“Scarcely a pleasant figure of speech, considering the—especially Niitood’s—circumstances.” I looked around distastefully at the moldering drippy walls, imagining, despite myself, small slithery things crawling about in the pools of shadow.
“Nonetheless, it is appropriate. Surely you recall last night’s demonstration outside the Museum?” He led me to a crude and crumbling table apparently used by Bucketeers at mealtimes—although how the lamn could bring themselves to eat down here…Judging by the facilities afforded those on duty, I shuddered to think of the conditions endured by their unfortunate charges.
“I hardly thought that rabble represented anything significant.”
“They are the veriest tip of the cactus sprout, or so Professor Srafen feared. You see, while this octary’s progress has brought inestimable benefits to all, most particularly the masses—public sanitation, mass production of launderable clothing, cheap, abundant foodstuffs, and the like—while it promises yet to bring forth many more, there has been slowly gathering among the lower classes an irrational reaction as the memory of what came before begins to fade. The brutish existence led by common people generations ago has begun to acquire a perversely romantic appeal, while the genuine improvements in their lot today are dismissed as trifling and commonplace. Those miseries that still persist, though far less severe than those of nonades before, are nonetheless more vivid to the lower classes than those that no living individual remembers.”
“I’d no idea that Srafen’s interests extended beyond natural philosophy, Mav. Further, I myself confess to a view that the wholesome country life the people led before all this dirty, citified, industrialization—”
Here, Mav arranged his fur in scornful negativity. “Srafen’s interests were in natural philosophy, and rhe believed there was a natural philosophy of lamviin behavior and political economy waiting somewhere to be discovered. In a sense, this concern of rhers was essentially defensive, being, as rhe was, the center of so much popular controversy.
“Moreover, there has arisen lately a newer fear that machinery, which has already doubled life expectancies and tripled Foddu’s population—so much for the wholesome country life—will somehow deprive the common laborer of his work. Never mind that ten times as many are profitably employed today than was the case in our great-grandfathers’ time, when most individuals struggled for mean subsistence upon some baron’s lands. And worse, the makers of machinery continue stupidly to emphasize that it will do the work of many, rather than how many it will make new work for. It is the former, not the latter, that the workers hear, believe, and act upon!”
“And what has all this to do with Niitood’s incarceration?”
He drew out his pipe and inhaling fluid, employing the ritual to gather his thoughts. “Consider the position of the Middle House. Until recently, they embraced all modern innovation for a variety of reasons that seemed good to them: it distinguished them from the Upper House, appointed by Their Majesties and thus inclined to a certain conservatism; the tendency of all new discoveries and inventions is to increasingly secularize society and weaken the hold of the Church; and, perhaps most importantly, industrialization is a source of power. There are some radicals, and I’m inclined to think they have Nazemynsiin connections, who speak openly in the streets of seizing factories and turning them over to ‘the people’—which can only mean, of course, the politicians.”
“How horrible!” I replied. “And why are these radicals not down here in gaol?”
“For the same reason the Church is hurrying to understand and accept the fruits of modern natural philosophy—prudence—it is prudent not to make martyrs of a small but potentially deadly enemy. Besides, the Lower House, the Mykodsedyetiin, whose chief concern is civil liberties, protects them, as I trust it would protect my right to speak, and yours as well.
“However, Srafen’s death has put the Nazemynsiin in a quandary—or rather punctuated a conflict that already existed. Its members are elected on a district basis by the masses, and the masses, as I have explained, apparently do not share their delight with all that is modern. Thus you and I, dear Mymy, represent an unsatisfactory but necessary compromise between the proper investigation favored by some and whatever substitute would quiet the crowds. Out of uniform, we’ll be less conspicuous, and I fear we shall have to depend on whatever other resources we can muster for ourselves. I suspect even our time will be severely limited. We must—Hallo, here’s Niitood, at last.”
The journalist, appearing battered far beyond whatever the explosion had done to him, limped from a filth-encrusted corridor. The guard was gentle and solicitous with him, which made me proud to be a Bucketeer.
“Mav, old fellow, and Mymy…What in the name of everything wet and slimy are you doing here?” He took a chair and rested weary arms upon the rough table. His bandages were soiled and ragged, his trousers unspeakable. I opened my bag and made to change his dressings.
“I have good news, Niitood, for I have persuaded my superiors that you must be released under bond. Five hundred silver crowns, I’m afraid—I didn’t name the figure. Is there a chance that you can make it?”
The reporter was thoughtful. “More than eight golden triarchs! You know that I cannot. Yet, however flinty-souled they are, my superiors may feel the story of a journalist, falsely imprisoned in a sensational murder, might be worth that amount in improved circulation. Can you get me to a telephone?”
I cut his bandages as he spoke, examining the wounds beneath, which, as I had thought last night, were minor and rapidly healing, despite the cold and damp of the gaol. Giving assurances that the prisoner would be adequately supervised, Mav dispatched the guard to find a messenger, as the only telephone within the station was another unwelcome intrusion in Tis’s office. Then he spelt out the complexity of our situation for Niitood, as he had done so patiently for me.
“Ha! I suppose,” snorted the reporter, “that you expect me to be grateful. Why, you’re nearly as naïve as Mymy, here, and with less excuse! Things are far more twisted than you believe, and far more ugly! Of course Ennramo wants ‘justice’ done—to the embarrassment of his rivals in the House below! The Uppers, too, have problems: they love the booty that their factories bring, yet their servants and retainers are flocking to the cities—better to work like an animal for yourself than polish the gloves of some toff for room and board! Mark me, Bucketeer, the staunchest foes of industry someday will be the propertied class themselves!”
“Such cynicism is scarcely worthy, even of you, Niitood.”
“Is that so? Then take the Middle House, torn between the egalitarian sermons of Ascensionism—for how can class difference be justified if we are all ascended from the same cactus-hoppers—and the popular appeal of anti-Ascensionism! Pah forbid the ‘House of the People’ oppose their own beloved rabble!”
So much, in far more genteel words, my friend had said already, which I pointed out to Niitood. Thanking me for my support, the detective added that, in fact, the industrialists of Foddu were not the upper classes but a new breed of self-made individuals who found political comfort, not with the Lezynsiin or Nazemynsiin, but with the Mykodsedyetiin.
“Ha again! Even your much-vaunted Lower House is hoping this case’ll be bungled—that they might wrest control of the judiciary from the Uppers, and the Bucketeers from the Middle, as they have so long wished to do. But do you want to know the real culprits in this matter? None other than the Royal—”
“For shame,” I cried. “Have you no decency or loyalty?”
“Loyalty to what? To a brood that reigns because its ancestors bashed in more carapaces than others? To the liars and thieves they appoint and approve to govern us?”
“Why, Niitood,” I asked dizzily, “are you an Unarchist, then?”
“Beautiful, all good journalists are Unarchists, deep inside.”
Mav chuckled, unaffected by the reporter’s seditious rantings. “And nihilists in practice. That’s as may be, Niitood, but we�
��ll need your assistance if we’re to free you and track down the real murderer. Are you willing?”
“Rain upon them all! I’ll help find your goddamp Professor’s killer—though I must warn you, Mav old sandshrimp, that my sympathies are with the anti-Ascensionists. It’s just that I find little to admire in those who’d countenance an innocent party being falsely imprisoned and squashed.”
“Oh, you’d have been most genuinely squashed, my friend, believe me. There is one small thing you can do.” Mav held up a portion of the broken camera, which he must have taken from Tis’s desk. Someone once said that a good Bucketeer must be as larcenous as those he would capture, and, in this, my companion was certainly well-qualified. “I believe this contains the photographic emulsion. Is it likely that the image is still intact?”
The journalist seized the object and examined it as closely as the light here would permit. “You know, I had this custom-made—a model maker I met through the Inventors’ Club—very, very expensive. I wouldn’t say for sure until the plate’s developed, but it’s possible. Imagine—taken just at the moment the old crackshell let go! My editors will—”
There was a groan and clatter at the iron door.
“Your editors will stand your bail—reluctantly,” said Mav, reading from the note our guardslam had just handed him. Apparently the enterprising gaoler had simply stepped across the street and used the new telephone in the Bucket & Truncheon, for there was about him that mildly unsteady aspect that I associate with electrical current liberally administered.
V: Out the Door and Innuendo
How I could ever have perceived the police court on the ground floor as shabby or unpleasant, I shall never understand. After the dungeon, it was practically as warm and familiar as my own tidy apartments. Alas, however, I wasn’t destined to witness Niitood’s scientific miracle of photography at first hand, for, as he made arrangements for his bond, Mav produced that accursed notecase of his.
“Mymy, I have failed to learn much from consideration of the means of Srafen’s murder. Although I do not mean entirely to abandon that line of inquiry, I think it behooves us now to take up the second of three legs upon which any such investigation must stand.”
“And what might that be, consultation with a medium? I doubt that even Srafen knew—”
“Flippancy ill becomes a lurry of your class, my dear…although in one or two circumstances, such a notion might be of some use.…Hmm.” Then he scribbled off a rapid series of notes, temporarily lost to the world of reality. After a while, his eyes brightened and his fur stood crisply once again: “Now, what was it you were saying, Mymy?”
I glanced around the guardroom for someone who might share my exasperation—vainly, for all were busy helping Niitood fill out the blanks on numerous forms. “You were telling me about the next line of inquiry we shall—”
“Ah! Forgive me, Mymy, but you gave me an idea for future use—spiritualism might be just the thing for rooting out the superstitious criminal. But I have digressed once again. What I meant is that we might profitably begin with Srafen’s personal and professional associations in hopes of finding someone with reason to wreak violence upon rher.”
“I see—merely half the ignorant population of the city, it would appear.” I shifted my bag uneasily, liking less and less this business of civilian dress. Perhaps I simply didn’t want to return home to change clothing, knowing that my mother would be there, full of awkward questions.
“Hardly. More and more it appears to me that Srafen’s death was at the hands of some singularly clever and determined being. Perhaps the anti-Ascensionists possess the means of such a diabolically complicated act as was required, but…” Again he spent some moments lost in thought, then brightened:
“But look here, Mymy, I was not entirely idle after my humiliation of last night.” He led me to a chalkboard, which, as might be expected in this place, was unwashed. With a swipe, Mav smeared the chalk around, then proceeded to outline his plans:
WHO KILLED SRAFEN?
SRAFEN’S PRESENT:
POLITICS
BUSINESS
enemies & allies
rivals & partners
employees & employers
ACADEMIA
FAMILY
superiors & subordinates
students & colleagues
Parents
Spouses & children
other relations
SOCIETY
friends & acquaintances
enemies
SRAFEN’S PAST:
SCHOOL
THE NAVY
fellow pupils
teachers
superiors & subordinates
fellow officers
MISCELLANEOUS:
random violence or insanity
someone intending another victim—or another crime
accident or act of Pah
someone, past or present, unintentionally offended
suicide
Some indication of despair must have betrayed me, although I put up as brave and enthusiastic a front as I was capable of, for he hastened to add, “Not every one of these, of course, are real possibilities, and by no means is there need to look into every one of them.”
“For example,” I suggested, “‘Accidents or acts of Pah’—if no deliberate lamviin agency was involved in that explosion, I shall take my own suggestion about spiritualism and give up paracautery.”
“Quite so, and we shall strike it out. Equally, we may eliminate all business connections. Srafen had an income, but its technicalities were administered each month by rher solicitors—”
“Who ought, on that account, to be added to the list. In fact, I’d advocate a separate category for solicitors, barristers, every other creature of that ilk, simply on general principles!”
Mav got out his pipe and dripped inhaling fluid into it. “You’re beginning to sound like Niitood. Let us strike out parents, as Srafen was very old and all three of rher parents undoubtedly dead. Likewise, although rhe felt that all young persons interested in natural philosophy were rher progeny, I know that rhe had no children. Rhe also had few political interests that rhe acted upon, but I shall leave that category for the anti-Ascensionists—theirs seems a sort of political effort, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Why have you a category for political allies, then?”
He took several pulls on his pipe before answering, in the quietest of tones: “Because, my dear paracauterist, one’s friends can be as dangerous as one’s enemies. There are always those who feel a martyr will do some good for the Cause—whatever it might be.”
“Now who is it sounds like Niitood?”
He crinkled his fur. “You’re absolutely right, of course. Cynicism is contagious, it would appear.”
Between us we eliminated academic superiors, subordinates, and students, for, since taking charge of the Museum, Srafen had none of these in any formal sense. However, we appended Museum employees and, at my continued insistence, family solicitors. Likewise we struck out teachers on the same logic as parents, and Naval superiors, who were likely to be dead by now. Mav had doubts about most of the Miscellaneous column, particularly suicide. “Which leaves us once again with politics, of a peculiar sort: academic colleagues—many, and on both sides of Ascensionism.”
“How so?” I asked. “Do professors desire martyrs to their Cause, as well?”
“I can think of some who wish they’d thought of Ascensionism themselves and might not resist becoming the foremost living authority on the subject.”
“I see. Well, to continue, we have Srafen’s social ties to examine—”
“Precisely, and there, I believe, you can be of enormous assistance. I suggest you go home, change, and spend the rest of the day chatting with your friends.”
“What?”
“Just so, for Srafen’s death is bound to be the topic of much conversation, and if you are clever—and not too obvious—I’m sure that you can find out much about rher
social life that I cannot, and a little about rher family, who, I suspect, travel in the same circles as your own.”
That much was possible. In the meantime, Mav would take up the remainder of the list; we would arrange some place to meet in the evening. I bade farewell to him and to Niitood, who was still completing paperwork and expressed the heartsfelt wish that we had left him in his cell belowstairs.
* * *
The sky was a beautiful golden yellow—indeed, the day had reached the very pinnacle of loveliness as I walked back to my flat in Gamlo Road upon the lower edge of North Hedgerow. To my surprise and delight, it was not my mother but another of my parents who greeted me with a positively wonderful-smelling clutch of cactus pears simmering in oil, which, over the objections of my hired girl, rhe had personally prepared for our luncheon.
“How very splendid, Sasa. As you well know, they’re my very favorite! But tell me, why is Mama not here, and what is it brings you in her place?”
My surfather crinkled rher fur fondly at me as rhe lit the kood and placed the cover on its holder. “Your dear mother, I’m afraid, has taken ill again—no, there is nothing you should worry about; indeed, if she had not reacted so dramatically to the news we had this morning, I should have been far more alarmed.” Rhe swept a finger along the tabletop, examining some crumbs of something-or-other that had found refuge among the weavings of its cover. “That girl of yours is an indolent watu; I shall have to speak to your father about her.”
“Speak to Mother, then—these pears are delicious, did you use my oil or bring your own?—she’s Mother’s eyes and ears in my affairs, and perhaps inclined on that account to regard any housekeeping she does as an additional imposition. But don’t keep me in suspense. What is ailing Mother?”
Their Majesties' Bucketeers Page 6
