The Mutilated Merchant (The Edrin Loft Mysteries Book 1)

by Jon Evans

"Absolutely, yes. The Regent wrote a response to the committee confirming he's considering the idea as a trial run and when I got that letter I announced it at the very next council meeting," Mohran said, with evident pride.

  "It's public knowledge then," Loft said.

  "Yes, of course. You can't make an impact as a politician if everything is done behind closed doors. People have to see you're taking action for them to be able to agree with you," Mohran replied.

  "Thank you for your cooperation, Councillor. Your colleagues at City Hall have confirmed that your statement regarding the damage to your chain was accurate. Given your further statements today, it is my belief that the link was taken deliberately so that you could be made to look guilty for the murder. Unless we find evidence to the contrary as this investigation, we shall proceed on that basis. You're free to go. I'll have someone come in and release you so you can go about your business," Loft said.

  "About bloody time, Loft," Mohran said.

  Gurnt leaned toward Mohran as Loft held the door open for her, he flinched visibly when she whispered something in his ear.

  When they were out of earshot, Loft asked, "What did you say to him? He went white as a sheet."

  She smiled sweetly, the picture of faux innocence if ever he'd seen it, "I just said I agreed that he didn't commit this crime."

  "Really? Do you expect me to believe that?" Loft said, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

  "Words to that effect anyway. Would you like to have a little wager that we don't find him involved in some other crime before the year ends?" Gurnt asked.

  "I'm not sure we'll be looking, Sergeant, so certainly, I'll take that bet," Loft replied

  "Standard Thieftakers bet then, Sir," Gurnt said.

  "Which is?"

  "Standing three rounds for the Watch House at the pub if you lose," the sergeant replied.

  Loft did a quick calculation and decided that was a fair bet but not one he'd want to make too often, "Done."

  "Excellent," she said, and they shook hands, "I'll be looking of course, and I'm confident I'll find something."

  Loft realised at that point he'd probably been tricked. If the Sergeant went looking with a character like that, she might very well find a crime he'd committed that they could charge him for. Ahh well, a few drinks would be a small price to pay to see Mohran before the magistrates.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Captain Loft. What can I do for you today?" Alwyn, asked, wiping the flour from his hands with a cloth before he walked over and shook Loft by the hand. His grip was firm and his hands smooth and soft from years of kneading dough. The muscles on his arms bulged, and Loft was glad he wasn't one of those men who felt the need to show his strength during a simple handshake.

  "I have a description of a man that might be involved in the murder of Perl and wondered if you might recognise it," Loft said.

  "Certainly, Captain. I'm happy to help if I can. People are very shaken up by what happened, and it's bad for business, I'm sure any of the shopkeepers and merchants in the city would be glad to help if they can," Alwyn said.

  "I'm afraid the description is a little vague, but at least it's something," Loft said, opening the notes he'd made and reading from them, "The man is of average height, probably in his mid-thirties with black hair. He was wearing a green cloak, embroidered with golden trim and fastened with a brooch in the shape of a snake."

  Alwyn chuckled, and Loft raised an eyebrow. The baker saw his expression and raised his hands making a patting motion in the air, "Settle down, Captain. I don't mean to make light of the situation. It's just that I have seen a man like that, or at least dressed like that, at Perl's before. I don't recognise the exact description of the man, but the cloak does sound very much like the one used in the uniform of one of the banks."

  "A banker?" Loft asked in surprise.

  "Not as such, no. I mean, not the man you'd speak to about a loan to buy a shop or a house, at any rate. Those you can't tell apart, no matter which bank they work for. But the other staff, the juniors often wear company clothes and colours. The cloak suggests a guard to me, and they sometimes come out to customers to deliver messages or funds. When you run a shop, you often have to deposit sums regularly and get smaller coins in return. Otherwise, you can't make change. Some of the banks will deliver to valued customers or, as I say, they send messages. You don't send a bank clerk with a big purse unless you fancy losing it, you see? They sometimes deliver payment directly from a bank as well, that's better for a noble than sending his staff if it's a large sum, so his elderly butler doesn't get mugged," Alwyn explained.

  "Do you know which bank it would be?" Loft asked.

  Alwyn shook his head. "No and I can't swear in front of the magistrates when I might last have seen one of their men at Perl's shop, but I'm sure it was in the last few months. I doubt you have much cause to visit the banking district then?"

  "Not really, the Watch doesn't pay enough, and we have pretty good security for our cash boxes without using banks. I've never been assigned to that district either," Loft said.

  "I don't think you'll have much trouble finding the right bank, though there are a few smaller banks they're very much for specialist clients. You're probably looking for a large establishment that deals with a lot of smaller businesses and I'm sure the snake motif will be easy to find. I'd probably recognise the name if you mentioned it but you know how it is when you're walking about an area you know, the buildings and shops you don't use are just background you don't pay attention to," Alwyn, said, shrugging apologetically.

  "That's quite alright, Alwyn, you've been very helpful already. At least I know Perl had dealings with their staff on some level and that means it's worth me looking in to," Loft said, "Thank you for your time."

  "You're quite welcome, Captain," the baker said as he moved back to his workbench and covered his hands in flour again before returning to kneading dough. He called after Loft, "I hope you catch him soon, Captain. The local shopkeepers are all worried about this."

  "We're doing our best," Loft said as he walked out of the shop.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Loft had returned to Old Gate to find a messenger from Northridge Court waiting for. "Captain Loft?" he asked.

  "Yes, I'm Captain Loft. What can I do for you Constable?" he replied.

  "You're wanted at The Palace, post haste, the Commander said." The watchman glanced to either side to be sure no-one was eavesdropping and leaned closer to whisper, "He didn't seem best pleased, Sir. I don't know what the message says, but I think you'd best hurry."

  "Thank you for the warning, Constable," Loft replied gratefully, opening the message he'd been handed. It was a curt note from the Commander's aide, summoning him to headquarters and simply mentioning that a complaint had been received, "I shall be along shortly, you may go."

  The constable coughed and said, "Probably best if I leave at the same time you do, Sir. They get quite upset if the messenger is back well before the officer they summoned. Best if I arrive just before you, Sir."

  Loft nodded and thanked the man, then stepped into his office and quickly smartened up as best he could in front of the cracked and grimy mirror hung, lopsided on one wall.

  The denizens of The Palace were always impeccably turned out and were frequently found in their dress uniforms, strutting around like ornamental birds. Whatever the complaint was, he didn't want to look too much like he was working for a living, doing the work the Watch should be.

  When he'd done the best job he could, he set off for Northridge Court. Fortunately, it wasn't more than a fifteen-minute walk. The constable was waiting just outside the past the arch of the gate when Loft came out. The messenger snapped a salute then marched off at quick time to ensure he arrived before Loft.

  Loft was grateful for that small courtesy; it was an unusual level of camaraderie to receive from a watchman stationed at another house. There was a fearsome amount of unnecessary competition among Denethrian watch hou
ses and it bored Loft to tears, as well as distracted from the work they should be doing. Time better spent catching criminals and protecting the city he thought, was wasted in petty rivalry and back biting.

  "Captain Loft, the Commander, will see you now," the aide called from the office. He held one of the double doors open to allow Loft to pass and then slipped past him, closing it behind himself as he left. Loft half expected to hear the door slam as if it was shutting on his future career, but it closed with a gentle click, the sort of luxury only the grander Watch buildings could afford.

  Northridge Court had once been a regimental headquarters and barracks for the Denetherian army, but that had been centuries ago, before the shattering of the old empire. At some point, the regiment had been disbanded or absorbed into another party of the army, and the building had passed into the care of the City Watch.

  It was the grandest building in the estate of the watch, and a lot of the furnishing was antique. It still contained a lot of military paraphernalia and a distinct marshal ambience. Loft felt sure half the reason for all the parades the Watch did, was because Northridge Court had a huge parade ground on one side of the estate.

  The Commander's office was an unnecessarily impressive affair, wood panelled and easily twelve yards on each side. The fireplace alone was large enough to heat a large tavern. He'd never seen them, but he knew the doors behind the desk, concealed the Commander's private suite of rooms, should he feel the need to stay here overnight. Not that that would be likely given his salary and the enormous town house he had nearby.

  The office was on the third floor of the building, and there was a private lift behind one of the doors, reserved for the exclusive use of the Commander.

  To the left, as he came in from the office used by the aide and his staff and as a waiting room, there were large windows, arranged in a bay that jutted from the front of the building. The centre of the bay was a pair of doors that opened onto the balcony, from which the Commander could observe or address the parade ground.

  Given the height of the balcony though, addresses to the assembled watchmen were usually given from a temporary stage, else the Commander would have to bellow. That wouldn't be a problem for some of Loft's training sergeants when he'd been at the Academy, but he somehow couldn't picture Commander Cadogan with his thin, reedy voice managing to make it carry if he tried it.

  Commander Cadogan was sat in his ornately carved chair that to Loft, somewhat resembled a throne. It was another antique from the time of the regiment, judging by the decoration. The desk it sat behind was equally ornate and equally old. It was almost comically huge, surely large enough to dine twelve with relative comfort.

  That would be unnecessary of course because there was a banquet hall, a private study, a library and a drawing room in the other wing of the third floor, where the senior officers of the watch could dine, socialise and get drunk.

  Cadogan looked up from the papers on his desk and fixed Loft with his best stony stare. He wasn't bad at it, but Loft had always found his handlebar moustache softened any stern look he might be trying.

  It was a well-maintained example of facial hair, neither too large, too bushy but it just didn't seem to suit his face somehow. He also had an unfortunate tendency to stroke the tips as if unsatisfied with their curls, a gesture that made him look like a somewhat hammy actor in a theatre, playing the obviously villainous vizier.

  "Captain, I have received a complaint about you from the Vice Chancellor of the University, and it's not the only one. Apparently, you took it upon yourself to visit the University unannounced and interrogate one of his faculty about poisons. He was most irate and visited me in turn to make his complaint. I don't appreciate having public figures in my office, also unannounced and creating a fuss about my watchmen," the commander said, "What is all this about, Loft?"

  Loft coughed, "My apologies, Sir but I believe there may be a misunderstanding on the part of the Vice Chancellor. I wasn't interrogating Professor Simmerson. It was suggested to me that he'd be a good person to consult about some unidentified liquids we found during our investigation that we suspect are illegal and probably lethal to boot."

  "What investigation is this?" Cadogan snapped.

  "A spice merchant was murdered, Sir, one Anar Perl. It was an incredibly violent crime, and when we searched his property we found some vials that were unlabelled and buried in the herb garden, along with the remains of his son, who I'm sorry to report, was also murdered," Loft said.

  "His son was murdered too? And buried with bottles that you suspect are what, drugs? Poison? Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning, Loft. Succinctly please, I haven't got all day," Cadogan demanded.

  Loft did as he was ordered and summed up the case for the commander. He described the murder as they believed it had happened, the discovery of the basement and the veritable armoury that it contained. He told him that the family were missing and how they'd found the boy, buried in the garden. He described the findings of Gardener's autopsies.

  "What happened at the university then?" the commander said.

  "On the advice of Dr Gardener, I sought out Professor Simmerson to ask if he would be able to identify the bottles. We suspect they're poison or narcotics of some kind. Most likely poison, given the apparent side business Perl had selling weapons. He labelled everything else meticulously, from his spices to his kitchen groceries to the chemicals in his basement. Not those bottles though, and we know from interviewing the glass blower that he ordered those bottles fairly regularly. He must have been supplying them to someone," Loft said.

  The commander seemed quite interested by the puzzle. Loft imagined his job was in large part to be a figurehead for the watch and the rest of the time a politician. His senior staff did the actual day to day running of the watch and much of the time he wouldn't have much to do.

  He'd certainly never had to pursue criminals himself, having been immediately promoted well above that level, by virtue of his ducal title. He twiddled his moustache for a few minutes before speaking.

  "Why bury them with his boy then? I assume you don't think Perl and his wife murdered their son?" Cadogan asked, his voice tinged with disgust at the thought.

  "No, Sir. We think that his son was murdered by the same person that killed Perl. Probably as a warning, a threat to his family to make him do something. He buried the box of bottles so that the murderer or his accomplices wouldn't find it. It stands to reason they must have been important for him to bury them with his son. I think they were trying to flee the city Perl was caught, but he'd buried the bottles to stop the murderer having them. Which suggests to me they don't have much value except to the killer. Maybe they're a drug that's very hard to sell? Maybe the murderer and his gang are the only ones who want it? Perhaps it's poison? That's why I spoke to the Professor. Once we know what the bottles contain, I'm hoping it'll shine some light on why they're valuable," Loft said.

  "His gang? What makes you think there's a gang involved?" Cadogan asked.

  "Who else would be buying the weapons and equipment from Perl? Who else would have a murderer of this skill and willing to kill children, as well as torture a man like that? I think he works for someone, probably one of the city gangs," Loft said.

  "Do you have any idea who?" Cadogan asked.

  "Not yet, Sir, but we do have a description of someone we are trying to find. We're hoping that will lead us to the killer," Loft said.

  "Good. Now, what about the Councillor? What's your explanation for that?" the commander said, swinging back from curiosity to annoyance, like a pendulum of career obscurity.

  "Sir?" Loft said, in his most innocent voice.

  "Don't, Sir me, Loft. The other complaint I had was from Councillor Mohran about your sergeant assaulting him in his offices. In full view of witnesses, no less," the commander said.

  "Ah, yes, that," Loft said.

  "That's right, that. What's your story about that then?" Cadogan asked.

  "We found a
gold medallion and link from a councilman's chain at the scene of Perl's murder, Sir. Sergeant Gurnt traced it back to Councillor Mohran who'd paid a goldsmith to have a replacement made to repair his broken chain of office. She went to his office to ask if he could shed some light on how part of his chain got into the room where a particularly gruesome murder was committed, and unfortunately, the councillor put his hand on her, and she was forced to defend herself," Loft explained.

  "She's always been a bloody troublemaker. We'll just have to hope he doesn't take it to the magistrates and request a tribunal," the commander sighed. Loft tried to remain impassive at that comment. How did the Commander of the City Watch know who Sergeant Gurnt was?

  "I'm sure he won't, Sir. We released him a while ago and…" Loft tailed off as the Commander's face flushed with anger.

  "Released him?" Cadogan cried out, rising to his feet, "What the bloody hell did you have him in custody for?"