by Dave Duncan
“I can tell you a little.” Leatherdale did not close his notebook. “The preliminaries you already know. When Smedley’s parents called him back from Paris, Exeter returned also. He apparently found himself with nowhere to go, but he had a standing invitation to visit Greyfriars Grange…. Where did he normally spend his holidays, when his parents were alive?”
“Here,” Jones said quietly. “He has lived at Fallow since he was twelve, except for a few odd breaks, such as OTC camp or school outings or visiting his friends. Many of our boys are children of parents living overseas. Other parents will often take pity on their sons’ chums in such case—invite them to stay over Christmas, for example.”
“Never with his uncle?”
“Rarely. I gathered that the experience was always mutually unpleasant.”
Leatherdale made a note. “And as an old boy, he could not just return to Fallow?”
Jones shook his head sadly. “Inspector! He had just left school! Don’t you remember how huge that milestone loomed in your own life? Even if the alternative was his friend’s charity…The raven had been released from the ark!”
Interesting point, Leatherdale thought. The youth must have been in an agitated state of mind. His uncle had been surprised to learn he was back in England.
“Exeter telegraphed to the Bodgleys from Paris and was accepted. He arrived yesterday.” Watching carefully, he continued. “I can outline the statement released to the newspapers. General Bodgley’s household at Greyfriars Grange was awakened shortly after midnight this morning by the sound of an altercation in the kitchen quarters. Investigation revealed Mr. Edward George Exeter injured and unconscious, and the mortal remains of Mr. Timothy Fitzjohn Bodgley. Foul play is suspected.”
“Good God!” All the color drained from Jones’s face, leaving a parchment marred by brown age spots. He licked his lips and even his tongue seemed pale. “Dead! How?”
“The nature of his injuries is not being released, sir.”
“Inspector! I have known these boys for years. They are my friends and my life’s work and until last week they were my wards!”
Leatherdale decided to trust him. It might prove to be an indiscretion, but he was in charge of the investigation. He had the right to make his own mistakes. “In strict confidence, then, sir? I do not wish the press to get its hands on this.”
Jones licked his lips. “I may tell Dr. Gibbs when he returns?”
“That would be in order. Exeter fell or was thrown down the cellar steps. He sustained the injuries I mentioned. Bodgley had been stabbed to death with a carving knife.”
Jones’s mouth moved for a while before he croaked, “Just the two of them there?”
“That is implied in the official statement. I cannot say any more, sir.”
“But why in Heaven?…”
“Motive? A good question. Why should two young men raid a kitchen at that time of night? Since the cellar is used to store the general’s wine, we might speculate that they were after more than a cup of tea.”
“I suppose some such prank is not impossible,” Jones admitted hoarsely.
“If it was a prank, it rapidly became something else.” Leatherdale waited hopefully, but if Jones guessed what he wanted to hear, he did not oblige. Pity. Leatherdale was curious to know which one of the two had started the hanky-panky and which had resisted. In spite of his considerable advantage in height and weight, Exeter’s only possible defense was self-defense. It would not get him off or even reduce the charge to manslaughter, but it might wring a recommendation of mercy out of a sympathetic jury.
He closed his notebook. He had an open-and-shut case. He had failed to uncover a motive, but the Crown was not obliged to establish motive. At the next assizes, learned counsel would explain to the jury how Exeter had stabbed his friend and then, in a panicky attempt to flee from the scene of the crime, had fallen down the cellar steps.
The defense would drag in the vague reports of a woman screaming—they would not be able to explain her disappearance through doors bolted on the inside. They were welcome to propose that Bodgley had thrown his guest into the cellar and subsequently thrust a steel carving knife in his own back so hard that he had nailed himself to a teak draining board.
The jury would deliberate and then the judge would don the black cap to order Edward George Exeter hanged by the neck.
Suddenly Leatherdale was seized by a frightful desire to yawn. It was time to go. He could do no more good at Fallow, if indeed he had done any good at all. He should be grateful for a rare opportunity—the thrill of a murder investigation without the tedious follow-up, for it would all be taken out of his hands by tomorrow at the latest. He had everything he needed to brief Scotland Yard when the Old Man came to his senses. Even if the Old Man didn’t, Robinson should be back by then, if he could find his way through Bank Holiday traffic.
A telephone rang somewhere in the distance.
“That is probably the press already,” he said wearily. “I advise you not to say anything at all.” He levered himself out of the chair. “If you will look out for those notes you mentioned, sir?”
Jones stayed where he was, staring up at his visitor as if felled by shock. When he spoke, though, it was obvious that he had been thinking hard. “The general’s son was murdered in his own house and yet he, as chief constable, is titular head of the investigation? Is he not placed in an impossible situation, Inspector?”
“Awkward, sir. I expect he will call in Scotland Yard in due course.”
When he came to his senses, he would—or when he was allowed to, for Leatherdale had a strong suspicion that the formidable Mrs. Bodgley was meddling in police business.
“The Home Secretary may have something to say when he hears of it, I shouldn’t wonder,” Jones said drily. His eyes were invisible behind white reflections again. The instant Leatherdale left the building, David Jones would be on the phone to some senior members of the board of governors.
“Not up to me to question orders, sir.”
The two men stared at each other.
“I don’t envy you, Inspector,” the schoolmaster said softly.
Leatherdale sensed the offer of the Old Boys’ Network. “We all do our duty as best we can, sir.”
Jones scratched his beard. “Normally, of course, the Home Secretary’s sacred weekend would never be disturbed by anything as petty as willful homicide. But I’m afraid times are not normal. The Cabinet is in almost continuous session because of the crisis. On a weekend? Incredible! On August Bank Holiday weekend in particular? Epochal! It may take a little time for Whitehall to catch up on routine matters, you realize?”
Leatherdale had not even thought of that. What the damned Frogs and Huns and Wops got up to on the Continent was their business, and he hoped His Majesty’s Government would keep the country out of it. Let them all kill one another off, as far as he was concerned. But he realized that this snotty French master had made a good point. If Bodgley continued to behave like an idiot, then London might not crack the whip over him as fast as it normally would.
“I expect you’re right, sir. Now—”
“If you had evidence of an intruder, you would not have come here today!”
“I really am not at liberty to comment further, sir.”
Why was the schoolmaster smirking?
“Are you familiar with our burglary, Inspector?”
“Your burglary, Mr. Jones?”
“At Whitsun there was a burglary—here, in Tudor House. Any criminal who attempts a break-in where there are a hundred sets of young lungs available to sound the alarm is excessively rash, wouldn’t you say, Inspector? Besides, what could there be worth stealing beyond the odd illicit packet of Gold Flake?”
Behind the spectacles, Jones’s eyes were gleaming bright.
Leatherdale felt a hint of uneasiness. “I fail to see how
this is relevant, sir.” A break-in at Fallow would not have been reported to Greyfriars—wrong county.
Jones showed his teeth in a snarl of frustration. “Perhaps not. Yet the coincidence…I believe—” His smile vanished as if a new idea had struck him. He sprang to his feet with surprising agility. “Inspector, where is Exeter now?” he demanded shrilly.
“Albert Memorial Hospital in Greyfriars.”
“Under guard, Inspector? You said no charges had been laid, but you do have someone there to guard him, don’t you?”
7
STILL THINKING CRAZY OLD MAN! ELEAL SINGER LIMPED OUT through the city gate. How could she possibly be in danger? Why should death seek her out?
Here in the open, the wind blew like an avalanche. She pulled her hat down firmly and wished she did not keep thinking about avalanches. The low sun shone on a scene of hubbub and bustle. Traders were erecting stalls; ranchers were arriving with herds of llamas, brought down from Narshslope for sale. In the distance stood the ominous, ice-cloaked peaks of Narshwall. From them the land descended in bare hills and grassy ridges to the plain of Narshflat. Narshwater was the color of dirty milk, its banks still bearing grubby remnants of winter ice floes among the reeds.
A wide space of muddy grass separated the river from the city. Here the mammoths were kept during the summer and fall, when the pass was open. Here the farmers and herders came to trade. Most cities would hold festivals and games on a common like this, although Eleal doubted that the dour folk of Narsh were capable of appreciating either, any more than they appreciated theater.
Soon she was clear of the market and could see the mammoths, a dozen great gray-brown mountains with tusks. They would step over the puny rail fence around them with no trouble, so it must be intended more to keep people out than mammoths in. Mammoths were bigger and stronger than anything, and their little eyes gleamed with intelligence. As she hurried through slower-moving knots of people, one of the bulls curled up his trunk and trumpeted. She decided to take that as a welcome.
But the crowds! She had never seen so many people here before, milling around the rickety flight of steps where the travelers paid their fares and mounted. She scanned the group urgently. If everyone she could see was hoping to leave today, then there would simply not be room! A dozen mammoths and ten or twelve passengers per howdah meant…meant…well, not enough seats to empty the meadow, certainly. Where was the troupe? Loading had not yet begun, so they could not have left yet, but where were they?
Not everyone was there because of the mammoths, though. A troop of men drilled with pikes, another squad practiced archery. She also noticed a camp of three or four tents and a small herd of dragons. They were too far off for her to be sure, but that was probably T’lin Dragontrader’s outfit. T’lin was her special friend. He trekked around the Vales with his herd, so she often ran into him, but this year she had not seen him since winter, in Jurgland. It was a pity she would not have time to speak with him before the mammoths left, because she had information for him.
The first mammoth was plodding over to the steps to load. The old mahout astride its neck looked like a doll, he was so high. There was still no sign of the rest of the troupe. Eleal began to feel seriously worried. Had they waited for her at the temple? Had they sent someone back to the hostel to look for her?
The seven hundredth Festival of Tion was attracting a far larger attendance than usual. All about her, people were making weepy farewells, issuing instructions and warnings. A surprising number were priests and monks, their colored gowns peeking out from under drab llama fleece robes added for warmth. Some were merchants, accompanied by bearers to carry their wares and even by armed guards. Others were athletes, large young men heading for the festival, receiving last-minute instructions from the fathers or uncles or friends who had trained them. She noted the usual cripples and invalids and blind people, going to seek a miracle. The remainder, men and women, could be assumed to be just pilgrims.
She squirmed through the crowd, hampered by her pack and her limp.
“Eleal!”
She spun around with a gasp of relief. It was Uthiam Piper—all alone, and without her pack. Uthiam was Ambria’s daughter. She was eighteen, and the most beautiful actor: her looks, her voice, her grace. At the moment she looked cold as ice in her woolen robe, but she was still beautiful—and so welcome!
“You little chump! Where did you get to?”
“Oh…” Eleal said airily. “I went to pray to Kirb’l.” Then she realized that she hadn’t. “Where is everyone? What’s keeping them? So many people—”
“And more to come! The temple is packed.”
“But the festival starts on Thighday!” And this was Ankleday! “If we don’t—”
“The portents were bad!”
“Huh?”
Uthiam’s face was grave. She bent to whisper, for the crowd had closed in around them. “Trong Impresario offered a white cockerel as usual. When the priests went to read its entrails, they discovered that it had no liver.”
That was ridiculous! How could a cockerel not have a liver? What a terrible omen! Eleal’s vision of a journey over Rilepass today suddenly dimmed. The goddess must be very displeased about something.
“So what is happening?”
“We have to wait until the priests have dealt with all the others. We shall have to offer a greater sacrifice.”
The look on Uthiam’s face gave Eleal cold shivers. “You don’t mean…”
“Oh, no! At least, I don’t think so.” She obviously wasn’t sure, though. “The priests suggested a dragon foal.”
Eleal gasped. “Ambria will have a foaming fit!” A dragon foal would cost more money than the troupe would take in in weeks. This was going to be a very expensive day. Hard times for the troupe meant thin eating.
Uthiam smiled. “But they’ll probably settle for an alpaca.”
Old Ambria was still going to have a fit. Even an alpaca would cost several nights’ take, especially the take in tightfisted Narsh, but the big woman would bridle her tongue for fear of upsetting the goddess further.
“We may not get away today,” Uthiam said, straightening. “I’d better go back to the temple.” Obviously the prospect did not please her.
“Me too?”
“No need for you to come. Wait here, just in case. I think I saw T’lin Dragontrader, didn’t I?”
“Who?” Eleal demanded. Her friendship with T’lin was supposed to be a secret. Uthiam’s amused expression indicated that she knew that and it wasn’t. But Eleal would have time to visit with T’lin. She could wander around…Then she recalled the crazy priest’s warning that she was in danger.
“Uthiam, isn’t Irepit goddess of something? What’s a Daughter of Irepit?”
Uthiam looked understandably surprised. “They’re a sect of nuns—down in Nosokvale, I think. They—”
“Rinoovale,” said a croaky voice, “not Nosokvale.”
Eleal spun around angrily. “Eavesdropping is a sin!”
Uthiam’s hand thumped the side of her head so hard she staggered. That was unfair—she had only been repeating what Ambria had told her lots of times.
The woman who had spoken was a nun, her flowing woolen garb conspicuous amid the leather-draped multitude. Whatever height she might once have had was now lost in a stoop and a hump, so she stood barely taller than Eleal. Her face was dominated by a long thin nose that seemed to be the only part of it not crumpled in wrinkles—it was red, with a shiny drop at the end of it, while her cheeks were an antique yellow, although the cold had added a purplish tint to them. Her hair and neck were hidden by a wimple, which, like her habit, had once been blue, although now both were threadbare and almost colorless. She was blinking at Eleal with eyes that likewise seemed faded to a colorless, blurry gray; they were watering copiously in the icy wind.
“Forgive her, holy lady,”
Uthiam said. “She is a wayward brat.” She shook Eleal’s shoulder. “Apologize!”
“The follies of youth are easily forgiven!” the woman muttered. Her pale moist eyes were still fixed intently on Eleal, whose ears were ringing. “In the Blue Scriptures, the Book of Alyath, it is written, ‘Time is the gods’ wages.’ Is that why the young, whose life is most enjoyable, should be so eager to see it pass, while the old, who have lost most of their capacity for joy, savor every moment?” She blinked more, apparently waiting for an answer.
A naked sword hung at her side, its point almost touching the ground.
“M-mother?” Eleal said, staring at that incongruous weapon.
“Sister,” said the nun. “Sister Ahn.” Her lips were almost as blue as her eyes, yet she seemed unaware of the cold. She turned her watery gaze on Uthiam. “Is it not wonderful how many are heeding the prophecies?”
“Prophecies, Sister?” Uthiam spoke loudly also.
The sword was a real weapon, a really-truly shiny blade, and it bore no speck of rust. Yet now Eleal noticed the woman’s right hand resting on a staff. It also was blue, and the fingers were so twisted that they probably could not grasp a hilt firmly enough to draw. Just looking at this shivering crone made her feel cold.
Blue was the color of Astina, the Maiden, who was goddess of lots of things: justice and soldiers and athletes, among others. That might explain the sword, but why should Astina be goddess of soldiers, when the Man was god of war? And why athletes? They should be the concern of the Youth—who ever heard of a female athlete? The universe ought to be more logical, and an armed geriatric nun was carrying things altogether too far.
“The seven hundredth festival!” Sister Ahn suddenly smiled, revealing a few yellow pegs of teeth. “Great wonders are foretold. Praise to the god. But should we not approach the young man selling tickets?”
However well-intentioned, the old woman’s smile was quite the most gruesome Eleal could ever recall seeing. Her accent was unfamiliar, but perhaps that was because her speech was smeared by lack of teeth.
