Escape to the Fringe (Fringe Chronicles Book 1)

by Adam Drake

  Fairfax shrugged. “Lots of crime recently, and not enough manpower.”

  I sighed and regarded the pile. “Let's have a quick check through these and see what stands out.” We split them between us, flipping through each. We stood while reading. Neither one of us wanted to sit in Oswall's chair. It didn't feel proper.

  As we read, constables trickled into the room. All either offered a warm greeting or gave a polite nod. Aware of our assignment they left us to our task.

  After three quarters of an hour we finished. Oswall's case load composed of four murder cases, six armed robberies and four burglaries of note. Nothing jumped out to either of us as something that would result in Oswall being turned to stone.

  “Well,” Fairfax said, looking a tad overwhelmed. “This is going to take considerable time.”

  “That is the conundrum, isn't it?” I said. “At first glance, there is nothing here that tells us that investigating any of these cases got him killed. It could be someone from an older case, from years ago. Or it might be someone who isn't even related to any case, whatsoever. An old enemy from his past, perhaps?”

  I sighed and Fairfax chewed at his bottom lip in thought.

  On a hunch I glanced inside my satchel. The knitting bag's brass clasp gleamed at me.

  “I think we may get a lead,” I said.

  “We might?” Fairfax asked.

  I grabbed the folders and fanned them across the tiled floor in two rows. Then I placed the satchel on Oswall's chair and opened it wide enough to expose the knitting bag.

  Fairfax took a step back.

  I chuckled. “You've seen me do this many times before, Fairfax. No need to worry.”

  “Yes, well, it's something that one never quite gets used to, eh?”

  “True”, I said, and touched the clasp with a finger.

  The knitting bag shook and yawned open. After a few moments the head of a cat emerged. It was silver this time, the same color as the coins in my purse. With multicolored eyes, it regarded me.

  I bent over and pointed at the files on the floor. “Which folder will lead to Oswall's killer.”

  The cat did not move nor did it blink. It continued to stare at me with multicolored eyes.

  After waiting a few moments I tried again. Sometimes I needed to be more specific.

  “Is there a case here that may lead to Detective Radley Oswall's attacker?”

  To my relief the silver cat blinked and turned to look at the folders. Then it leapt out of the bag and gracefully landed on the floor. Again, this cat was the same breed as the others, fluffy with a wide tail.

  It padded straight to one of the folders, turned around to face me, and sat on it.

  “It appears we have a lead after all,” Fairfax said with a slight smile.

  “Indeed,” I said.

  The silver cat stood and walked back to the chair. It jumped into the knitting bag and vanished. The clasp snapped shut and became wooden once more.

  I picked the folder up, and with Fairfax looking over my shoulder, read it.

  The date on at the top of the first page showed the case was initiated on July fourteenth, three days prior.

  It was a burglary at the High Garden Museum. The Head Curator, Aubert Othmar, reported several items missing from their vault, about twenty in all. Each one had an odd sounding name: Geggor's Tacticar, The Mullock, Brambles of Obsidian, etc.

  The next sheet contained Oswall's notes of the crime scene, along with a black-and-white photograph of an open vault. The vault was still full of items, most wrapped and tagged. The stolen objects had been stored in a small locked trunk within, and the trunk was missing. Nothing else was taken from the museum.

  Following procedure Oswall examined every door, window and obvious entryway but found nothing amiss.

  He then took the next step and interviewed the museum staff. There were eight individuals listed with scribbles by each name. No, no, no, maybe, nervous, pretty. By the curator's name, he had written, snob.

  But the last name caught my attention: Winimar Hubertus. But Oswall had only written 'Night Caretaker' beside it.

  “Well, now. We may have something,” I said to Fairfax. I showed him the piece of paper from the blotter with the name Hubertus on it.

  “A useless night caretaker, eh?” Fairfax said, ruminating.

  “Is there any other kind?” I said.

  The folder contained nothing else of note except empty forms which were to be filled in as the case progressed.

  “Not much here,” I said. “No details about the time of the burglary or the circumstances around it. He must not have gotten around to adding them yet.”

  “Whatever progress he made is in that notebook in his pocket.”

  “So,” I said. “We need to retrace his movements and see what can be found. At least now we know where to start.”

  “And that is?”

  I put the business card and piece of paper into the purse within my satchel, then held up the case file.

  “Let's take a trip to the museum.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The High Garden Museum was on a grassy plot of land at the west side of town. A huge building, it was several stories tall and made of flat gray brick rock. It had been a supply warehouse during the last great war, but now served a much more useful purpose.

  Several horse drawn carriages and auto buggies were waiting at its front entrance, and that is where Fairfax parked.

  I eyed the building, then withdrew a small pistol from my satchel and checked it was loaded.

  Fairfax arched a brow. “Expecting trouble already?”

  I gave Fairfax a point for not asking if I always carried it around. With such a long and successful career of throwing criminals in jail, the odds only increased that, even after many years, one of them may seek revenge.

  With the pistol back in the satchel I said, “I always expect trouble as a matter of course. But if that cat is right, whoever is responsible for Oswall's death is here. Or associated with it in some way. Best be prepared.”

  “Are those cats always correct?”

  The question gave me pause. No, not always, I thought.

  To Fairfax I said, “Think of them as giving us a nudge in the right direction.”

  “If a nudge gets us Oswall's killer, I'm all for it,” Fairfax said, and patted his holstered pistol with a grin.

  We left the buggy and ascended the wide stairs to the entrance. Large columns lined either side and cast shadows across our path. I wondered at the cost of the place.

  Cresting the top step we found the huge double doors of the front entrance closed. A stand in front had a sign which read 'Closed for the day. Will be open tomorrow promptly at 9 a.m.'.

  “Well, this isn't helpful,” Fairfax said.

  I noticed a bell rope in a nook next to the doors and pulled it. From within could be heard the faint sound of chimes. We waited.

  A man pushing a broom rounded one corner of the building. He wore a simple brown janitor's uniform with a flat hat. Upon seeing us he approached. “Ain't no one inside now,” the man said.

  “We're here to see the Curator,” said Fairfax. “Is he around?”

  The janitor leaned on his broom and pushed up his cap. “Sorry, Mister Othmar is in the Capital. Should be back by airship some time around afternoon tea.”

  “Capital?” I said.

  “Yeah,” said the janitor. “Got himself in a spot of trouble with the central museum there.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I said.

  “His big bosses wanted to rake him over hot coals on account of the burglary,” he said. Then he looked about and leaned closer. “If you ask me, it would do Mister Othmar good to have a talking to from his betters.”

  “Why is that?” I said.

  “Well, he's a bit of snob, is all,” the janitor said. “Needs to be taken down a peg or two. But you didn't hear that from me.”

  “Not to worry,” I said. “We wanted to talk to him about the bu
rglary. Were you here when it happened, by chance?”

  The janitor's eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath the rim of his cap. “Me? No, not at all. Happened at night. I was home in bed then, I was. You can ask my missus if you don't believe me. And that's what I told that detective fellow when he was here.”

  I offered a warm smile. “Are there any other employees here that we can speak with?”

  He shook his head. “No ma'am. Everyone's at home or getting into their drink. Just me here, unfortunately. Could use a drink myself.”

  Fairfax asked, “Where can we find Winimar Hubertus? Do you know where he lives?”

  Again, the janitor looked surprised. “The night caretaker? Didn't the detective tell you? Hubertus is still laid up in the hospital, last I heard. Doubtful he's recovered so soon.”

  Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Hospital? Was he hurt during the burglary?”

  “Nah, not hurt. Not really,” the janitor said. “He was asleep when Mister Othmar opened the doors in the morning. Sprawled out on the floor like a drunk soldier after the Victory Day celebrations. But it turned out he wasn't drunk at all. Heard he was spelled to sleep. Been that way close to three or four days now.”

  I glanced at Fairfax. It would have been nice to have that little detail in the report. To the janitor I said, “He's at the Primary Hospital, I presume?”

  “Yeah, that's the only one with a Warding Master who can work the spell outta him.”

  I nodded and said, “Very good. We will go see if the poor man is awake then. If you would be so kind as to inform Mister Othmar that we will call on him later?”

  “Of course, Miss,” the janitor said.

  After giving him our names we returned to the buggy. Once inside Fairfax said, “Spelled asleep? That's peculiar.”

  “And getting turned to stone is less peculiar?” I said.

  “No, not what I meant,” he said, scratching his bushy mustache. “Why would this Hubertus be put to sleep, but Oswall turned to stone?”

  “True,” I said. Then it hit me. “Unless we are dealing with two culprits working together.”

  Fairfax gave me a look. “Or we have two separate and unrelated cases. You sure those cats of yours can be trusted not to lead us astray?”

  I did not point out Fairfax's unintentional pun. “They have given us our only lead. Or do you prefer to go back to the office and pick a case folder at random?”

  Fairfax sighed and looked apologetic. “I don't mean to be gruff, Mayra. Just concerned we may well be wasting our time.” He started the buggy and pulled out into the street.

  It was then I realized two things. I'd moved a protective hand over the knitting bag while we spoke, and Fairfax had called me Mayra for the first time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Primary Hospital was of the same dull architecture as the museum, but much bigger with two wide wings and towered over four stories.

  We parked out front and went in. A harried nurse directed us to the floor Winimar's room was located. I found the stairs too steep for a hospital, or I was just getting too old to climb them.

  His room was at the furthest end, and as we approached the sound of voices could be heard. “Ain't right is what I'm saying,” said a woman. “He can't just do that to you. Not after what you've been through.”

  A man answered. “Don't worry about it. I'll get Blythe to smooth it out, okay?”

  To Fairfax I said, “He's awake?” Fairfax shrugged. We moved to stand in the open doorway.

  Inside a man was lying in a small bed, the covers pulled up to his chest, and wearing a hospital gown tied at his neck.

  Beside him, a short blonde woman sat on a stool. She was blue, or at least everything she wore was. Sky blue blouse, sky blue skirt, sky blue hat. Even her little purse was the same sky blue.

  Both of them looked up at us in surprise.

  “Beg your pardon, but is this the room of Winimar Hubertus?” I asked.

  Both of them stared at us for a few seconds, neither speaking. As if trying to decide if they should answer.

  The man cleared his throat. “I'm Winimar Hubertus. Might I ask who you are?”

  I stepped into the little room. Fairfax stood in the doorway, blocking it while trying not to look like that was his intent.

  “Mister Hubertus. My name is Mayra Beeweather, and this is Constable Fairfax. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

  “Well, I think -,” Hubertus said before the woman in blue interrupted.

  “Don't say nothing without a lawyer present, Win,” she said and glared at Fairfax. “I don't like the looks of that one.”

  Winimar pulled himself up into a sitting position and said, “Why not? I've done nothing wrong. Can't hurt to speak with these fine police folk, now can it?” He gave me an inquisitive look. “You are police aren't you?”

  Inwardly I sighed. “Yes, I am the Acting Detective for this case.” If Fairfax wasn't playing his role he would have grinned.

  The blue woman looked me over. “Acting, eh? What happened to the other detective that came round before? Oswall was it? He got himself fired for drinking on the job?” She turned to Winimar and said, “That man stank of whiskey and chips. You would have gotten along with him.”

  Winimar sighed, “Pasha, please. That is not called for.”

  I considered the response. If I mentioned that Oswall was dead, these two would become even more alarmed and clam up shut. Then I'd have to wait to speak with Winimar through a lawyer. There was no time for such nonsense.

  “Detective Oswall is no longer on the case. I've taken over.” To the blue lady I said, “Your name is Pasha, is it?”

  She frowned at me. “That's right. Pasha Hubertus. His wife. Third, actually. And he won't be needing for another wife after me. Ain't that right, Win?”

  Winimar rolled his eyes. He said, “Is this about my being spelled? I woke up just a few hours ago. Slept all these days! Bit of a farce that.”

  “Yes. I understand that was what happened,” I said and removed paper and a pencil from my satchel to take notes. “Could you tell us what happened that night? If you can remember.”

  “Oh, I remember,” Winimar said. “Was making my rounds as usual. One circuit of the museum at the top and bottom of each hour. Every hour from nine at night until six in the morning until Mister Othmar opens the front doors.”

  “They don't pay him enough for that kind of boring work,” Pasha said. “Can make someone go crazy walking in circles all night.”

  I wanted to keep Winimar talking. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, I was making my rounds at about half past midnight and I needed to take a quick break. I walked to the lavatory which is between the Third and Fourth Era war displays. And as I rounded the corner to head down the hall, something caught my eye.”

  “They should have given you a pistol, is what they should have done,” interrupted Pasha. She looked agitated.

  “I don't need no pistol,” Winimar said to her. “If there's any trouble I just pull an alarm and run like a Mudhump caught digging through the trash. If I had a pistol I'd probably just shoot myself in the foot.”

  Again, I redirected Winimar. “Something caught your eye?”

  “Right. I looked over at the wax figure of General Tykish on his horse. And there was movement behind the General. Like a shadow or something.”

  Pasha said, “It's a good display, that. Even though Tykish messed it up and lost the battle, the display is quite pleasing to look at.”

  “A shadow?” I said to Winimar.

  “Yeah. So I stopped and said 'Who goes there!' My heart was thumping right mad in my chest. I might be the night caretaker but I ain't no hero like Kadmik the Adventurer.”

  Pasha's eyes shot wide open. “Oh, now Kadmik makes for a good display!”

  “Hush, now, Pash,” Winimar said, giving his tone a rough edge. “I'm talking to the detective.”

  Pasha went silent and sulked.

 
Winimar said, “Anyway, I shouted out and imagine my surprise when the shadow answered back!”

  “What did it say?” I said.

  “Well, that's the thing. I dunno. Fell asleep, I figure, right there and then. Next thing I know, I wake up in this here bed with my Pasha at my side.” He took his wife's hand, and they smiled at each other.