Strong Mystery: Murder, Mystery and Magic Books 1-3 (Steampunk Magica)

by Raven Bond

  Owen had to marvel again at her acting ability. He wondered, not for the first time, what Jinhao had been before that fateful meeting of theirs on the border with China proper. The other two men in the room looked away, embarrassed at her display.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Owen asked gently, gently patting Jinhao’s shoulder as if in comfort. “Might we have a moment of privacy?”

  The doctor and the Secretary were only too glad to leave the room to the wailing lover and the younger relative. As the door clicked shut, Jinhao stopped crying.

  “Good job,” Owen said, squeezing her shoulder. “You almost had me believing you there for a moment. Help me get this sheet off, I need to see the whole body.”

  Jinhao smiled at him.

  “Western men are so hopelessly romantic about a woman’s tears,” she said happily. They wrestled the heavy sheet to the floor.

  Owen’s original plan had been to present himself at the Embassy as a distant relative on a Grand Tour. That was not unreasonable, as many younger nobles made a journey around the world, pestering their relatives as they went.

  He only needed a few minutes alone to examine the body. While he could simply have presented his carte blanche and demanded to see the body, gossip about a highly-credentialed Sorcerer snooping about would have spread through the colony like the plague, alerting the assassin, if there was one.

  To that end, he had dressed in a rather modern suit in the Connolly house colors of emerald green and gold. He had been pleasantly surprised when Jinhao presented herself in an almost-matching Western afternoon dress, fashionably knee length, complete with the appropriate hat, gloves and shoes.

  Arriving at the Embassy, they had been given over to the officious care of Phineas Horton, Third Secretary. Secretary Horton had droned on and on, showing no signs of ever letting them out of his office.

  That was when Jinhao had broken down in tears and, with Owen following her cues, they had ‘confessed all’ about the secret romance between Sir Brandon and Mi-Ling. Horton had moved surprisingly quickly after that, finally leaving them alone with the body. It had been a very satisfying ruse.

  Owen quickly passed his cane over the remains, the blue stone in the handle glowing softly, while the body shimmered different colors as if in response. One by one, he silently called on the marks of the five elements bound on his body, seeking to learn the cause of death. Finally, he lowered the cane, leaning on it with a frown.

  “Well, Partridge was right,” he mused, “there is no sign of Magia, no residue of poisons, and nothing else amiss, except his death. There is also no sign of heart congestion, or trauma, though the heart has, of course, stopped beating. In fact, I will be damned if I can find any reason for him to be dead at all.”

  “Then we must examine the body itself,” Jinhao stated. She began at the feet, running her hands over the skin as she peered closely at it. “There are many ways a man might die, or be caused to die.”

  Owen glanced at the door. “Yes, well, you’d best be quick about it. I doubt that our stalwart gentlemen’s ‘romanticism’ will extend to them finding you fondling his naked corpse.”

  Moving swiftly and neatly, Jinhao examined the limbs, the torso, and finally reached the head. There, she rolled back the eyelids, then opened the mouth and sniffed.

  “Ah,” she looked up at Owen. “Smell this.” She held the mouth open.

  Owen gingerly leaned over and sniffed.

  “He smells rather like musty almonds,” he remarked. “Surely not something he ate?”

  Jinhao shook her head.

  “There is a poison that leaves only the faint odor of almonds, and then only for a short while.” Her brow creased. “But it would take too much of the poison to be eaten and not to be noticed. Usually, it is only found on blades or needles. There must be a wound.”

  Now Owen began searching the body as well. After examining the hands and arms, he started at the neck and moved down. He pointed at a tiny red spot on the chest.

  “Hallo, what’s this?”

  Jinhao bent close enough her nose almost touched the body.

  “I do not know. If it is a wound, it is very small.” She looked at Owen. “If it is a weapon, I cannot think what would leave such a tiny mark.”

  “Clothes,” Owen said quickly. He glanced around to see a neatly folded stack sitting on a cabinet shelf. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get him covered.”

  They poured over the clothing, holding up each piece to the Magia light in the ceiling, “Got it!” Owen exclaimed. He held up the shirt for Jinhao to see a very small hole, barely a parting of the thread.

  “Yes,” she hissed, holding up the brocaded vest next to the shirt. A small point of light shone through both items of clothing. At that moment, the door opened, and they turned to find a frowning Secretary Horton and Doctor Marston regarding them.

  “Ah, yes,” Owen said glibly. “Dear old Uncle Brandon did wear only the best, did he not? He folded the shirt and placed it back on the pile. “You can’t find quality like this anymore, I dare say.” He patted the pile of clothing while smiling.

  “I think that you should both go now,” said a reproachful Doctor Marston. They were accompanied to the front gates by a silent Horton, who was doubtless happy to see them go.

  Owen paused once Horton had returned to the building.

  “Well, we can now say with some certainty that Sir Brandon Connelly was likely murdered.” He said dryly and raised an eyebrow at Jinhao. “How rare is this poison you suspect?”

  Jinhao glared at a drunken Persian sea man in a purple tunic, who careened too close to them. The man promptly careened the other way, knocking over the chicken cages on an old Chinese man’s back. She turned back to Owen, both of them ignoring the furor of loose chickens and shouting, the chaos quickly carried away on the tide of humanity moving along Main Street.

  “Not rare, but not common,” she replied. “It is made from the roots of a plant. Most Alchemists will have the means to make it.” She frowned. “There are better poisons; usually it is used on a blade to cause the target’s muscles to slow for a short time, which makes it a favorite of dishonorable fighters. Its main advantage is that it leaves no trace, other than the smell. The liquid has a most bitter taste. It would take a very noticeable dose to kill by food or drink.” Her frown deepened. “This is not right, somehow.”

  Owen nodded resignedly.

  “Right then. Well, there is nothing for it. We will have to examine the other bodies.” He pointed forward. “We’ll need to go down to Fei Street to catch a cab.”

  As they walked through the crowd Owen said casually, “You know, I don’t believe that you have ever mentioned what you did before we met.”

  Jinhao turned her body to avoid a clank man as he rolled by her.

  “That is correct, I have not,” she remarked. “It has not seemed relevant. No more than your Order has, yes?”

  Owen winced inside. She had him there. After avoiding a rather large North man dragging a wheeled cart that was loaded down with lumpy sacks, he spoke again.

  “Right. Well, allowing as how we both have things in the past we would prefer not to speak of, I must observe that you were as good as any confidential agent back there.”

  A group of priests in red and orange passed Jinhao, chanting and waving censers from which came clouds of fragrant incense.

  “Thank you,” she acknowledged. “The skills of dissembling have proved useful.”

  “As is your knowledge of poisons,” Owen said off-handedly.

  Jinhao shrugged her shoulders, “Those skills have also proved useful.”

  They reached the corner of Fei Street through which ran another river of humanity. This one was composed of conveyances of all types, everything from rickshaws drawn by weary runners, to hansom cabs and carriages drawn by every beast known to man. There was even a steam car, moving slowly through the flood, a dark skinned padjum seated majestically above the crowd on the back of the contraption.
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  After considering the options, Owen hailed a horse-drawn coach.

  “I do wonder sometimes why you continue to stay with me,” he remarked, as the coach began to pull over to the curb.

  Seeing the rich dress of his fare, the coach man simply opened the carriage door and pulled down the attached step. Owen held out his hand for Jinhao who took it to climb within.

  “Really, Owen, we discussed this,” she said serenely. “After you saved my life at Xiopling, I owe you a life debt, and must honor my duty. Where are we bound?”

  “Hastings Trading and Shipping,” Owen called up to the driver, before swinging into the seat beside her. He placed his cane upright between his legs, hands restless on the handle.

  “We will see if we can find a way to examine the body of Sir John Hastings, although Gods alone know what they have done to it after a week. If they follow the Old Ways, it’s likely already burned, but we should at least try.” He turned in the cab to look at her seriously.

  “As for this ‘life debt’ business, need I remind you that I have already said you don’t need to follow it? I release you and all that.”

  “Yes, I do,” Jinhao said in the same unruffled voice, “And no, you cannot.”

  Owen looked out the window, watching the crowd pass by, while images plagued his mind of what a Disintegrator would do to the busy crowd he was seeing.

  “This may become an ugly business before it’s over,” he muttered. “Still, I am glad of your presence, Jinhao.”

  Jinhao allowed herself a small smile.

  “I know,” she said simply.

  Chapter 7

  Hastings Trading and Shipping

  As luck would have it, they arrived at the offices of Hastings Trading and Shipping to find that a ceremony honoring Sir John Hastings was just finishing.

  Owen glanced at the white bunting that hung from every possible surface of the huge interior, as he took a flute of mead from a white-clad server. The ceremony seemed to be a peculiarly Hong Kong mix of British and Chinese. Both cultures shared white as the color of death. However, the musicians who were playing drums and flutes in the background were definitely Chinese, while the drinking and the singing Bard moving among the many guests was decidedly British. Everywhere there were billowing clouds of incense.

  The guests were likewise a mix. While there were many dressed in white British suits and dresses or Chinese robes of the same color, there was also more than a sprinkling of rich jewel-toned clothing of varying extravagance. Owen’s stomach clenched as he spied a small cluster of Austrians standing by themselves, their black face-scarves matching their uniforms. The Austrians were a small black cloud in a sea of white and color.

  “Well,” he murmured to Jinhao as he sipped. “At least we don’t have to worry about Sir John’s body being burned up.” He inclined his head towards the far end of the room, where a golden bier lay on a raised pedestal. A cluster of priests and priestesses of various Deities stood around it.

  “Yes,” Jinhao replied. As was her want, she had refused the proffered mead. “However, I doubt that we can simply walk up and start examining the body.”

  Owen smiled at her, then he drained the flute, placing the empty on a passing tray.

  “We should pay our respects at least,” he said. “You never know what opportunity may present itself.”

  Jinhao rolled her eyes slightly. She knew that smile.

  “We should,” she agreed, “Although if you get us arrested or worse, our ‘opportunities’ will be somewhat restricted.”

  Owen clutched his chest dramatically.

  “You wound me,” he said as they moved towards the bier. “When have I ever led you astray?”

  “That night at the Boar’s Head,” she replied mercilessly.

  Owen waved her comment aside. “They were sore losers. You can hardly blame me for that,” he protested. “Besides, I thought in this case that we would try the honesty tactic.”

  “Honesty,” Jinhao looked at him and raised an elegant eyebrow. “This will be interesting.”

  Suddenly, a large, swarthy man was standing in front of them with a drink in his hand, blocking their path. His stark white tunic and trousers were relieved by a deep purple sash covered in badges and colored ribbons. On his right hip rode a black-hilted knife.

  “Owen Strong,” he smiled expansively. Oiled ringlets framed a dark face in which white teeth gleamed. “I had heard that you had retired here in this interesting city, but did not credit such a thing.”

  “Susa,” Owen nodded warily in greeting. “It is true. I am retired, and living here now. What brings you to our lovely city?”

  The large man spread his hands, careful not to spill his drink.

  “Bah. I am stationed here to be a consultant to our glorious embassy, for my sins.” He turned to Jinhao with a bow worthy of a royal court.

  “But Owen, it is most unfair that you have already found the most beautiful jewel in the country! Do you know, O Fair One, what a dangerous reprobate you have taken up with? You should come with me, and I will shower you with precious stones that, although they will pale beside your beauty, shall assist you to outshine the stars themselves.”

  Jinhao smiled at him.

  “And if I should run off with one whose name I do not even know, what would you think of me?”

  “Jinhao,” Owen said dryly, “This giant who fancies himself a poet is Susa Sassanid. Susa, this is Jinhao. Susa is one of the Ten Thousand Immortals of the Persian Empire, as well as one of the best agents the All-Seeing Eye has ever had.”

  The whole world knew of the Immortals, the famed Sorcerer-warriors of the Persian Empire. Some even hinted that it was the Immortals, rather than the Dynasty, who ruled the Empire.

  “Please, Owen,” Susa said with wry grace, “Modesty requires that I correct you, the best agent of His Divine Majesty, Cyrus, may Zoroaster light his name.” He smiled at Jinhao.

  Jinhao inclined her head, clasping her hands together in front of her.

  “I am honored. I have never met a member of the Persian Immortals before, let alone the best secret agent of the Empire.” The slight inflection she gave to the word best hinted that she doubted the truth of it.

  Susa’s eyes widened and he let out a great hoot.

  “I like her, Owen! She is much better than your usual fluff.” His eyes narrowed slightly, “But, Lady Jinhao—it is Jinhao, yes? There is no second name?”

  “Jinhao is sufficient,” she responded indifferently.

  Susa smiled again, teeth agleam. “You see, Lady Jinhao, I am only a humble consultant for our embassy these days, despite what our mutual friend may say. Much as our friend here is retired, yes?”

  “Susa,” Owen pressed. “I truly am retired.” Susa’s eyebrows shot up at this assertion.

  “Truly?” Susa’s arms waved around, gesturing to encompass the room.

  “And I suppose that you are a friend of Sir John Hastings come to pay your respects?” Susa nodded as if answering his own question. “There is no retiring for such as us, my friend.” He drained his glass and set it on the tray of a passing servant, snatching up a full one to take its place in the large paw of his hand. He quaffed a good portion of the glass and sighed.

  “There is so much tragic death lately,” Susa rumbled. “First the Austrian official. May Ahriman eat their hearts. Then Sir John died.” He looked meaningfully at Owen. “And now I hear that the British head of the Trading Board has also passed beyond the veil.” He drank again. “It is seeming not so good to be a trader these days. It is fortunate that my family is forbidden the filthy occupation.”

  “And what is Persia’s interest in all these tragedies, Susa?” Owen asked quietly.

  The giant spread his hands again.

  “As I say, Owen, I am only a humble hanger-on at the embassy.” He placed one finger along his nose. “But if I were to guess, I would say that even in the glorious Empire of my king there are those who do worry about such filthy things as
trading and gold. Such a number of tragedies would not, cannot, go unmarked. Mind you, I believe my king is satisfied with what he has, but there are always others, yes?”

  Owen nodded.

  “Especially with the new trade talks starting in a couple of days,” he ventured.

  Susa returned the nod, taking another quaff of his drink.

  “As you say, my friend.” The big man looked up and smiled again. “But I see that my lord is signaling for his faithful hound again.” His ringlets quivered as he inclined his head towards a group of Persian diplomats. “My work is never done.”

  “I hope that you enjoy your retirement, my friend,” Susa’s voice dropped to a low basso. “While the waters are lovely here about, be careful. I fear that they may be unaccustomedly deep for one swimming alone.” He bowed to Jinhao. “When you are ready to leave this northern bandit, come to me and I will treat you like a queen!”

  “But what would your other wives say?” Jinhao asked innocently. “After all, I am sure that a man of your many accomplishments must have seven or eight already?”

  Susa hooted again. “Actually it is six, pretty lady!” He looked at Owen again. “I do like her!” With that, the giant moved through the crowd with a grace that belied his size.

  “That was interesting,” Owen remarked thoughtfully, watching the man go.

  “I take it that you are old acquaintances?” Jinhao asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Owen said absently. “The last time we saw each other was Tunis I think. We tried to kill each other, while hanging from a sky ship.”

  Jinhao turned to look at him. “And what happened?”

  Owen shrugged.

  “We’re both still here. More importantly I wonder why Susa is here in Hong Kong.”

  “Doubtless, he is wondering the same thing about you,” Jinhao remarked dryly. “I am wondering why he felt it important to tell you that his government has nothing to do with the deaths, and that they also think someone committed murder.”

  Owen grunted and frowned thoughtfully.

  “Caught that, did you? I am wondering the same thing.” He tapped his cane on the floor. “Well, we should still pay our respects.”