a variety of other delectables. He had not spoken again of his family, or his home, and Konrad had not asked. The silence had been a companionable one, though, and by the time Alexander departed the house again, well fed if not well rested, it seemed to Konrad that he was in a better frame of mind.

  So was Konrad, at least until he was called upon to set off after Mrs. Usova. The woman bothered him, in some obscure way. He had taken an instant dislike to her, and for reasons he could not decipher. It was not, he thought, because she was almost certainly a murderer, though that was more than cause enough. Her affectations offended him, her deceit, her spite, her comfortable conviction that she could say anything and be believed.

  What had Tasha done, to win (if it could be termed a victory) some part of her true thoughts and deeds regarding Verinka Tarasovna? Needled her into it? That was likely. The girl could goad a rock into losing its temper, if she so chose.

  But she was lamaeni, too. Perhaps she’d done a lot worse.

  Konrad could not feel that he much cared.

  Alexander was not in his office when Konrad arrived, but a note lay waiting on his desk, inscribed with a large “KS” in black ink. Konrad opened it.

  Called away, but go ahead. Karyavin found the jar you mentioned. It’s widow weed. And some of the neighbours vouch for some part of Tasha’s story. Seems Mrs. Usova has let fall some malicious remarks about Verinka before. - AN

  It was thin, Konrad acknowledged to himself. Possession of a jar of widow weed did not absolutely prove that the woman had used it, though its presence in her house was highly suspicious, and he did not buy her explanation at all. Perhaps he just struggled to believe that anybody could commit murder with so flimsy a motive. Had anybody malice enough to slowly poison a fellow human being to death, just because she took exception to the woman’s attitude, or style of living, or connections? Or over envy, at perceived admiration or advantages that did not seem deserved?

  Apparently. Given his line of work, he ought not to be surprised by the depths of depravity to which humankind could sometimes fall. Particularly when the fragile balance of sanity slipped.

  ‘Mrs. Usova,’ he said a few minutes later, having, with the use of the key the inspector had left him, let himself into her cell. She’d been put well below, in a cell a little separate from the rest. That lying tongue of hers had prompted Alexander to keep her apart from other prisoners, perhaps, though the entire floor proved to be deserted except for her.

  That was… convenient. Thoughtful of the inspector, Konrad mused; he had ample peace and quiet within which to work.

  He had with him the bone he had harvested from Verinka’s torso.

  ‘You are no policeman,’ she said, with an attempt at her former cajoling manner. But sleeplessness and fear had worn away some of her powers to dissemble, and her voice shook. She darted a look at the door as Konrad closed it, but did not attempt to escape. ‘Have you come to help me?’

  Konrad ignored the sweet smile which accompanied these words. ‘You can hardly suppose it likely,’ he said. ‘You should know that the inspector has found your jar of poison, and confirmed its contents as widow weed. The same herb used to kill Verinka Tarasovna. Is that a coincidence, madam?’

  ‘It— of course it is. One of her gentleman did it, or—’ She had no other theories to advance, for she fell silent.

  ‘I did favour the brother, myself. His motive still strikes me as sounder than yours. But the signs all point to you. You were witnessed fighting with Verinka, outside her house. Some of your neighbours have confirmed that you felt a great deal of resentment towards her, and had frequently expressed your disapprobation of her conduct. It seems a poor reason to kill someone, but then I have rarely heard of a good one.’

  ‘They are liars,’ she said, smiling, but Konrad could see that she was sweating, and a desperate gleam had come into her eyes. ‘They have always disliked me — all of them.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Konrad politely. ‘But how could anyone dislike so kindly a soul as yourself?’

  Her smile fell away. She had run out of lies to tell, or she simply saw the implacability in Konrad; he’d taken no trouble to hide it. She stood up from the bare bench upon which she’d been sitting, and advanced towards him, hands clasped, her expression pleading. ‘You must see how it was, sir. She— she hated me, she would have harmed me if I had not done something—’

  ‘But that is not true either, is it?’ Konrad said coldly. ‘You told the truth to our ward, madam, late last night. Why deny it now?’

  ‘That— that rat,’ spat Mrs. Usova, anger darkening her face. ‘She goaded me, taunted me, threw insults and accusations — slapped me! Me!’

  That sounded like Tasha. Not exactly police approved methods, but then his weren’t either. ‘And when you realised what you’d said, you set out on this absurd masquerade to discredit any tale she might carry to the police. Yes?’

  ‘I tried to kill her,’ snarled Mrs. Usova. ‘I thought I had. But she— laughed at me.’

  ‘Tasha’s close to unkillable,’ Konrad agreed, unwrapping Verinka’s bone. Cleaned, sharpened, it shone dully white.

  Verinka’s killer took a step back. ‘Wh-what is to be done with me?’

  ‘The usual fate of murderers, madam,’ said Konrad. It did not feel right, to conduct such business down here, inside a locked cell. He was used to a fevered chase through the night, the triumphant apprehension of a fleeing killer, and the inevitable end to the hunt. Or laying a trap, into which a murderer walked through their own greed or arrogance or destructiveness. This felt… cold. Clinical.

  But she had built this trap herself, and pure arrogance had taken her there. Arrogance, malice, envy, and perhaps an inability to grasp certain facts of reality. She lived in her own world, a place where all those about her were villains and deserving of the worst punishments. A world where she alone was righteous and justified.

  A world where everyone was a fool, to be taken in by her superior cleverness.

  Another stain upon the world, in short. She deserved the torments her victim and The Malykt would visit upon her in the beyond.

  Konrad ceased his dithering, and got to work.

  ‘Verinka is waiting,’ he said, and struck.

  Chapter Ten

  When you are ready, Konrad had written in his note to Nanda, I await you.

  He did not need to specify where; she would remember. He bade his coachman drive him to the city gate, and from there he made the rest of the journey on foot. No gentleman’s attire today, to his relief. For a venture into the enchanting dangers of the Bone Forest, he wore the simplest of garb: stout boots, a waxed great-coat, layers against the cold. Always he donned these with relief, for thus attired he felt like himself again.

  Whoever that was.

  Nanda laughed at his hut. It did make a comical sight in some respects, hiked up on its leggy stilts above the treacherously ice-wreathed swamp-water beneath. The hut itself looked overlarge, perched up there, its weather-darkened wooden slats extending a fraction too far on either side. However ungainly it looked, however, it was stout and stable. However much it might shake and rattle and sway in winter’s winds, it had never betrayed Konrad yet, and stood firm against every attempt to dislodge it.

  Konrad strode through the thin, pale Bone-trees with a confidence and an ease he rarely felt in the city. Here was his element, out here in the wilds. Nobody to expect anything of him, save that he mind his own business, and leave others to theirs. No masquerade to maintain, no horrific duties to perform, no — he shuddered — social events to attend. Or worse yet, host.

  The cold, though. As he swung himself up the ladder and through the trapdoor into the belly of his hut, he had in justice to reflect that his fireplaces at Bakar House were worth a fair degree of torment. The wind sliced mercilessly through his wool and waxed layers, and while the onslau
ght largely ceased once he shut the trapdoor behind him, a persistent, icy draught swirled around the room.

  Hopeless, expecting to light a fire in here. He’d burn the place down. Instead, he sat on his makeshift rushes-and-cloth bed, wrapped every blanket he owned around himself, and waited for Nanda.

  He had plenty of time to reflect as he sat there alone, for she did not come for some hours. He’d thought to bring food, thankfully, a quantity of pies and preserved fruit; this he devoured, saving one or two of the choicest morsels for Nanda.

  What could she be preparing to tell him? He’d spent countless hours ruminating on the topic of her mysterious illness, ever since news of it had first reached him. Not from Nanda. From a former case. A killer with unusual senses. He’d known, somehow, that Nan was ill, and had told Konrad only to spite her.

  Nanda hadn’t denied it. But though Konrad had watched her closely since then, he had detected few signs of deterioration. Yes, she was less energetic than once she had been. She tired more easily, and sometimes she wore such a wreath of shadows around her eyes as to elicit all of Konrad’s worst fears.

  But nothing more. Nothing, save the hints her bedroom had offered: restless, tormented nights.

  What happened when Nanda slept?

  No answer came to his mind, only purposeless, absurd speculation. He got up a few times, and strode about the hut, walking the cold and the stiffness out of his legs. When the thin afternoon sunlight began to falter, and dusk gathered itself to descend, he knew a moment’s fear.

  What if she did not come?

  He was halfway to the trapdoor, hardly knowing why; would he hurtle down it again, run all the way back to Ekamet, and invade Nanda’s house? But to wait grew intolerable. To sit, heart pounding with a growing fear, head full of tormenting ideas, and with no power of action; he could bear it no longer.

  The trapdoor flew open, hurled with some energy — or irritation — by someone below.

  Nanda’s head appeared moments later.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ she said, eyeing him. She had a lantern, judging from the shivering streaks of light splashing into the gathering darkness.