Old Tin Sorrows

by Glen Cook

  “I don’t think I could swing that. One outsider here has the place in an uproar already.”

  “Yeah. It’s a regular busted-up beehive.” Our walk to isolation hadn’t shown me a single body in motion. “It was just a suggestion. You want to know something, you get the answer from somebody who knows.”

  “I’ll give it a shot.”

  “The business about the thefts. Is it real? The cook thinks it’s all in the General’s imagination.”

  “It’s not. She’d think that. Back when we first came here he did have a spell when he imagined things. She doesn’t get out of the kitchen much and she has a few loose threads herself. Most of the time she doesn’t know what year it is.”

  “She tried to draft me as kitchen help.”

  “She would. Gods! I remember your cooking.”

  “I remember what I had to work with. Muskrats and cattail roots. And bugs for garnish.”

  He grunted, almost smiled again.

  “Don’t tell me. You can’t have fond memories of those days.”

  “No, Garrett. Even lifers aren’t that crazy. I don’t miss that part.” He shuddered.

  “Eh? What?”

  “Bad rumor. They may call up the veterans to run Glory Mooncalled down.”

  I laughed.

  “What’s so damned funny?”

  “Best joke I’ve heard in weeks. You know how many people that takes in? Every human male in the population over twenty-five. You think any of them would go without a fuss? A call-up like that would start a revolution.”

  “Maybe. You think it could be poison?”

  “I suppose. Assume it is. Speculate.”

  “I don’t know anything about poisons. How could it be given to him?”

  I’m not an expert, but I have a professional interest and keep my ears open when such things are discussed. “It could be in his food or drink. It could be dusted into his bed so it would seep through his skin. It could even be in the air he breathes. Looking for ‘how’ can be a dead end unless you know ‘what.’ Better to look at the people. Who has access?”

  “Everybody, one way or another.”

  “Take it a step farther. Who’d profit? If somebody’s killing him, that somebody has to have a reason. Right?”

  He grunted. “Obviously whoever’s doing it believes he has. I’ve been trying to figure that out from the beginning. And I can’t come up with one.”

  I didn’t have any trouble. “What’s the estate worth? Who does it go to?”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Jennifer gets half. The other half gets divided amongst the rest of us.”

  “Give me a value in gold marks. Just a guess. Then ask yourself what some people might do for a share of that.”

  “Three million for the house?” He shrugged. “A million for the contents. Two or three million for the real estate. He was offered three for the two north sections last year. He was tempted because he’s strapped for cash and he wants to set Jennifer up so she’s fixed for life, no matter what she does.”

  “Three million for just part of the property?”

  “Somebody wanted the land near the city. But the offer was withdrawn because he dithered. They bought a tract from the Hillmans instead. For less money.”

  “No bad feelings?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  I did some rough division in my head. I came up with around a hundred thousand marks each for the minority heirs. I knew guys who’d cut a hundred thousand throats for that kind of money. So there was a motive—assuming somebody was in a hurry to get his share.

  “Everybody know they’re in the will?”

  “Sure. The old man used to make a big deal of it. How if you didn’t toe the mark you blew your share.”

  Ha! “Cook mentioned a Candy . . . ”

  “Not him. He’s long gone. He wouldn’t have the balls, either. He wasn’t even human. Wasn’t in the will, either. Wasn’t one of the guys the old man brought home with him. He was one of the crew who managed the place while the General was in the Cantard.”

  “She mentioned a Harcourt who got in trouble for bringing girlfriends home.”

  “Harcourt?” He frowned. “I guess he got fed up with what he thought were chickenshit rules. He just took off about six months back. The old man cut him out. He’d know that. So there’s nothing for him to gain. Let alone we’d see him around here.”

  “We may have to back off and go at this from another angle, Sarge.”

  “Eh?”

  “What have I got to go on? Your feelings. But every time I ask you a question you make it sound more like there’s nobody who’d want him dead. And nobody who’d profit from it since everybody’s getting a cut anyway. We can’t hang up a solid motive. And means and opportunity are limited.”

  “You’re sneaking up on something.”

  “I’m wondering if maybe he isn’t just dying of stomach cancer. Wondering if maybe you shouldn’t hire a doctor instead of me till you know what’s killing him.”

  He didn’t answer for a few minutes. I was talked out. We walked. He brooded and I studied the grounds. Somebody had farmed the fields last summer. There was nobody in them now. I glanced at the sky. They’d thrown on a few more slabs of lead and added icicles to the breeze. Winter was coming back.

  “I tried, Garrett. Two months ago. Somebody leaked it to the old man. The doc never got through the front door.”

  The way he said “somebody” I guessed he knew who. I asked.

  He didn’t want to say. “Who, Sarge? We can’t pick and choose our suspects.”

  “Jennifer. She was in on the plot but she defected. She’s a strange girl. Her big goal in life is to win some gesture of love and approval. And the old man doesn’t know how. He’s scared of her. She grew up while he was away. It doesn’t help that she looks a lot like her mother. Her mother died—”

  “Cook told me that story.”

  “She would. That old hag knows everything and tells anyone who’ll listen. You ought to move into the kitchen.”

  We walked some more, headed south now, circling the house.

  Peters said, “Maybe we have a communication problem. The deeper you get in the more you’ll think the mess is imaginary. The old man has crazy spells. He does think people are out to get him when they’re not. That’s what makes this diabolical. Unless somebody sticks a knife in him in front of everybody, nobody’s going to believe he’s in danger.”

  I grunted. I had a friend, Pokey Pigotta, in the same line as me. He’s dead now. But once he’d had a case that worked that way. A crazy old woman with a lot of money, always down with imaginary illnesses and besieged by imaginary enemies. Pokey discounted her fears. Her son did her in. Pokey was haunted by that one. “I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “That’s all I ask. Stick with it. Don’t let it get to you.”

  “Sure. But we could shortcut everything if we could get a few experts in.”

  “I said I’d try. Don’t hold your breath. It was hard enough selling you.”

  We continued our circuit of the grounds. At one point we passed near a graveyard. “Family plot?” I asked.

  “For three hundred years.”

  I glanced at the house. It brooded down on us from that point. “It doesn’t look that old.”

  “It isn’t. There was an earlier house. Check the outbuildings in back. You can still see some of its foundations. They tore it down for materials to build the outbuildings after the new house went up.”

  I supposed I’d have to give them the once-over. You have to go through all the motions. You have to leave no stone unturned, though already, intuitively, I was inclined to think the answer lay inside the big house—if there was an answer.

  Peters read my mind. “If I’m fooling myself and we’ve just got an old man dying, I want to know that, too. Check?”

  “Check.”

  “I’ve spent more time with you than I should. I’d better get back to work.”

  “Where do I find
you if I need you?”

  He chuckled. “I’m like horse apples. I’m everywhere. Catch as catch can. A problem you’ll have with everybody, especially during poacher season. Cook’s the only one who stays in one place.”

  We walked toward the house, passing through a small orchard of unidentifiable fruit trees with a white gazebo at its center, climbed a slope, went up the steps to the front door. Peters went inside. I paused to survey the Stantnor domains. The cold wind gnawed my cheeks. The overcast left the land colorless and doleful, like old tin. I wondered if it was losing life with its master.

  But there would be a spring for the land. I doubted there would be for the old man. Unless I found me a poisoner.

  6

  I heard Black Pete’s footsteps fading as I stepped into the great hall. The light was dimming there. The place seemed more deserted and gloomy than ever. I went to the fountain, watched our hero work out on his dragon, thought about what to do next. Explore the house? Hell. I was cold already. Why not look at those outbuildings and be done with it?

  I felt eyes on me as I moved. Already habituated, I checked the nearest shadows. The blonde wasn’t there. Nobody was, anywhere. Then I glanced up.

  I caught a flicker on the third floor balcony, east side. Somebody ducking out of sight. Who? One of the majority I hadn’t yet met? Why they wouldn’t want to be seen was a puzzle. I’d see everyone sooner or later.

  I took myself out the back door.

  Immediately behind the house lay a formal garden sort of thing that I’d paid no heed before. Peters had wanted to get away where we could talk. I gave it a look now.

  There was a lot of fancy stonework, statues, fountains, pools that had been drained because at that time of year water tends to freeze. Ice would break the pool walls. There were hedges, shaped trees, beds for spring and summer plantings. It could be impressive in season. Right then it just seemed abandoned and haunted by old sorrows.

  I paused at the hedge bounding the north end of the garden, looked back. The vista seemed a ghost of another time.

  At least one someone was watching me from a third floor window in the west wing.

  Keep that in mind, Garrett. Whatever you do, wherever you go, somebody is going to be watching.

  Twenty feet behind the hedge was a line of poplars. They were there to mask the outbuildings, so the practical side of life wouldn’t offend the eyes of those who lived in the house. The rich are that way. They don’t want to be reminded that their comfort requires sweaty drudge labor.

  There were half a dozen outbuildings of various shapes and sizes. Stone was the main structural material, though it wasn’t stone that matched that in the big house. The stable was obvious. Somebody was at work there. I heard a hammer pounding. There was a second structure for livestock, presumably cattle, maybe dairy cattle. It was nearest me and had that smell. The rest of the buildings, including a greenhouse off to my right, had the look of protracted neglect. Way to the left was a long, low building that looked like a barracks. It also looked like nobody had used it for years. I decided to start with the greenhouse.

  Not much to see there except that someone had spent a fortune on glass and then hadn’t bothered to keep the place up. A few panes were broken. The framework that had been white once needed paint desperately. The door stood open a foot and sagged on its hinges. I had trouble pushing it back enough to get inside.

  No one had been in there for a long time. The place had gone to weeds. The only animal life I saw was a scroungy, orange, feral cat. She headed for cover when she saw me.

  The building next on the left was small, solid, and very much in use. It turned out to be a wellhouse, which explained why it looked like it handled a lot of traffic. A place this size would consume a lot of water—though I’d have thought they’d pipe it in from a reservoir.

  The stable was the next building over. I gave it a skip. I’d talk to whoever was there after I finished snooping. Next over was a smaller building filled with a jungle of tools and farm implements with an air of long neglect. There was another cat in there, a lot of mice, and from the smell, a regiment of bats. There’s nothing like the stink of lots of bats.

  Next up was the barn and, yes, that’s what it was. Bottom level for the animals, dairy and beef. Top level for hay, straw, and feed. Nobody around but the cows and a few more cats. I figured there must be owls, too, because I didn’t smell bats. The place needed maintenance. The cows weren’t friendly, unfriendly, or even curious.

  The day was getting on. The gloom was getting thick. I figured I’d better get on with it and save the detail work for later. Supper would be coming up soon.

  The building I’d thought looked like a barracks was probably for seasonal help. It was about eighty yards long, had maybe fifteen doors. The first I looked behind showed me a large, dusty bunkroom. The next opened on smaller quarters divided into three rooms, a bigger one immediately inside and two half its size behind it. The next several doors opened on identical arrangements. I guessed these were apartments for workers with families. Trouble was, there was a lot of waste space between doors, space unaccounted for.

  The far end of the barracks had a kitchen the size of the bunkroom. Its door was on the other side of the building. Glancing along that face, I saw more doors, which explained the missing space. The apartments faced alternate directions. I stepped into the kitchen, a windowless, cheerless place that would have been depressing at the best of times. I left the door propped open for light.

  There was little to see but dust and cobwebs and cooking utensils that hadn’t been touched in years. Another place nobody had visited in a long time. I was surprised the stuff was still lying around. TunFaire and its environs have no shortage of thieves. All this stuff had some market value.

  A gold mine that hadn’t been discovered?

  The door slammed shut.

  “Damned wind,” I muttered, and edged my way through the darkness, trying to remember what was lying in ambush between it and me.

  I heard somebody secure the rusty hasp.

  Not the wind. Somebody who didn’t want to be my friend.

  Not a good situation, Garrett. This place was far from where anybody had any business. The walls were thick stone. I could do a lot of yelling and nobody would hear. The door was the only way out and the only source of light.

  I found the door, ran my hands over it, pushed gently, snorted. I stepped back a few feet and kicked hard.

  The hasp ripped out of the dry, ancient wood. I charged through with a ready knife, saw nobody. I roared around the end of the barracks. And still saw nobody.

  Damn! I leaned against the building and gave it a think. Something was going on, even if it wasn’t what Black Pete thought.

  Once I settled down, I went back to the kitchen door and looked for tracks. There were signs that somebody had been around, but the light was so poor, I couldn’t do anything with them.

  So. Nothing to do about it now. Might as well go to dinner and see who was surprised to see me.

  7

  I was late. I should have explored the house. I didn’t know where we’d eat so I went to the kitchen. I waited there till Cook turned up. She gave me a high-power glower. “What you doing in here?”

  “Waiting to find out where we eat?”

  “Fool.” She loaded up. “Grab an armful and come on.”

  I did both. She shoved through swinging doors into a big pantry, marched through that and out another swinging door.

  The dining room was a dining room. The kind where a guy can entertain three hundred of his closest friends. Most of it was dark. Everybody was seated at one corner table. The decor was standard for the house, armor and edged steel.

  “There,” Cook said. I presumed she meant the empty place. I settled my load on an unused part of the table, sat.

  Wasn’t much of a crowd. Dellwood and Peters and the brunette I’d caught rifling my duffel bag, plus three guys I hadn’t met. And Cook, who planted herself across from me.
The General couldn’t make it, apparently. There weren’t any other places set.

  The girl and guys I hadn’t met looked me over. The men looked like retired Marines. Surprise, surprise. The girl looked good. She’d changed into her vamping clothes.

  Garrett, you dog . . . The thought fled. This one gave off something sour. She was radiating the come-and-get-it and my reaction was to back off. Here was trouble on the hoof. What was it Morley said? Don’t never fool around with a woman who’s crazier than you are?

  Maybe I was growing up.

  Sure. And tomorrow morning pigs would be swooping around like swallows.

  I didn’t plan to outgrow that for about another six hundred years.

  Peters said, “This is Mike Sexton. He was with me in the islands about ten years back. Mike, Cook.” He indicated the troll-breed woman.

  “We’ve met.”

  “Miss Jennifer, the General’s daughter.”

  “We’ve also met.” I rose and reached across, offering my hand. “Didn’t get the chance before. You had both of yours in my duffel bag.”

  Cook chuckled. Jennifer looked at me like she wondered if I’d taste better roasted or fried.

  “You’ve met Dellwood. Next to him is Cutter Hawkes.”

  Hawkes was too far off to shake. I nodded. He nodded. He was a lean rail of a character with hard gray eyes and a lantern jaw, middle fifties, tough. He looked more like a fire-and-brimstone prophet than an old soldier. Like a guy with the sense of humor of a rock.

  “Art Chain.” The next guy nodded. He had a monster black mustache going gray, not much hair on top, and was thirty pounds over his best weight. His eyes were beads of obsidian. Another character who was allergic to laughter. He didn’t bother to nod. He was so happy to see me he could just shit.

  “Freidel Kaid.” Kaid was older than the General, maybe into his seventies. Lean, slow, one glass eye and the other one that didn’t work too good. His stare was disconcerting because the glass eye didn’t track. But he didn’t look like a man who had spent his whole life trying not to smile. In fact, he put one on for me when Peters said his name. He was the guy I’d seen stoking the fire in the General’s quarters.