by Adam Drake
“Of course,” I said. I felt for Fairfax. He was a true sworn protector and always made excuses when something lacking of Protection Services became obvious.
No doubt he made constant excuses.
I exited the buggy, satchel clutched close to my side and looked at the place. Old and perfunctory. Like me. I smiled at my own dull humor.
Fairfax noticed and arched a questioning brow as he opened the Constabulary's back door. “Care to share the joke?”
A shook my head. “No, Fairfax. Just a bit of gas.” This time I chuckled and feared Fairfax thought I'd lost my mind.
Inside, the tiled floor gleamed brightly, reflecting the sunlight which passed through huge bay windows.
I squinted, surprised. “This is new,” I said.
“Chief Constable fought hard for it to get done but the Council refused to approve any funds. In the end, the Chief called on a few favors and finished it a few weeks ago.”
I could hear a mix of pride and frustration in his voice. I said no more.
The Sergeant Constable stood at a counter in front of the wide open doorway which led into the main room of the Constabulary. His job was to field queries which came through and direct them accordingly.
He beamed once he spotted me.
“Detective Beeweather! You are a welcome sight. How have you been if I may enquire?”
“Still alive, Sergeant Maginhart. But please, no Detective, just Miss Beeweather,” I said and felt a flush across my cheeks. Gannon Maginhart was one of the longest serving constables in the service. And he was quite handsome, too.
Gannon grinned. “Of course. Miss it is.” I took pleasure in noticing he did not glance at my satchel. Either he didn't care or made an effort show it. Regardless, I appreciated the gesture.
Gannon held a pen over the large log book in front of him. “Should I write you down as Acting Detective, then?”
Fairfax answered for me. “Please put her as a consultant, will you Maginhart?” He knew another title might cause a dust up with a review board.
“Very well,” Sergeant Maginhart said and made a scribble on the thick parchment.
I spotted a tin of biscuits on Maginhart's desk. “May I?” I asked.
“Please, help yourself.”
I snatched up a biscuit and made a point of giving Fairfax a smug look while I chewed it down.
“Chief back, yet?” Fairfax asked, trying to ignore me.
“No. He went back to the scene,” Maginhart said and a sad expression crossed his handsome face.
“Did Oswall make any official log entries in the last few days?” I asked.
Maginhart shook his head. “I already checked. Nothing for over three months, and that time was to log a sick day. To be honest, I think it was to recover from a hangover.”
I frowned. “Okay, thank you.”
We passed through into the inner sanctum. As I looked around I was hit with a wave of memories.
The huge room, or the 'kennel', as the constables liked to refer to it, was lined with large windows. Twelve desks, in three rows, made up most of the decorum. Cabinets, filled with case files and paperwork, took up every available space. Books and file folders were piled everywhere, some threatening to spill over at the slightest touch. Several doorways were at the back leading to a small kitchen area, and the Chief Constable's office. A door to the armory was closed and locked.
Rock lights, now dark, hung over each desk from the high ceiling. More rock lights protruded at intervals along the wall.
The place smelled of must and paper and old overcoats. I often thought of the Constabulary as a lair for justice. Cases were launched from here and suspects pursued.
I worked here many years. Often spending more time under these rock lights than the ones in my own house.
As much as I did not want to admit it this had been my home for a very long time.
I must have been standing in a daze before realizing Fairfax was speaking to me.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I smiled and blinked away the start of a tear. “Yes. Yes, of course.” I cleared my throat. “Is he still at the same desk?”
“Yes, last one on the right.”
We walked to it and I glanced at each desk. Case files, photographs, paper, mugs half filled with morning tea. Once the call came in that Radley had been found everyone left in a hurry.
Oswall's desk looked different than the rest. It was very clean, devoid of any clutter. Several dip pens in a small cup, a fat little ink bottle, several reference books lined up neat on one corner, and a small hunched rock light. A wide ink blotter took up most of the desk space and tucked within its edge folder were two pieces of paper.
I looked around in mild surprise. “Where are his case files? They should be here.” Each constable had a stack of active case files on their desk. Oswall, as the Constabulary's only active detective, was assigned the high-ticket items; high profile robberies and murders.
Fairfax thought a moment and said, “The Chief must have been looking at them. I'll see.” He vanished into the Chief's office.
I picked up one of the papers stuck in the blotter. I recognized Oswall's loopy scrawl across one side of it. 'Hubertus – useless'. The other side was a large question mark.
The name Hubertus derived from the north-eastern region but was too common to pin down to one individual.
I took the other piece of paper and discovered it to be a business card. Rousset's Tomes & Books of Rarity, Misael Rousset Owner & Proprietor. The address was on a street off Stage Court, near the center of town. On the back of the card in Oswall's writing was a name, underlined: Elicia Ipthorn.
Fairfax emerged from the Chief's office with a stack of folders. “Here they are,” he said as he set them down on the desk.
I counted them. Fourteen. “This was his active case load?” I asked, a little perplexed. That was an absurd amount to be given to a single detective. During my tenure there would be half as much, at most.
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 burglary. 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?”
&
nbsp; “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?”
