The parlor’s customary sense of warmth and comfort had been replaced with something far less pleasant. The shadows seemed somehow deeper, the portraits more cold and judgmental. The painting of Oswald the Great appeared particularly ominous to Oona as he stared down upon the crime scene, looking like he was about to pass a death sentence upon them all. The creatures in the tapestries stared out at the room wearing expressions of bitter suspicion.
A police constable leaned casually against a wall near the parlor’s entrance, his attention buried so deeply in a cheap, yellow-backed novel that, despite his uniform, he might have been mistaken for a man on vacation. Unlike the novel-reading constable, Inspector White’s attention appeared fully present in the room. He regarded the occupants suspiciously as Oona took her seat on one of the ornate sofas against the wall. Deacon shifted restlessly on her shoulder.
The smell of ash from the fireplace permeated the air, along with the lingering stench of Samuligan’s singed hand.
“Is this everyone, Samuligan?” the inspector asked.
Samuligan scanned the room. Hector Grimsbee sat slumped in a chair near the door, the bloody bandage around his head looking like the ragged attire of an Egyptian mummy. Sanora Crone, her own face once again squeaky clean, occupied a seat on the other side of the fireplace. Isadora Iree played nervously with her hair beside Adler, the two of them squished together on one half of the split sofa. The pendulum swung so close to Adler that he appeared to be in danger of getting struck by the bob each time it moved past. Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III took a seat near the door, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
“Yes,” Samuligan informed the inspector. “This is everyone.”
The enchanted lights from the ceiling threw uneven shadows across the inspector’s face. He clapped his hands together loudly before beginning. “I am Inspector White. I believe you all know why I am here.”
He picked up the enchanted dagger from the mantel and threw it to the floor, where it stuck in the rug, quivering like a tuning fork.
Sanora gasped.
Lamont let out a startled: “Whoa!”
And Deacon exclaimed: “That was a perfectly good carpet!”
The inspector ignored him. “This dagger,” he said, swaggering around the room with his stark white shirt gleaming in the magic lights, “was reported stolen earlier this evening from the curator’s locked office at the Museum of Magical History.”
At the mention of the museum, Oona glanced toward Hector Grimsbee, looking for a reaction. He appeared stone-faced, indifferent, and for all she could tell, blind or not, he was staring right back at her through those pupilless eyes.
The inspector slid a notebook from his back pocket and continued. “The curator’s office is located downstairs, in the basement of the museum. The basement is off limits to visitors, and a guard is posted at the head of the stairs. The curator locked his office and left the museum for several hours to examine a possible acquisition. When he returned at four o’clock, he discovered that the door to his office was wide open, the glass case containing the two enchanted daggers had been smashed, and the daggers were gone.” The inspector snapped his notepad shut and thrust it out before him, as if the notepad itself were a piece of undisputable evidence. “The curator was the only one with a key, and the security guard at the head of the basement stairs swears that he allowed no one to pass.”
Oona sat stock-still, listening to every word, her mind grabbing at each of the inspector’s points, searching for clues.
The inspector cleared his throat, then said: “Clearly it was someone in this room who stole the daggers.” He pointed at the dagger in the floor as proof. “And then that same individual used one of them to murder the Wizard!”
Oona shook her head, realizing what the inspector had just said. “Did you say murder?”
“I did, indeed,” the inspector replied, sounding peeved for even having to answer the question.
Oona turned to the faerie servant. “Didn’t you tell him, Samuligan?”
Samuligan clucked his tongue ruefully. “I did try, but—”
“Tell me what?” the inspector demanded.
“My uncle may not have been murdered,” Oona informed him. “It is quite possible that he is still alive.”
The inspector crossed to the center of the room and picked up the Wizard’s empty robes. He shook them at Oona. “Then where is he?” he asked.
“Well, if he is alive, then he would be in the Goblin Tower,” Oona said.
“In the Goblin Tower?” the inspector said. “Don’t be ridiculous. A roomful of people saw him get stabbed. Is that not the case?”
He turned his attention to Lamont. Startled to be so singled out, the boy was forced to confess, “Yes, it is true,” and then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began nervously cleaning his eyeglasses.
“But Inspector,” said Deacon. “While it is true that one of the daggers would have killed him, the other would have sent him to the Goblin Tower, as Miss Crate has just told you.”
The inspector dropped the Wizard’s robe back to the floor. “So, Mr. Bird, you admit to having knowledge of these weapons.”
“Deacon has knowledge of the entire Encyclopedia Arcanna,” Oona explained.
“How very convenient,” the inspector replied.
Oona gaped at him. “Are you actually accusing Deacon?”
The inspector slowly shook his head and began to rub his thin, white hands together. “The museum has a registry at the front entrance. All persons entering the museum must sign their name. There is a museum security guard stationed at the entrance to make sure no one gets in without placing their name in the registry.” The inspector abruptly turned his back to everyone and watched the pendulum swing from one end of the room to the other. “It would seem that very few people are interested in magical history these days … or at least on Mondays anyway … because there were only two names written on today’s page in the registry. And do you know whose names they were?” The inspector suddenly spun around so that his gaze fell on the Iree twins. “It just so happens that they are both sitting in this very room. Isadora and Adler Iree!”
Isadora slapped a hand to her chest. “Yes, I did go to the museum this morning … but only because Head Mistress Duvet at the Academy of Fine Young Ladies is very eager to have the next Wizard’s apprentice be someone from her school. It’s because of her that I ever even applied for the position in the first place, and it was at Head Mistress Duvet’s explicit instructions that I went to the museum this morning so that I might refresh my knowledge of magical history before my interview with the Wizard. And I must say, I was completely bored out of my mind. Magical history is quite dull. There never is anyone in that huge building, and it’s sort of … well, it’s creepy being in there all alone.”
“But Miss Iree,” the inspector said, flipping open his notepad, “you did not go to the museum alone, did you? You went with your brother.”
Isadora shook her head. “No, I went by myself. I only knew that Adler had been there because I saw his name written in the registry. But I didn’t see him. The place is so big I could have been in there with a hundred people and never seen a single soul.”
The inspector studied her for a moment before asking: “And what did you do after you left the museum, Miss Iree?”
“I went next door to my mother’s dress shop for tea. Remember, you saw me there. All of my mother’s dresses were stolen.” Isadora drew in her breath. “Do you think that the daggers and the dresses were stolen by the same person?”
“I think it very likely that you stole them both, and then came to Pendulum House to murder the Wizard!” the inspector said.
“Me? Why on earth would I want to hurt the Wizard?”
The inspector strode across the room toward Isadora, hands outstretched as if preparing to grab hold of her shoulders and shake a confession out of her. But as he moved, the inspector failed to remember the dagger sticking out of the ca
rpet. His foot struck the narrow hilt, and he tumbled to the floor.
“Who did that?” he howled, pushing himself quickly back to his feet and shoving his stringy, black hair back from his face.
“I believe it was the dagger you tripped on, Inspector,” Oona said.
The inspector turned on her. “I thought I told you to stay out of official police affairs, Miss Crate.”
Oona raised her eyebrows in surprise, before reminding herself just whom she was dealing with. Truth be told, up until this point she had been quite impressed with all the information the inspector had compiled. Indeed, it was something of a shock to discover that the Iree twins had been at the museum that day. It was certainly possible that Isadora had it in her spiteful nature to attack the Wizard, but the thought of Adler being involved, or even being the attacker himself, was upsetting, to say the least.
She took a calming breath to steady her nerves before realizing that the inspector was still waiting for her to explain herself. She spoke calmly and clearly. “My uncle was attacked, and quite possibly murdered tonight, Inspector, to which I am a witness. Not only do I have every right to be here, I am required to be here. And also, if you need it to be pointed out to you, no one tripped you. You tripped yourself on the dagger.” She pointed to the floor.
The inspector turned to the dagger, a look of surprise on his face. “Oh, of course.”
Adler adjusted his top hat so that it rested upon the back of his head. “I was at the museum, ’tis true,” he said. “I’m at the museum most days, when I’m not at the Magicians Legal Alliance, that is. The museum’s library is quite amazing. I was doing research.”
What sort of research? Oona wondered, but what she asked was: “Inspector, are you sure there is no way someone could have gotten past the security guard at the front of the museum without signing the registry?” She glanced sideways at Grimsbee, gauging his reaction. His face remained inscrutable beneath the bloodstained rag on his head.
The inspector frowned. “It is possible, but highly unlikely, I would think. The security guard would have to answer that question.”
And Oona thought: Yes, I’ll have to ask him that when I visit the museum tomorrow.
And then a second, crueler voice in her head asked: When are you going to do that? After you break into the Black Tower, defeat the goblins, and discover that your uncle is not in the tower cell after all, and that Inspector White is right … that the Wizard is dead?
The thought angered her so much that she blurted out: “Mr. Grimsbee, how did you injure yourself? I saw you earlier today on the museum steps, and you did not have that bandage around your head.”
The room fell markedly quiet. Someone cleared their throat. A mouse could be heard skittering through the walls. Grimsbee slid forward in his chair, and for the first time since they had been gathered together, his expression changed. He appeared to look right at Oona with his horrible white eyes, his lips pinched together in a mask of fury. His faced turned bright red, and his nostrils swelled to the size of walnuts. And then suddenly, horribly, his mouth drew out into an oily grin that was the very replica of his pointy, bullhorn mustache.
Through gritted teeth, he said: “I cut myself shaving.”
Oona blinked several times, shaking her head. “Shaving your forehead?” she replied, her voice brimming with disbelief. She turned to the inspector. “Surely you do not believe him? Who shaves their forehead?”
The inspector appeared thoughtful, scratching at his white, white chin with the tip of one white, white finger.
“I do not know what to believe,” he said. And then to Oona’s further astonishment, he said: “You are all free to go.”
“Go?” Oona cried. She was suddenly on her feet. “What do you mean, go? You’re going to let my uncle’s attacker just walk out of here?”
“We do not have sufficient evidence to hold any of them in custody,” the inspector declared. He paused to consider something for a moment. “But I will see to it that police Constable Trout over there is posted at the Iron Gates, to make sure no one flees Dark Street until the killer is discovered.”
Police Constable Trout stood near the doorway, his dreamy gaze lost in the pages of his novel, as if completely unaware of the murder investigation going on in the same room. Somehow the inspector’s assurance that the constable would be watching the Iron Gates gave Oona little comfort.
“That is all,” the inspector said, and began marching toward the door.
“But Inspector,” Oona tried one last time. “Don’t you think you should place everyone under house arrest? Keep them here in Pendulum House? At least until we discover who—”
The inspector cut her short. “Miss Crate. When will you learn to leave grown-up work to … uh … well, to grown-ups? Now run along and play with your pet birdie, and leave this case to the professionals. We have everything under control, don’t we, Constable Trout?”
The novel-reading constable turned the page of his book, giggling at something he’d read.
“You are all free to go,” said the inspector again.
Oona looked at Hector Grimsbee, who grinned in her direction.
“I will inform the Dark Street Council of the Wizard’s death,” said the inspector, “and the council will decide what is to be done about the position.”
“But he’s not necessarily dead!” Oona shouted.
The inspector nodded sadly at her. “Denial is the first stage of grief,” he said, and then turned to go.
Oona stared after him as he made his way toward the door, his highly polished shoes squeaking their way across the long, ornate carpet, and his white shirt glaring against the light. Frustration gripped at her insides. The man was a great big inkblot on the name of law and order. Oona chanced to look down at the floor, and thought: Look, he’s even left the evidence there in the carpet.
She bent to retrieve the dagger.
“Don’t forget the weapon, Inspector.” Oona pulled it from the floor and held it out. At first she felt only a tingle: a slight warmth that slowly intensified in her hand so that soon it felt as if she had pulled the dagger not out of the floor but out of a pile of hot coals. By the time the inspector had made his way back across the room and put out his hand, the handle of the dagger had grown too hot for her to hold. Oona took in a sharp breath, letting the dagger fall from her fingers. The instant the weapon hit the floor, bouncing against the carpet with a soft thud, the pain disappeared. She looked at her hand in surprise. Her fingers did not begin to smoke, nor did her hand turn char-black as Samuligan’s hand had done when he had touched the dagger. But the flesh about her fingers did appear slightly red. It had not been her imagination. The heat had been there.
“Well, that was very rude,” said the inspector, bending to retrieve the dagger.
Oona hardly heard him. She turned to Samuligan, wide-eyed and wondering. “It burned me, Samuligan,” she said in a tone of complete bewilderment. “I felt it. It … It burned me.”
Though tangled and overgrown, the garden in the inner courtyard of Pendulum House was Oona’s favorite place to be alone and to think. Surrounded on all four sides by the lofty walls of the great manor house, it was as solitary a place as Oona could hope to find. After all of the distressful events of the evening, she’d needed to breathe its comforting air, and stroll through patches of sighing-lady grass, which sighed softly in the starlight like broken-hearted ladies, and stands of sallow flowers, whose bright petals changed colors and could be used to predict the weather. It was a secret place, known only to the occupants of the house, and Oona found it to be the best place in all the world to let her thoughts simply wander through the hills and valleys of the endless mysteries that occupied her mind.
Presently, she gazed at her hand, opening and closing her fingers, as if they were strange to her. She thought back to earlier that evening and remembered how completely uninterested the inspector had behaved toward her complaint that the dagger had burned her. Indeed, everyone in the
room had been so eager to get away from the house that—with the exception of Adler Iree, who seemed to be watching Oona quite intensely, as if anticipating some new marvel of magic to spring from her hands at any moment—no one had shown the slightest interest in what had just happened.
Once they’d all gone, however, and Oona had been left alone in the house with Deacon and Samuligan, she had at last asked the impending question: “Why did the dagger grow so hot in my hand? I thought it was enchanted to burn only faeries.”
Samuligan didn’t have an explanation for what had occurred. The dagger had not affected the inspector, nor had it burned Constable Trout when the inspector had handed him the evidence to take to the station. Only Oona and Samuligan had suffered the effects of the dagger’s strange magic, though Oona’s own hand had not been nearly as badly burned as Samuligan’s had, despite the fact that Oona had held on to the dagger for far longer than the faerie servant.
“There is only one rational explanation that I can think of for why the dagger would burn you,” Deacon had offered. “There is a theory, which I daresay you have heard before, that the reason that Natural Magicians, such as yourself, are able to invoke such strong magic is because they possess some small amount of active faerie blood in their veins. The idea is that, long ago, before the closing of the Glass Gates, a faerie man and a human woman had a child together, and that human-faerie child grew up and had a child with another human, and so on, and so on, until there was almost no trace of faerie left. The immortality that all pure-born faeries possess is washed away by the limited nature of the human body. But faerie blood is, above all else, the very essence of magic. It would not disappear completely, even after a hundred generations. Or perhaps even a thousand. No one knows for sure. It is, of course, only a theory.”
Oona shook her head. “But if that is the case, and I do possess some trace of faerie blood, then why did my parents not have the powers that I have? Or my grandparents?”
The Wizard of Dark Street Page 10
