by Adam Drake
I glanced up at the building. The woman had gone from her window. “Let's try the door again,” I said and climbed back up the stairs before Fairfax could protest.
Under the alcove I placed the satchel on the welcome mat at the door. I opened it wide and touched the clasp. The knitting bag wiggled around and a cat's head popped up from it. This one was a light brown color. Its eyes the same as the others, a rainbow spectrum.
I asked the cat, “Where is Elicia Ipthorn?”
It jumped from the bag and landed on the floor. It stared at the door a moment then placed a single paw on it. I heard the lock come undone. The knob turned, and the door eased open a few inches. The brown cat then leapt into the bag and was gone.
Fairfax looked alarmed. “I believe we just committed breaking and entering.”
I shook my head, “Something is not right. She wouldn't have opened the door, otherwise.”
Fairfax nodded once and withdrew his pistol. He stepped up to the door as I took up the satchel again and reached in to put a hand on my pistol.
Fairfax knocked and shouted with a loud, commanding voice. “Police! Is anyone here? Please announce your presence!”
No one answered, and Fairfax pushed the door wider. There was a short hallway and a set of stairs leading to the second level with a sitting room to the right. The place was quiet.
As we entered Fairfax motioned for me to stay. It was standard procedure, but it still bothered me. I wanted to be the one going in first.
As I watched the stairs Fairfax moved down the hall, pistol at the ready. At the end on the right was another room and Fairfax stepped before the doorway. Then he gasped.
“What? What is it?” I said, my body tensing.
Fairfax stepped out of sight and returned a moment later. He hurried through the hall. “Another one.”
“Statue?” I asked.
He nodded. “Let me check the upstairs first.”
I tried to not let my frustration show as I waited for Fairfax to sweep the second floor. When he appeared on the stairs again he said, “Nothing up there. Better go take a look.”
I walked to the end of the hall, my heart thumping in my chest.
It was a kitchen, and engraved on one of its walls was the Mark of Quantiqtl. Sitting on a chair at the kitchen table, teacup to her mouth, was a woman completely made of stone.
xxxx
As Fairfax went to use the closest police call-box I searched the house. The downstairs turned up nothing. No signs of struggle or forced entry, and the back door was locked. Since the front door had been locked as well I could only assume the perpetrator had used Elicia's own keys when he left. The kitchen table had been set for tea with one cup, now stone, at Elicia's pursed lips ready to sip it. The other teacup was empty.
I checked the upstairs. Only a simple bedroom and water closet. But in the bedroom, spread out on the bed, were a pair of open suitcases full of clothes and sundries. I checked the drawers and closet and found little of note. It appeared that everything Elicia held dear were in these suitcases.
Then I noticed a small glass bottle wedged between the clothing in one of the suitcases. I recognized the medical symbols on its hand written label. 'Dream Berries of Ogden'. Perhaps she had trouble sleeping?
Fairfax rejoined me at the front door. “Boys are coming now. Did you check out the back?”
Starting from the back door we searched the yard. The cobblestone ground showed no footprints. A line of Elicia's laundry blew in the wind. She would never take them down now.
I wanted to speak with the neighbor again so leaving Fairfax to watch the townhouse I went next door. After an initial shock and fluttering of hands the neighbor woman, named Farrah, let me in and sat me on a tiny couch. She sat across from me, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“You are sure she is dead?” Farrah asked, eyes wide in bewilderment.
“I'm afraid so,” I said. I gave her a few more moments, and asked. “You said you saw her a couple days ago? Could you be more specific?”
Farrah sniffled and snorted into a handkerchief. “Yes. It must have been two evenings past that I saw her coming back from the store with a bag of groceries. We exchanged pleasantries, and she went in.”
I considered the packed suitcases on Elicia's bed. “Do you know if Elicia was planning a trip? Or intended to go somewhere for a visit?”
This question befuddled Farrah even more but just when I worried she was going to breakdown again she said, “Well, she told me she was going to sell a book.”
“A book?”
“Yeah. Not sure what she was going on about. Kind of a simple girl, homely like. But she was positive she could get a lot of money for it and she'd leave for the South Islands and never return.”
“Did she mention to whom she was going to sell it?”
Farrah shook her head and cried again.
I told her a constable would be by to take a formal statement and I went back to Elicia's townhouse. The constables had arrived by then and Fairfax sent most out to canvass the neighborhood.
As I entered the kitchen with Fairfax I found Constable Webster looking at Elicia sitting in her stone chair. He scratched at the hair under his cap and said, “Now how are we going to move this one?”
To Fairfax I said, “Look at the teacup. It's empty and unstained. I believe Elicia was waiting for someone to arrive and was drinking. Then she let the person in, probably through the back door and they both sat down here. All this indicates she was familiar with that person.”
“But who?” Fairfax said.
“A buyer for a book she was selling,” I said. “And she thought she'd be paid handsomely for it. The bags upstairs show she was ready to leave after the sale. The buyer, once he received his book, then turned her to stone and left that Mark. He exited out the back and used her keys to lock it behind him.”
“But what book?” Fairfax said.
“That is what I intend to find out. Come Fairfax, we must go talk to Misael Rousset, again, at once.”
CHAPTER TEN
Misael Rousset was closing the store for the day when we pulled up out front. He stood in the open doorway and looked at us with worry.
“Oh, dear,” Misael said as we exited the buggy. “I take it things are not well and fine?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I said. “I'm sorry to inform you that Miss Ipthorn is dead.”
Misael gasped in shock and clutched at his chest. “By the Gods! No!”
Fairfax and I shuffled him into the store and made him sit before he dropped of a heart attack. Misael slumped in the chair, a look of horror on his face. “Oh, that sweet girl. This is terrible. How did it happen? Do you know who did it?”
I shook my head. “We are working on the who, but as to the how, I was hoping maybe your knowledge of the histories may be of assistance.”
Regaining his composure, Misael straightened in his chair and wiped a handkerchief over his face. “Yes. Yes, of course. How may I help?”
I looked at Fairfax who shrugged. I then explained to Misael how both Elicia and Oswall had been turned to stone. With further explanation about what Curator Othmar had told us of Gunther's Stone Talon Misael's expression morphed to one of sheer amazement.
“Gunther's Stone Talon? Been used again? Impossible!” The bookshop owner said.
“And yet there are two victims of its power and we fear there may be more.”
“But there's now way for the Talon to be used other than by Gunther the Ungrateful who is thankfully long dead. And everyone knows he lacked the... er... ability to father children.”
I nodded. “True enough but there might be something which may account for the Talon's reuse.”
“And that is?”
“Elicia was trying to sell a book. A very expensive book which may contain the missing link.”
“Which book is that?” Misael asked.
“I was hoping you might be able tell use, Mr. Rousset. I believe Elicia stole it from your store with the
intent to sell it to her killer.”
Misael gaped like a landed fish as he tried to absorb this revelation. “No! Not Elicia. She wouldn't do anything like that to me. Not after all I've done for her.”
“That may be so, but she was having a difficult time financially, as you already told us. It would not be too much of a stretch to allow that she may have decided that selling one of your books would save her from that difficulty.”
Now Misael looked confused, still not willing to accept what Elicia had done.
Fairfax asked, “Are you missing any books?”
Misael blinked at the question. “I don't know. Well, not that I would have noticed. There are quite a bit here.” He looked around at his store and the tens of thousands of volumes. “I'd have to do an inventory. Even my expensive ones number in the thousands.” He motioned to the dozens of large enclosed cabinets. “It would take days, weeks even to go through them and check against my inventory list.”
Fairfax said, “I can get the boys to come in, start to sift through this lot with Mr. Rousset's list.”
For the first time in my life I regretted the sight of so many wonderful books in one place. The undertaking would be horrendous and in the meantime there could be other victims of the Stone Talon.
Hopeful for some guidance I looked at the knitting bag. To my grand relief the clasp was brass.
Fairfax noticed my expression. “What? They want to come out again so soon? Is that a record for one day?”
“No, not a record, thankfully.” I put the satchel on the ground.
Misael looked at our exchange, befuddled. “Might I ask what you two are going on about?”
Fairfax smiled at him, “Stand back, Mr. Rousset, and you will see for yourself.”
I exposed the knitting bag and touched the clasp. It yawned open and began to wiggle.
“Oh, my dear!” Misael said and recoiled in the chair.
A cat's head appeared. This one was orange with white spots.
I asked the cat, “What book did Elicia Ipthorn steal?”
The cat did not move. It only watched me with an intent stare.
Fairfax asked Misael, “Sir, if we knew which cabinet the book was stored in would that help you narrow the search?”
Misael was staring wide eye at the cat, but turned to answer Fairfax. “Well, yes, it would. But what can a cat do to help? Strange place to keep a cat if you ask me. Cruel even.”
Fairfax chuckled.
This time I asked the cat, “From which cabinet did Elicia Ipthorn steal a book?”
The cat launched itself from the bag startling Misael who yelped in fright. The orange cat trotted over to one of the smaller heavy oak cabinets.
“Your cat is well trained, Detective, but I don't see how it will -”, he stopped talking as he watched.
The cat lifted one paw and touched the cabinet door. There was an audible click as the lock came undone, then the door swung open on its own.
“By the Gods!” Misael proclaimed in astonishment.
Inside the cabinet were rows of drawers. The cat moved closer and stared up at a drawer near the top. That drawer also clicked and slid open. Then the cat scampered back to the satchel and vanished into the bag with a jump.
Misael stared in utter disbelief. His eyes went from the bag to me, then to the bag again. “That's... that's the Bag of Infinite Cats.” He regarded me, awestruck. “That means you're the direct descendant of -”, he said before I interrupted.
“Who I am descended from means nothing at this moment as there is a murderer running around the town.”
Misael still stared at me in amazement.
Frustrated, I said, “Please, Mr. Rousset, if you will?” I motioned to the cabinet.
The bookshop keeper snapped out of his trance. “Yes. Yes, of course. Let's take a look.” He walked to the cabinet but gave me a frightened glance.
He would be happy to pay me a gold piece for that little show, I thought with mild amusement.
Misael looked into the open cabinet. “Empty,” he said, his brow furrowing. He removed a clipboard from the cabinet's inner paneling and ran a finger down a list. He stopped, with a look of confusion. “Well, that is peculiar.”
“What is?” I asked.
“There is a missing book, but not one of any real value. The title roughly translates to Magical Sources and Rebirths. Mad Scribe Perrick Faywin was the author. It is almost complete gibberish, something even the most ardent translator would be unable to decipher beyond bits and pieces of text.”
“Magical Sources and Rebirths,” I said. “Do you have any idea what it contained?” And why someone would kill for it?
“Yes, well, not much is known about it. From the fragments of sentences which could be understood Perrick had a fascination with breaking magic down to its most basic essence. He believed any spell or item could have its magical elements reversed. But nothing of the sort can be done, or has been done. Not even at the Citadel. It's an impossibility.”
I let this information sink into my tired old brain for a moment. “Might such a theory result in an artifact having its soul-bound limitation broken? So it could be bound to someone else?”
Misael eyebrows beetled on his forehead. “Well, perhaps. But we are dealing with the fanciful ravings of a lunatic. Perrick was not known for being sane. He was called the Mad Scribe after all.”
My thoughts raced with the potential implications of this.
When Fairfax noticed my distraction he asked Misael, “How long was this book in your possession?”
“Oh, a little over a week. Picked it up as part of a lot sale at the auction house.”
“Did anyone bid against you?”
“No one. But that is typical. There is little interest in books as an investment now a days.”
Until now, I thought. “Did anyone come to your store and ask for the book?”
Misael's face froze. “Oh, by the Gods. Yes! A man came in about four days ago and asked for the tome by name. He was a strange one, too.”
“Can you describe him?” Fairfax asked.
“He was tall and skinny. Wore all black clothing. Funny looking nose, too. Long and hook shaped. But that wasn't what was strange about him.”
Tired of waiting for a straight answer I asked, “What was strange?”
“Well, he wore make-up.”
“Make-up?” Fairfax said.
“Yes, white make-up all over his face. He looked to be a mime on a shopping trip. It made me assume he had a condition of the skin which needed the outrageous application.”
“And he offered to buy the book?” I asked.
“Yes, but I refused to sell it to him.”
“Why is that?”
“After only spending a few moments with the man I realized I just didn't like him. And when I refused he raised his price. Double, then triple! Still, even though the money would have been useful, his desperation to obtain the book put me off. I told him it was not for sale and asked him to leave.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Unfortunately, no. Though by his demeanor, I suspect it would have been as fake as his face.”
“What happened when you asked him to leave?”
“Well, he ranted and raved, calling me unprofessional and then left. I pushed out the entire incident from my mind.” He looked at the empty drawer with realization dawning on his face. “And now I see that by my refusing to sell him that book has resulted in Elicia losing her life. The poor woman.”
I did not argue the last point. “Was Elicia here during this exchange?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Then I think either he approached her about purchasing the tome, or she contacted him somehow.”
Misael shook his head. “I'd suspect the former. Poor Elicia wasn't the brightest girl. The notion to steal from me was beyond her realm of capability. She had to have been coerced.”
“That is a possibility,” I said, though mostly to make the man feel a little
better.
“But how did Elicia get the book from the cabinet? The keys are always on my person.”
“I believe your love of tea was how she did it.”
“What do you mean?” Misael asked.
“I found a bottle of sleep berries at her townhouse. It would not have been a stretch for her to drop one in your tea and wait until you fell asleep to take the keys from you. Then after she stole the book, and secreted it away, she returned them.”
