Hawk & Fisher

by Simon R. Green

  "You know," said Hawk, "we can't even be sure that Blackstone was the intended victim. Maybe he just saw someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had to die because he was a witness. The killer might still be waiting for his chance at the real victim."

  "Don't," said Fisher piteously. "Isn't the case complicated enough as it is?"

  "Sorry," said Hawk. "Just thinking…"

  "Have you had any more ideas on who the killer might be?"

  "Nothing new. Bowman and Katherine Blackstone have to be the most obvious choices; they had the most to gain. But I keep coming back to how the murder was committed. There's something about that locked room that worries me. I can't quite figure out what it is, but something keeps nagging at me… Ah, well, no doubt it'll come to me eventually."

  "My head's starting to ache again," said Fisher. "I'm no good at problems. Never have been. You know. Hawk, what gets me is the casual way it was done. I mean, one minute we're all standing around in here, knocking back the fruit cordial and chatting away nineteen to the dozen, and the next minute everyone goes off to change and Blackstone is killed. If the killer was one of the people in this room, he must have cast-iron nerves."

  "Right," said Hawk.

  They sat together a while, listening to the quiet. The house creaked and groaned around them, settling itself as old houses will. The air was still and hot and heavy. Hawk dropped one hand onto the shaft of his axe, where it stood leaning against the side of his chair. There were too many things about this case he didn't like, too many things that didn't add up. And he had a strong feeling that the night still had a few more surprises up its sleeve.

  Time passed, and silence spread through the old house. Everyone was either asleep or sitting quietly in their rooms, waiting for the morning. The hall and the landing were empty, and the shadows lay undisturbed. A door eased silently open, and Edward Bowman looked out onto the landing. A single oil lamp glowed dully halfway down the right-hand wall, shedding a soft orange light over the landing. There was no one else about, and Bowman relaxed a little. Not that it mattered if anyone did see him. He could always claim he was going to the bathroom, but why complicate matters? Besides, he didn't want to do anything that might draw the attention of the Guards. He stepped out onto the landing and closed his bedroom door quietly behind him. He waited a moment, listening, and then padded down the landing to Katherine's room. He tried the door handle, but the door was locked. He looked quickly up and down the landing, and tapped quietly on the door. The sound seemed very loud on the silence. There was a long pause, and then he heard a key turning in the lock. The door eased open, and Bowman darted into the room. The door shut quietly behind him.

  Katherine clung desperately to Bowman, holding him so tightly he could hardly breathe. She burrowed her face into his neck, as though trying to hide from the events of the day. He murmured soothingly to her, and after a while she quietened and relaxed her grip a little. He smiled slightly.

  "Glad to see me, Kath?"

  She lifted her face to his and kissed him hungrily. "I was so afraid you wouldn't come to me tonight. I need you, Edward. I need you now more than ever."

  "It's all right, Kath. I'm here now."

  "But if we're caught together…"

  "We won't be," said Edward quickly. "Not as long as we're careful."

  Katherine finally let go of him, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Careful. I hate that word. We're always having to be careful, having to think twice about everything we do, everything we say. How much longer, Edward? How much longer before we can be together openly? I want you, my love; I want you with me always, in my arms, in my bed!"

  "We won't have to keep up the pretence much longer," said Edward. "Just for a while, till things have quietened down. All we have to do is be patient for a little while…"

  "I'm sick of being patient!"

  Edward gestured sharply at the wall. Katherine nodded reluctantly, and lowered her voice before speaking again. It wouldn't do to be overheard, and there was no telling how thin the walls were.

  "Edward, did the Guards say anything to you about who they think killed William?"

  "Not really, but they'd be fools if they didn't see us as the main suspects. There's always been some gossip about us, and we both stood to gain by his death. We could have killed him…"

  "In a way, perhaps we did."

  "What?" Edward looked at her sharply. "Katherine, you didn't…"

  "William committed suicide," said Katherine. "I… told him about us."

  "You did what?"

  "I had to! I couldn't go on like this, living a lie. I told him I was still fond of him, and always would be, but that I loved you and wanted to marry you. I said I'd do it any way he wanted, any way that would protect his political career, but that whatever happened I was determined on a divorce. To begin with he refused to listen, and then… then he told me he loved me, and would never give me up. I said I'd walk out on him if I had to, and he said that if I did, he would kill himself."

  "Dear God…" breathed Bowman. "And you think William…"

  "Yes," said Katherine. "I think he killed himself. I think he died because of us."

  "Have you told anyone else about this?"

  "Of course not! But that's not all, Edward, I…"

  She broke off suddenly and looked at the door. Out on the landing someone was walking past the door. Katherine rose quickly to her feet and held Edward's arm. They both stood very still, listening. The sound came again—soft, hesitant footsteps that died quickly away as they retreated down the landing. Bowman frowned. There was something strange about the footsteps… Katherine started to say something, and Bowman hushed her with a finger to his lips. They listened carefully for a while, but the footsteps seemed to be gone.

  "Did anyone see you come in here?" said Katherine quietly.

  "I don't think so," said Bowman. "I was very careful. It could have been one of the Guards, just doing the rounds to make sure everything's secure. It could have been someone going to the bathroom. Whoever it was, they're gone now. I'd better get back to my room."

  "Edward…"

  "I can't stay, Kath. Not tonight, not here. It's too much of a risk. I'll see you again, in the morning."

  "Yes. In the morning." Katherine kissed him goodbye, and then moved away to ease the door open a crack. The landing was completely deserted. Katherine opened the door wide, and Bowman slipped silently out onto the landing. She shut the door quietly behind him, and Bowman waited a moment while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He started along the landing towards his own room, and then stopped as he heard a faint scuffing sound behind him. He spun round, but there was no one there. The landing stretched away before him, open and empty, until it disappeared in the shadows at the top of the stairs. And then the smell came to him—a sharp, musky smell that raised the hackles on the back of his neck. Bowman reached into the top of his boot and drew out a long slender dagger. The cool metal hilt felt good in his hand. He was in danger; he could feel it. Bowman smiled grimly. If all this was supposed to frighten him, his enemy was in for an unpleasant surprise. He'd never backed away from a duel in his life, and he'd never lost one. He wondered if this was William's killer after all. He hoped so; he would enjoy avenging William's death. He might not always have liked the man, but he'd always admired him. Bowman stepped forward, dagger in hand, and something awful came flying out of the shadows at the top of the stairs. Bowman had time to scream once, and then there was only the pain and the blood, and the snarls of his attacker.

  Hawk sat bolt upright in his chair as a scream rang out on the landing and then was cut suddenly short. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his axe and ran out of the parlor, followed closely by Fisher with her sword in her hand. They ran down the hall and pounded up the stairs together. The first scream had been a man's scream, but now a woman was screaming, on and on. Hawk drove himself harder, taking the stairs two at a time. He burst out onto the landing and skidded to a halt as he looked aro
und him for a target. Edward Bowman lay twisted on the floor, his eyes wide and staring. His clothes were splashed with blood, and more had soaked into the carpet around him. His throat had been torn out. Katherine Blackstone stood over the body, screaming and screaming, her hands pressed to her face in horror. Fisher took her by the shoulders and turned her gently away from the body. Katherine resisted at first, and then all the strength went out of her. She stopped screaming and stood in silence, her hands at her sides, staring blindly at the wall as tears ran unheeded down her cheeks. The other guests were spilling out of their doors in various stages of undress, all of them demanding to know what had happened. Hawk knelt beside the body. There was a dagger on the carpet, not far from Bowman's hand, but there was no blood on the blade. The attack must have happened so quickly that Bowman never even had a chance to defend himself. Hawk looked closely at Bowman's throat, and swore softly. The killer hadn't been as neat with Bowman as he had with Blackstone. Hawk sat back on his haunches and scowled thoughtfully at the body.

  There were footsteps on the stairs behind him. He straightened up quickly and turned, axe in hand, to find Gaunt almost on top of him. He was wearing only a dressing gown, and looked flushed and out of breath.

  "What is it?" he rasped, staring past Hawk. "What's happened?"

  "Bowman's dead," said Hawk. "Murdered." He looked quickly around to see if anyone was missing, but all the guests were there, kept at a respectable distance from the body by Fisher's leveled sword. Dorimant was the nearest, with the witch Visage at his side. Their faces were white with shock. Lord and Lady Hightower stood in the doorway, halfway down the landing, both in their nightclothes. Lord Roderik was holding his wife protectively close to him. Stalker stood in the middle of the landing, his face set and grim, wearing only his trousers and boots but holding a sword in his hand. Hawk looked carefully at the sword, but there was no blood on the blade. He looked again at Stalker, taking in the dozens of old scars that crisscrossed the huge muscular frame, and then looked away, wincing mentally.

  "All right," said Hawk harshly. "Everyone downstairs. I can't work with all of you cluttering up the place. Stay in a group, and don't go off on your own for any reason. Don't argue, just move! You can wait in the parlor. You'll be all right; there's safety in numbers. Gaunt, you stay behind a minute."

  Hawk waited impatiently as the guests filed past him, keeping well clear of the body. Lord and Lady Hightower helped Katherine down the stairs. Her tears had stopped, but her face was blank and empty from shock. Hawk stopped Stalker as he passed.

  "I'll have to take your sword, sir Stalker."

  Stalker looked at Hawk steadily, and his eyes were very cold. Fisher stepped forward, and lifted her blade a fraction. Stalker looked at her, and smiled slightly. He turned back to Hawk and handed him his sword, hilt first.

  "Of course, Captain Hawk. There are tests you'll want to run."

  "Thank you, sir warrior," said Hawk, sliding the sword through his belt. "The sword will be returned to you as soon as possible."

  "That's all right," said Stalker. "I have others."

  He followed the other guests down the stairs and into the parlor. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and relaxed a little.

  "For a minute there," said Hawk, "I wondered…"

  "Yeah," said Fisher. "So did I."

  Hawk turned to Gaunt, who was kneeling by the body. "Careful, sir sorcerer. We don't want to destroy any evidence, do we?"

  Gaunt nodded, and rose to his feet. "His throat's been torn out. There's no telling what the murder weapon was; the wound's a mess."

  "That can wait for the moment," said Hawk. "Is your isolation spell still holding?"

  "Yes. I'd have known immediately if it had been breached. There can't be any more doubt; the killer has to be one of us."

  "All right," said Hawk. "Go on down and wait with the others. And you'd better take a look at Katherine Blackstone. She's in shock. And coming so soon after the last shock to her system…"

  "Of course," said Gaunt. He nodded quickly to Hawk and Fisher, then made his way back down the stairs. Hawk and Fisher looked thoughtfully at the body.

  "We can't afford to wait till the experts get here in the morning," said Fisher. "We've got to find the killer ourselves."

  "Right," said Hawk. "If we don't, there might not be anybody left come the morning."

  Chapter Five

  BLOOD In THE NIGHT

  "Well, first things first," said Hawk. "Let's check the body."

  He and Fisher put away their weapons, knelt down beside Bowman, and studied the dead man carefully. Bowman's throat had been torn apart. Hawk frowned grimly as he examined the wounds.

  "This wasn't done with a sword," he said slowly. "The edges of the wounds are ragged and uneven. It could have been a knife with a jagged edge… See how it's ripped through the skin? What a mess. If I didn't know better, I'd swear Bowman had been attacked by some kind of animal."

  "Right," said Fisher. "Take a look at his chest and arms."

  There were long bloody rents in Bowman's shirtfront. Similar cuts showed on both his forearms, as though he'd held them up to try and protect his throat.

  "Strange, that," said Hawk, indicating the torn and bloody arms. "If he had time to raise his arms, he should have had time to use his dagger. But there isn't a drop of blood on the blade."

  "Maybe he dropped it in the struggle," said Fisher. "It must have all happened pretty fast. Bowman never stood a chance. Poor bastard." She sank back on her haunches and stared unhappily at the body. "You know, Hawk, I wouldn't feel so bad if I hadn't disliked Bowman so much. There were times when I could quite happily have run the arrogant bastard through myself. I was so sure he was the murderer…"

  "I know what you mean," said Hawk. "I'd almost convinced myself he was the killer. It all made sense. He had both the motive and the opportunity… and I didn't like him either." He shook his head tiredly. "Well, we can't apologize to him now, lass. But maybe we can bring his killer to justice. So, with Bowman gone, who's the main suspect now?"

  Fisher rubbed her jaw thoughtfully. "Katherine? She was first on the scene at both the murders."

  "I don't think so," said Hawk. "A knife in the chest is one thing, but this… Whatever actually made these wounds, there must have been a hell of a lot of strength behind it to have done so much damage in so short a time. A starving wolf couldn't have done a better job on his throat. And remember, Katherine was standing right over the body when we found them, and there wasn't a trace of blood on her clothing."

  "Very observant," said Fisher approvingly. "Whoever killed Bowman had to have got blood all over him. Did you see…"

  "No," said Hawk. "I checked them all carefully as they filed past me, and no one had any blood on their clothes. The killer must have had time to change."

  "Damn," said Fisher. "It would have simplified things."

  "There's nothing simple about this case," said Hawk dourly. "We'd better check all the rooms, just in case there's some bloodstained clothing to be found, but I'm betting we won't find a damned thing. Our killer's too clever for that."

  "What about Stalker's sword?" said Fisher suddenly.

  "All right," said Hawk. "What about it?"

  Fisher gave him a hard look. "You said you wanted to run some tests on it. What did you have in mind?"

  "Nothing, really," said Hawk. "I just didn't want him looming over me with a sword in his hand. Remember, at the time all he had on were his trousers and boots. Where was his shirt? It occurred to me that he might have had to take it off because he'd got blood on it."

  "I see," said Fisher. "You know, Hawk, we've been on some messy cases before, but this has got to be one of the messiest. Nothing makes sense. I mean, I can understand someone wanting Blackstone dead; he had more enemies than most of us make in a lifetime. But why Bowman? And why rip him apart like this?"

  "Beats me," said Hawk. He got to his feet, and then bent down again to retrieve Bowman's dagger. He studied i
t a moment, and then tucked it into the top of his boot. Fisher got to her feet and looked down at Bowman's body. "Maybe…"

  "Yeah?"

  "Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He came out onto the landing, maybe to use the bathroom, and saw something or someone he shouldn't have. So the killer hit him then and there, on the spot. No time to be subtle or clever; just do the job."

  Fisher thought about it. "That doesn't explain the savagery of the attack. Or the nature of the wounds. I don't know about the throat, but those cuts on his chest and arms look a hell of a lot like claw marks to me."

  "So what does that mean? He was killed by an animal?"

  "Not necessarily. Remember the valley killer a couple of years back? Everyone thought it was a bear, and it turned out to be a man using a stuffed bear paw strapped to a club."

  "Yeah," said Hawk. "I remember that case. But why should the killer use something weird like that, when a knife was good enough for Blackstone? Unless…"

  "Unless what?" said Fisher as Hawk hesitated.

  "Unless this is a different killer," said Hawk slowly. "Remember, Visage swore she'd kill Bowman in revenge for his murdering Blackstone…"

  "Two killers under one roof?" said Fisher incredulously. "Oh, come on, Hawk! It's hardly likely, is it? I know what the witch said, but that was just anger and grief talking. I mean, you saw her. Can you honestly see a timid, mousy little thing like her tearing into a man like this?"

  "No, I suppose not." Hawk scowled suddenly. "Mind you, I have seen something like this before…"

  "Really? Where?"

  "In the Hook," said Hawk grimly. He looked at the body, and shook his head angrily. "This case gets more complicated all the time. Come on, let's check the bedrooms. Maybe we'll get lucky."

  "That'll be a change," said Fisher.

  They started with the first door on the left at the top of the stairs, the spare room that Gaunt had opened up for Katherine after her husband's death. The room looked dusty and empty. The single oil lamp was still burning, and the bed obviously hadn't been slept in. The sheets hadn't even been turned back.