"I need your help," said Simon.
Chapter Four
"What?"
The word stumbled out of my lips as if it had been pushed.
"I need your help," he said, he face fraught with worry. "I don't know anyone else I can come to who might know how to deal with this."
"Why?" I asked, checking over my shoulder. "After what happened on the Brave Eagle, I thought I might be an enemy of the state."
"It is precisely because of what happened on the Brave Eagle that I come to you," he said, taking his hat into his hands. His dusty brown hair sat haphazardly on his head, and I resisted the urge to fix it. "Whatever I thought before, my eyes have been opened. You saved the President and his wife, though they think otherwise."
I let my chest loosen. "I was worried about what you might have thought happened."
"What happened with that beast of a man? Did you kill him?" he asked.
"Martha put a saber through his gut and he fell from the airship," I said. "After he threw Anne Bingham out."
Simon sighed with relief. "I'm glad that creature is dead. I'd never faced such a beast, even on the battlefield. His visage haunts my dreams."
I nodded, holding back that I'd not found his body. I hoped the creature would return to whatever place he was from rather than stay on Muskrat Isle. I certainly wasn't going to check.
His face took on a troubled countenance. "So that cauldron was yours all along? Did you kill the thief in Ben's parlor?"
"No," I said. "The cauldron was someone else's, who's no longer with us. I commandeered it when I needed to reach the Brave Eagle."
He nodded and then seemed to see me for the first time, blinking and shaking his head as if in a dream.
"Your skin, your hair?" he asked.
A stone dropped in my gut. "A disguise," I said, smiling to hide my lie.
"No matter," he said, looking relieved to have a plausible explanation. "I'll shut my bone-box about that. Speaking of it only brings that troubling encounter to mind, and after what I've observed this morning, my thoughts are crowded enough with the specters of the harrowing and strange."
That the Warden was shaken by something he'd seen this morning worried me deeply. He'd survived the horrors of the battlefield without lasting scars.
"But why come to me?" I asked.
He ran a hand through his brown hair and looked to me, shadows in the corners of his gaze. "The cauldron, that man Koschei, the strange duck egg. These speak of eldritch or otherworldly things I know nothing about."
"I know nothing about them either," I said.
He held his hand up. "You need not protest. I will not judge, though the events of the last few weeks shine a light on the missteps of my courtship. I'm heartily glad that you're on our side."
My mouth opened and closed, unsure what to say. I wanted to ask what kind of being the Warden thought me, but decided it was better left unsaid. If he called me a demon or witch, I wouldn't know how to take it.
"I promise you, I'm only a woman of limited means," I said. "The events of the last few weeks tried me as they did you. Nor did I come out unscathed. But other issues that have come up that I must attend to, so I must decline."
Simon squeezed his hat, curling the side of it and making the peacock feather dance. "I beg of you. Anyone else would think me beetle-headed, or in my altitudes, and throw me out of my position if I were to explain what happened. I fear to let any of my deputies near the crime, lest they think me a party to it, let alone understand what happened in the first place."
I opened my mouth to deny him, to explain that I had troubles of my own—debts, Ben's ire, and the strange woman, Rowan Blade—but then I realized that with the passing of the Alien and Sedition Act, it would be good to have the Warden on my side. "I...accept. Can I meet you in an hour? I want to change out of these clothes."
Simon blew a breath out and looked visibly relieved. "Katerina, I am heartily in your debt for this service."
I raised an eyebrow. "Don't thank me yet, I may not offer anything of value."
"Even sharing this vision with you will bring my mind surcease to know that it is real and not a figment of my addled imagination," he said.
My curiosity, initially piqued, was quenched by his visible agitation at whatever had happened at the crime scene. He appeared unwilling or unable to explain, so I asked for the location and then politely took his leave.
Inside, Aught was nowhere to be found. I thought about changing the codes for the door in case he was a spy for Ben Franklin. It'd never been a concern before. It also worried me that Ben might throw me out. I resolved to leave nothing important in the house, though I wasn't ready to move the cauldron until the dark of night.
Every dress in my closet seemed inappropriate for investigating a crime scene, so I went to the spare room, finding that the cauldron returned, to dig into an old chest Ben had left in the house. I'd picked through it before, repurposing the garments from his children into functional printer clothes.
I threw the contents on the wood floor, knocking up dust. Ben's fabled fur hat, which he'd worn in Paris to amuse the ladies, had been in the bottom. He was a rogue when he wanted to be, and I suspect that earned him many a stolen kiss.
But delving in Ben's past wasn't my purpose. After a few minutes of sorting I found what I wanted. The black breeches that would have only gone past the knee on Ben fit comfortably, the length extending into my boots. I put on a black corset first. The airman's jacket, which had probably been acquired for his son William when he was a youth, conformed to my body perfectly. I thought about a rapier like Rowan Blade’s, but decided I would be scandalous enough without going armed.
I moved certain effects like the pistol, rapier, and a few changes of clothes to the steam carriage I'd stolen two weeks earlier. I also took what little monies I had and put them in a crack in the cushions. I wasn't ready to abandon the house, but I didn't want to be left wanting if Ben took it back.
I parked the vehicle a few blocks from Second Street, walking the remaining distance. The northeast part of the city was a poorer section with most of the buildings being apartments owned by the well-to-dos of the city.
Drying lines hung between windows of the three-story buildings. I knew from Ben the founder of the city, William Penn, had never intended for this many families to live on the lots. The western part of the city had more open space, but those without easy transport wanted to live within walking distance of their professions, and the factories on the north side employed many folks.
A rider meandered down the street on his roan mare, while his mount decorated the cobblestones with steaming manure. The street stunk of waste with so many families packed into one area. I could hear the crying of children above the clatter of hooves. A pack of boys in dirty breeches and wielding sticks chased a fleeing cat across the street, screaming like barbarians. A couple of the boys slowed when they saw me, but returned to the pursuit when I offered a wicked smile. I felt sorry for that poor cat that was the fox to their hounds.
I caught glances from others on the street, the most brazen from a gentleman with his wife looking dressed for church, who stopped and pointed. The contrasting expressions between husband and wife amused me as she made clear her disapproval with a pinched face.
Before I reached my destination, I passed a mother and daughter. It appeared the girl had injured herself. She held one arm gingerly with the other, the mother supporting the effort. The girl's eyes were swollen from crying though she was keeping a stoic expression. I hoped for the girl's sake that the injury wasn't severe, because judging by the dirty apron on the mother, they didn't have the coin for a real doctor and probably hurried to an apothecary or a saw-bones that could do more harm than good.
With a heavy heart, I found the Warden waiting on the next corner. He paced like an expecting father. He looked ready to admonish me for my tardiness, but then he seemed to realize I was his only hope. I had no delusions that I could help him, but I wasn't
going to let him know that.
"The landlord has kept this quiet," he said gravely. "So please don't raise a breeze about what you're about to see."
The echoes of our steps followed us up the steep incline to the third floor. The stairs were set between two buildings, so the landing was dark.
After my eyes adjusted, I could see that the upper half of the door had been broken in half, leaving an opening. The lower part was blocked. A steel crowbar rested against the brick wall.
"Simon," I said, and he flinched. If he was this worried, how bad would it be inside? "What happened with the governorship? Are you in the running?"
He gave a tight shake of the head. "I retracted my offer after the Brave Eagle. Mr. Bingham wanted me to stay on, but I declined, telling him the events of that night had unnerved me enough to make the ale-tender my second home."
"Did it?" I asked.
"It did, but I'm not fool enough to think spending my nights with a crooked elbow will erase those memories," he said. "But it was reason enough for Mr. Bingham to release me from my obligations."
"I'm sorry I doubted you," I said.
He flinched and rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't know you had."
Stupid mouth. "A misunderstanding."
Simon stuck his head through the opening and came back immediately, swallowing hard. "It's as I left it. I warn you to steel your girth upon viewing."
"Steel my girth," I said mockingly, patting my corset. "I have no choice."
I winked and he tried to smile, but it wouldn't cotton to the rest of his lips and sort of quivered on one corner.
Standing on the toes of my boots, I leaned my head through the hole. Beneath the broken door was a hardwood table. Two timbers stretched across the hallway to the wall, jamming the door closed. Whoever lived in the room had put up a formidable barricade.
Leaning my head to the far left, I could see through the gap to see a pair of dirty bare feet. The rest of the body was around the corner.
"Not much different from Ben's parlor," I quipped. "A room with a dead body. Not an everyday occurrence, but certainly not supernatural."
Simon frowned, his bushy mustache covering his lips.
"Give me a boost," I said.
Simon knelt down and held out his hands clasped like a stirrup. He lifted me up as I pulled myself through the opening, making me glad I hadn't worn a skirt.
Crouched on the table, I gave the Warden another wink. "You haven't said anything about my outfit."
"I was being polite," he said. "And I have other things on my mind."
"You should always take the time to comment on a lady's attire. The phrase you look lovely in that outfit would do nicely," I said, as I scrambled off the edge of the table.
From outside, I heard the Warden's voice croak, "You look lovely in that outfit," but at that same moment, my eyes fell upon the circumstance of the dead man in the apartment.
Death had come suddenly for this man, swiftly like dark wings. He'd been expecting it—that much was clear by the barricaded door and the sheets of wood over the lone window in the slender one-man apartment.
The body was stretched across the floor as if it were ready to be embalmed, arms splayed at the sides, chest facing upward. The head was missing. Like a mossy stone rolled down a hill, the head lay in the corner of the apartment next to the night soil bucket.
The eyes and cheeks of the head were sunken. The body could have been an item of scientific investigation for its surprising preservation.
I'd seen men beheaded in Moscow. When Pugachev rebelled against Catherine, she crushed the rebellion and had the leadership executed. Most were hung, but a few had their heads removed to show the severity of their crime, as if death wasn't enough.
While hangings were bloodless affairs, a beheading was entirely different. The executioner, usually a tall grim man capable of swinging an axe with grim ferocity, was doused in blood after the deed.
I stood in the middle of the small apartment, the flickering lantern light casting strange shadows on the walls, astounded by the lack of blood. Checking the corpse, I found bits of ochre crust around the neck where the head had been severed, but nothing to indicate anything more than a few drops had been spilled. It was as if the man had been desiccated before he'd been split at the neck.
The Warden climbed through the opening and joined me. We both stared at the body in silence.
The barefoot corpse lay on the floor in an orderly fashion. The arches of the feet were bent at an odd angle.
"It certainly smells like a dead body," I said, wrinkling my nose.
"Can you make sense of it?" he asked, with a tinge of desperation in his voice.
"Divide each difficulty into as many parts as is feasible and necessary to resolve it," I said.
Simon screwed up his face at me.
"Descartes," I replied to the implied question. "It means we should seek further understanding."
Simon rubbed his mustache, his forehead still stricken with confusion.
I sighed, remembering that while the Warden was an honest and good man, he was not a philosopher, nor had he spent his time with the thinkers of the Enlightenment.
"Better we look for small conclusions, that piece by piece help us assemble the greater truths," I said. "Worry less about what happened and more about what you can find."
He flinched, but eventually nodded and moved to the other part of the room and peered at a row of wooden cutlery on a shelf near the washing pot. I took the other side of the living space to investigate.
The apartment had been turned into a fortress, with each entry blocked and reinforced. A pile of wood planks and sheets sat in the corner along with a hammer, more nails, and some black paint. A store of food had been sequestered in the corner: dried meats, worm-eaten apples, a wheel of moldy cheese, dirty tubers, and a leather bag with a couple of dozen tiny beets.
The dead man's bed was nothing more than a cot with a misshapen, lumpy yellowed mattress stuffed with downy feathers. For fear of lice, I picked up a wooden spoon and poked the fabric, checking it for items hidden within, finding nothing.
A pair of workman's shoes sat beneath the bed. I fished them out with the spoon. A layer of dried mud was attached to their soles, and pieces fell off as I lifted them, examining the detritus. I picked grain seeds out and held them to the lantern light.
"He might be a hired hand on a farm," I said, showing Simon what I'd found.
Simon shook his head. "The landlord said he worked in the paper factory in Germantown. A steam carriage picked up the workers and brought them to the factory for paper making."
It was my turn to scowl. Not only about getting the profession wrong, but because of the reminder that my business was failing. I wished I had a few reams of paper from that factory, but the Bradford Paper Store wouldn't sell them to me, and in light of the recent passing of the Alien and Sedition Act, I doubted I'd be able to show my face in the store.
"Does he have a name?" I asked, placing the piece of dirt with the imbedded seed into my pocket.
Simon gave me a strange look. He had something on his mind but wasn't willing or able to say it. "Albert Hold."
Crouching on my heels, I picked a burr from Albert's sleeve. Other burrs were stuck to his tan trousers.
"Then it appears Albert recently went for a walk. Most of the farms are to the north, at least those surrounded by woods," I said.
"Could he have met the murderer there?" he asked.
I gave a little shoulder shrug and continued my investigation. The Warden pried back the wood sheet over the window and called me over as soon as he stuck his head out the hole.
Beneath the window, two stories down in the alleyway, lay seven or eight dead pigeons. Birdseed had been scattered around the yard. A dead cat was curled against a pile of slab stones that looked like they were being collected for a future retaining wall. A quick check inside the apartment found a bowl of seeds mixed with a black tarry material.
"
Rat poison," said Simon. "They use it on ships to keep the vermin down."
"He hates birds, it seems," I said. "Poor cat thought he had a free meal."
"Albert looks like he saw the dead come to life," said Simon, crouched over the head.
He had a point. The eyes were wide with surprise and the mouth sagged open.
"What could cut a man's head off so cleanly and steal his blood?" asked Simon.
"I think it's the other way around, otherwise there'd be a mess," I said. "What do you think killed him?"
It appeared that he didn't want to say, but then he swallowed and spoke. "A woman of the barrows. One of the bean-sidhe. I've heard they can float through walls and freeze a man dead."
"Where have you heard this?"
"The Irish cotter that lives beneath me," said Simon. "We share stories at the tavern."
"Why not a regular murder? Maybe he'd slept with a farmer's wife and expected revenge," I said.
"If that's all it was, I wouldn't have brought you here," he said, raising his voice. "Why won't you help me?"
"I'm trying," I said. "But I don't have much to work with."
Simon waved his hands around in the air. "I thought you might be able to do a spell, or sense something."
A heat rose to my face. I put my hands on my hips and squared myself to him. "What do you think I am?"
He took a step back, away from me, squashing the dead man's hand with his boot and nearly falling on top of the body.
"I saw you fly out of the airship in a cauldron," he said, sudden fear wracking his face. "If that's not magic, then I don't know what is."
I opened my mouth to refute him, but saw that it'd do no good. I couldn't say I would have believed me if it were the other way around, and it explained his jumpiness. Well, besides the presence of the dead body.
Then I noticed a feather that had been in the man's withered fist. When I stepped forward, Simon flinched again. I frowned and crouched down to retrieve the feather.
I held it vertically for the Warden. The feather was a deep purple, with accents of crimson. The shaft was as white as bone. It smelled like the deep forest, a place of moss-strangled stones and eternal dusk.
Birds of Prophecy (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 3) Page 3
