Stiletto

by Daniel O'Malley

  “Where?”

  “Over there, under that orange hat.” It was an apt description. The Rook was wearing a teardrop-shaped hat that added a significant amount of height to her silhouette. It swooped up and was adorned with a green rosette and some startling red and green tendrils. It looked like an enormous tropical flower had sprouted from her head.

  “Rook Thomas, I love your hat,” said Odette when the three of them reached her. It was true that she looked magnificent, although the hat really appeared to be the dominant partner in the relationship.

  “Thank you, Odette,” said the Rook. “And you all look very nice. Alessio, my condolences on the suit, but at least you blend in. Think of it as camouflage.”

  “Where is everyone else?” asked Odette.

  “I have no idea,” said Thomas. “I only just got here twenty minutes ago, after spending several years in my car and then a couple more walking from the car park. I was just going to find a drink and place a bet. You can come with me, or you can have a stroll.” Odette shot a look at Pawn Clements, who was standing as close to attention as one could in heels on grass.

  “We’d love to come,” Clements said. Ten minutes later, Odette and the Rook were sipping from glasses of Pimm’s Cup while Alessio and Clements (who was technically on duty and also appalled at the idea of drinking alcohol in the presence of her superior) had lemonades.

  Inside, the grandstand was hollow—a tall, long atrium with walkways hugging the walls and escalators leading up. More Union Jacks were scattered around, but the architecture was all so futuristic that the race-goers looked as if they had been Photoshopped in. The Royal Enclosure appeared to take up about half of the building. As the four of them moved through a crowd at the base of an escalator, the Rook paused and looked back, slightly bewildered.

  “Are you all right?” asked Odette.

  “Yeah, I just . . .” She trailed off. Her eyes narrowed. “No, I’m fine.” She led them through the grandstand and out onto the grass by the racetrack. They placed their bets with the bookmakers according to their own personal systems. Rook Thomas and Clements studied their form books avidly and picked the odds-on favorite while Alessio picked his horse because of its name (Watson’s Crick), and Odette was lured by the colors one jockey was wearing (a scarlet Y on white, which reminded her of an autopsy).

  “That’s the royal box up there,” said the Rook, pointing to the middle of the grandstand where a curved structure was bulging out of the wall. “At this very moment, the monarch, the royal spouse, and various royal hangers-on are in there, looking out at us and eating crisps.” Odette squinted up. There was a small, tasteful royal crest under the window. The glass was lightly tinted, but she could dimly make out people inside. Well, it’s cool to have probably seen the ruler of Great Britain, she thought.

  Off to the side, beyond the bookmakers, she could see the other sections of the grandstand. They were far, far more crowded and extended much farther along the track. The people inside looked like battery race-goers. Then the race began, and she was buffeted slightly by the roar of the crowds. The rumbling of the horses drew nearer and Odette found herself shouting wildly with the rest of the people. Alessio jumped up and down and yelled like a mad thing. Even Clements was cheering.

  To Odette’s delight, her horse came in an unlikely second. She and Clements left Alessio with Rook Thomas while they went to the bookie to pick up Odette’s thirty pounds. They returned to find the Rook talking on her mobile phone and appearing extremely perturbed. Alessio was looking on in fascination.

  “No, tell them to keep it quiet,” she said into the phone. “Threaten them with the Official Secrets Act. Thank God the security guard had the sense not to announce it to the world.” She listened for a moment. “No, they’ll want this to get out even less than we do.”

  “What’s happening?” Odette asked her brother.

  “I don’t know, but the Rook is not happy. Really not happy. I learned several new words.”

  “Well, in that case,” said Rook Thomas, “conference the racecourse chief of security in on this conversation.” She paused and addressed her companions. “Something has happened here. It looks as if it falls within our purview.”

  “Here at the racecourse?” asked Clements.

  “Here in the enclosure,” said Thomas flatly. “A man is dead.”

  “What are we—” began Clements, but the Rook held up a hand and listened intently to her phone.

  “Major Llewelyn, this is Dr. Nicola Boyd. Do you acknowledge my authority?” She nodded in satisfaction and then caught the startled gazes of Odette, Clements, and Alessio. She made a face that meant It’s a secret government thing; I’ll explain in a moment and turned her attention back to the phone. “Excellent. All right, I think we can agree that we want this to stay as quiet as possible, so no police, no ambulance. Your security guards can keep everyone out of the bathroom for the moment.” She paused. “Give them my name and tell them to admit me and anyone accompanying me. I’ll be there in five minutes, and I’ll be able to tell you if it belongs to me, or if we turn it over to the police. Fine. I’ll call you back shortly.” She hung up and turned to them.

  “Nicola Boyd is one of my working aliases,” she explained. “She’s something high up in the Home Office. Now, I have to go look at this and decide whether or not it’s within our bailiwick.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully and glanced around. “I want Pawn Clements for this, and I don’t think it would be wise for us to leave you two alone. So you should come with me.”

  “Is it safe?” asked Odette.

  “Yeeeah . . . probably,” said the Rook unconvincingly. “But you’ve got me and Pawn Clements, so it will be less unsafe than it might otherwise be.” She paused briefly and mentally parsed what she’d just said. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Rook Thomas,” said Pawn Clements. “You might want to take off your badge that says Myfanwy Thomas on it.”

  “Ah, good catch.” She led them up the steps and into the grandstand, up a couple of escalators, and down a corridor. They stopped in a comparatively quiet corner in front of a handicapped restroom. Two uncomfortable-looking men in dark suits flanked the door.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” said one of the guards. “This lavatory is out of order.”

  And so it needs two security guards? thought Odette. Great cover story.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Nicola Boyd. You’re expecting me.” They nodded in relief, although they looked a little startled at the company she was keeping. Apparently, people didn’t usually bring thirteen-year-old boys to crime scenes. “Have you looked inside yet?”

  “I found the body, ma’am,” said the guard on the left. “It’s—it’s pretty horrible.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve never seen anything like it, he’s all—” Rook Thomas held up a hand.

  “Have you told him”—she nodded at the other guard—“what you saw?”

  “No, he hasn’t, ma’am,” said the guard on the right. “Just that there’s a dead body. Major Llewelyn ordered him to say nothing else.”

  “Good,” said the Rook. “Now, what’s your name?” she asked the guard who’d found the body.

  “Ralph,” said Ralph. “Ralph Witt.”

  “All right, Ralph, did you touch anything while you were in there?”

  “Just the door handle. And I was sick in the corner,” he added apologetically.

  “We’ve all been sick in a corner at some point. But are you sure you didn’t try to check the person’s vitals or anything?” asked the Rook. “Take a pulse?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said with certainty. “You’ll, um, see why when you go in there.” The Rook nodded unenthusiastically.

  “Are you prepped?” she asked Clements.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The Rook and the Pawn opened their purses and took out sealed plastic packages containing surgical masks and latex gloves. The two women donned them after removing their hats and putting them on a nearby chair.

  “You two,” said th
e Rook to Odette and Alessio, “will stay out here. Mind the hats.” They nodded obediently. “If someone starts approaching you in an odd way, just, um, bang on the door and scream, and we’ll come out.” She didn’t stop to see the Grafters nod.

  Just bang on the door and scream? thought Odette incredulously. She looked around and saw no one moving in a manner that suggested supernatural hostility.

  “I’ll go first,” said the Rook. She opened the door a little and stepped through. They heard her gasp and then exclaim, enraged, “Oh, fucking hell!” Everyone froze. “It’s fine, Clements, you can come in,” she said finally. Clements went and the door shut behind her. There was a silence that some might have described as “ominous.”

  Then the door opened, making Alessio and Odette jump. Clements emerged, looking a trifle dazed. She pulled off her gloves and mask and walked over to her handbag to pull out another plastic package.

  “Here,” she said, offering it to Odette.

  “Here what?” said Odette.

  “Rook Thomas wants you to go in,” said the Pawn. “She wants your opinion.”

  “My opinion? On what?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to taint your first impression,” said Clements. “Here, give me your hat.” Odette reluctantly yielded her chapeau and snapped on the gloves and mask. She opened the door hesitantly and moved in through the narrow gap.

  Oh. Well, that’s a first, she thought. The sight before her left her feeling a little light-headed.

  The lavatory was spacious, and very clean. A wheelchair stood next to the toilet, and it was evident that the dead man had moved himself over from one to the other. He was dressed in a morning suit, hat still on his head, and his trousers were down (as was usual, given the locale). He was dead, and Odette could see why Ralph the guard hadn’t felt the need to check his vital signs.

  Huge glittering crystals sprouted from the walls, ceiling, and floor of the room. They thrust out at the man on the toilet, piercing him all over. One that came from the wall behind the man had gone directly through his right eye. It held his head up, so he appeared to be looking at them with a one-eyed, somewhat reproachful gaze.

  Rook Thomas was standing in a crystal-free space near a corner. Her arms were crossed, and she had an expression on her face that suggested she was taking this whole situation extremely personally. “Fucking hell,” she said to herself, sighing.

  28

  All right, Major Llewelyn,” said the Rook to the security chief of Ascot Racecourse. “It’s definitely ours, and we definitely don’t want word getting out about this.”

  “Is it murder?” asked the major. The Rook looked a little hunted. The gray-haired, dignified man was at least fifteen years older than her, a foot taller, and had a tendency to bark out questions. Odette could see her trying to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make things worse.

  “Yes,” she said finally. “But it’s political. National security is at stake.”

  “Good God. What do you want us to do?”

  “Nothing, for the moment,” said Thomas. “You know the press, especially here. If word gets out about a death, let alone a murder, let alone a political murder at Royal Ascot, then we’ll have no chance of tracking this down discreetly.”

  “Quite,” said the major.

  “Keep your men on the door, and don’t let anyone in unless I authorize it. I have to go consult with my superiors. Call me if there are any further developments.” He nodded, and she led her little entourage away to the escalators before pulling out her mobile and dialing her office. “Ingrid, it’s me. The incident at the races is one of ours. Can you please call Chev Whibley, Lady Farrier, and Sir Henry and ask them to meet me at the pink bench on the Royal Enclosure lawn as soon as possible.” She was silent as they made their way through the crowd and out onto the lawn by the racetrack. Many benches were dotted about, but only one of them was pink.

  “Why’s it pink?” asked Alessio.

  “Hmm? Oh, some boy once proposed to some girl on one of the benches,” said the Rook. “Now they always have a pink bench to commemorate it. They move it around the lawn.” At the moment, the pink bench was occupied by a plump older couple, the man looking like John Bull and the woman looking like Mrs. Sprat. There was no room for anyone else to sit there, and they did not seem to be in any hurry to move, so the Rook’s party hung around, awkwardly making nonsupernatural-murder-related small talk, until the others appeared.

  Sir Henry arrived first with Ernst and Marcel in tow. They had been chatting in the marquee belonging to White’s, of which Sir Henry was a member. Lady Farrier materialized shortly after, and then Chevalier Whibley, a gentleman in his fifties with a florid face and a hearty voice. Odette did not know much about him beyond the fact that he spent a great deal of time overseas and had the ability to make wood as hard as titanium. Myfanwy led them away from the plump couple on the bench to a patch of the lawn where no one was standing too close. She hurriedly explained the situation.

  “Incredible,” marveled Marcel once she was done. “What are the odds of something like this happening here?”

  “Around three hundred thousand people come to Royal Ascot over the five days,” said Lady Farrier. “That’s a lot of people.”

  “And the Checquy are just keeping these situations quiet all the time?”

  “Frankly, unless this had been done on live television, I can’t imagine a more difficult situation to keep quiet,” said the Rook. “There are hundreds of people wandering around, all of them with phones, all of them keen to share any unusual developments with the world.”

  “Thank you very much, social media,” Chevalier Whibley remarked bitterly.

  “And regular media,” added the Rook. “If anything odd shows up, like a helicopter with troops, or even a police car with flashing lights, there will be a lot of questions.”

  “This is another one of those damn murders you’re supposed to be stopping, then?” asked Sir Henry.

  “Well, given the circumstances, Sir Henry, the odds of it being a copycat crime are extremely small.”

  “So, what’s the situation?” asked Whibley. “Do we evacuate the racecourse?”

  “Evacuate seventy thousand–odd people? It would be the biggest story in the world,” said Lady Farrier, shuddering. “And what excuse could we possibly give, beyond terr—”

  “Don’t say it!” exclaimed Rook Thomas and Chevalier Whibley in unison. The Lady shut her mouth and rolled her eyes.

  “I’d prefer not to call off Ladies’ Day at Royal Ascot unless absolutely necessary,” Farrier said finally. “The repercussions would be horrendous.”

  “If it’s necessary to evacuate, we can come up with some excuse,” said Rook Thomas. “But I don’t know that it is necessary. In all the previous occurrences, there has been one eruption of crystals, and then nothing else.”

  “You think our murderer just killed this man and then went back to drinking G and Ts and betting on the horses?” asked Sir Henry.

  “Either that or he’s left.”

  “So what shall we do?” asked Chev Whibley. “Just wait until the end of the day and then bring in the investigation team to examine the corpse?”

  “That’s certainly an option,” said Thomas. “But it occurs to me that if the murderer is still here, then this is our best opportunity to catch him.” Odette could see that the idea took them aback. These were the mandarins of the Checquy—they were not accustomed to getting their hands dirty. Ernst, by contrast, was nodding approvingly.

  “Very wise. One must pursue the quarry while the spoor is fresh,” said the graaf.

  “Well . . . quite,” said Whibley. “But if we do track down the murderer, isn’t there a danger that he might lash out, either at us or the public?”

  “That’s what we’re here to prevent,” said Thomas flatly. “But even if we just identify him, we can follow him and snatch him up later.”

  “And what about the Royal Family?” asked Sir Henry. As one, they all
looked up to the royal box.

  “We can’t evacuate them,” said Lady Farrier firmly. “It would raise all sorts of questions and eyebrows. And besides, one of the princes has a horse running today for the Gold Cup.”

  “Don’t they have military protection and bodyguards?” asked Odette timidly. As if on cue, all the Checquy Court members pursed their lips.

  “Standard troops don’t have any training in fighting the supernatural,” said Lady Farrier dismissively. It was clear that she thought non-Checquy security forces would be instantly shredded by any five-year-old with a heightened sense of hearing or a set of prehensile eyelashes.

  “One of us will have to secure the royal box, then,” said Whibley. “I suppose it should be either Rook Thomas or Sir Henry. They have the most combat-ready abilities.”

  “I have some daggers sheathed in my torso if you need weapons,” offered Ernst.

  “Actually, Pawn Mondegreen is there,” said Rook Thomas. “She’s a lady-in-waiting.”

  “Lady Pawn Mondegreen,” corrected Lady Farrier. “I’ll go up and alert her immediately.” She walked away briskly with the confidence of a woman who knew she would automatically be admitted to the presence of the Royal Family.

  “I’m not familiar with Pawn Mondegreen,” said Whibley. “Will she be able to offer adequate protection?”

  “With a wave of her hand, she can cause people’s bones to dissolve instantly,” said Rook Thomas.

  “Well, that would probably do it,” said Whibley.

  “What other presence does the Checquy have here?” asked Sir Henry.

  “Aside from us and Pawn Mondegreen?” asked Rook Thomas. “None that I know of. Unless some Pawns happen to have taken the day off to go to the races. I’ll have the Rookery text every member of the Checquy to see who’s here, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

  “If it’s unsafe, perhaps it would be best if we got the members of the Broederschap delegation out of here,” said Chevalier Whibley.

  “Not at all!” exclaimed Ernst. “We stand beside you as comrades. Your mission is our mission.”