Doctor Casan walked forward. He was gangly as he moved, as though his limbs were slightly too long for the rest of his body. He was thin but still healthy. His blond hair was cropped close to his scalp, revealing the beginnings of a receding hairline at his temples, despite his otherwise youthful appearance.
The doctor extended his hand, which Simon shook. “I’m sorry that we have to meet under such circumstances.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Simon replied. He glanced toward Veronica, who seemed to have fallen mute from shock. “How did she die, if I might ask?”
Casan glanced cautiously toward the detective.
“Unfortunately, that’s part of an ongoing investigation,” Sugden replied. “My apologies, but I will share whatever information I can once the investigation has concluded.”
Simon frowned. Natural deaths didn’t require the ambiguity that Sugden was offering.
Doctor Casan stepped to Veronica’s side, though he towered over her. Simon realized the doctor was actually a few inches taller than he was. The Inquisitor wasn’t used to looking up to people, and he found the effect disconcerting.
“I’m sorry to ask this of you, madam,” the doctor said politely, “but if you could come with me, I need you to identify Miss Cloverfield. It’s entirely procedural, you understand.”
Veronica nodded. The detective placed a warning hand on the doctor’s arm. “I believe she’s the one in 2D,” he said. “The one from yesterday.”
Simon watched the conversation transpire, frowning deeper. The doctor led the group to a row of small, metal doors, no more than three feet tall by three feet across. Casan ran his hand across the metal plaques lining the front of the doors until his fingers paused atop 2D. He pulled the lever on the door and opened the cooler. Cold air poured from the open doorway as the doctor grasped a protruding handle and pulled. A drawer slid out with a smooth hiss. When the drawer had been pulled only halfway out, the doctor paused, letting it rest where it stood.
Atop the metal slab, a sheet had been draped. Where it had settled, it conformed to the general shape of a person: the rounded shape of a head, drooping to sloped shoulders.
“I apologize if this is somewhat disconcerting,” Casan said as he pulled back the top of the sheet.
Lying on the slab, her blonde curls splayed out around her like a golden halo, lay Gloria. Her eyes were closed and her skin a pallor of death, no longer pink but turning a dull gray. Her lips were bloodless and dark. She looked remarkably peaceful.
Veronica screamed and collapsed into Simon’s arms. She buried her face in his chest as she sobbed uncontrollably. Simon reached down, stroked her hair, and kissed the back of her head gently, soothing her as best he could as she moaned softly.
“I presume this is your friend?” the detective asked quietly.
Simon nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Veronica’s sobs began anew with Simon’s confirmation. She shook even as Simon cradled her tightly to him. The detective reached out his hands and motioned toward Veronica.
“Perhaps it would be better if we took her from this room,” Sugden offered. “I could help you if you like.”
Simon nodded but when Sugden came near, the Inquisitor detached Veronica from him and handed her fully to the detective. “If you could, please escort her outside. I want to ask Doctor Casan a few questions about her death, if you don’t mind.”
Sugden frowned but had little choice, as he was already supporting Veronica. “This isn’t an Inquisitor matter,” the detective warned. “The constabulary is more than capable of conducting our own investigation.”
“I mean no disrespect, nor do I have any intention of interfering,” Simon said calmly, though his frustration boiled just beneath the surface. “That being said, the woman on this table was a friend and I want to know why she is dead.”
Detective Sugden watched him for a second longer before the weight of the sobbing Veronica became too much to bear. He nodded, as much to Casan as Simon, and then led the brunette from the room. Simon watched them leave before turning back to Gloria. She looked calm and at ease, but Simon didn’t believe that was true. He reached out and ran a hand along her forehead, watching the still-faint lines and creases between her brows.
“Sir, I would ask you not to touch the body,” Doctor Casan said.
“Her brow is still furrowed, as it was at the time of her death, annotating that she was either in severe shock or incredible pain,” Simon said, his hand not leaving her clammy skin. “No matter your hesitation at admitting the truth, Gloria didn’t die of natural causes. She died horribly, if I had to wager a guess, one that you aren’t keen to share.” He looked up at the nervous doctor. “Am I close?”
“I’m sorry,” Casan stammered. “I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
Simon shook his head and pointed toward the half-exposed metal slab. “There’s no need. I knew there was more to her death when you refused to fully expose her body, even covered beneath the sheet. I would presume a rather significant lower extremity wound?” Before the flushed doctor could reply, Simon continued. “I wouldn’t expect you to answer, though your pause gives me all the proof I require.”
Simon touched Gloria’s cheek, feeling his heart ache at the sight of the deceased woman. It wasn’t just Veronica’s anguish that gave Simon pause; he genuinely cared for the feisty, petite woman who had once shared his fiancée’s apartment. Eventually, he removed his hand and turned, walking toward the exit of the morgue and the woman he loved. He didn’t trust the detective to properly console the mortified woman. He paused at the door, however, and glanced over his shoulder.
“There was more than just Gloria, wasn’t there, Doctor?” Simon asked. “The detective was very clear that you were only to reveal the body from last night’s murder, telling me there were more before her.”
Doctor Casan didn’t reply, but Simon merely shook his head. “I know you won’t tell me, but trust me, I will find the person responsible for her death. Good day, Doctor.”
Simon didn’t want to take Veronica home. He knew her apartment would be full of constant reminders of her former roommate and would only exacerbate her anguish. Hailing a taxi outside the police station, they rode in silence across the bridge and into the Upper Reaches. Pulling his handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he offered it to Veronica. She dabbed her swollen eyes as well as possible, though her face was splotchy and red. He looked at her sadly, wishing there was a way to take away her pain. Unlike her, Simon didn’t feel overwhelmed by the morose sensation, though he could feel his sadness whispering in the back of his mind and settling in his chest. He was an Inquisitor and in times of darkness, he swallowed his emotions and focused on the investigation at hand.
The dark car rumbled as it turned onto his street and rolled to a stop outside his townhouse. The driver opened the door. Simon slid out before reaching back inside and helping Veronica to her feet. She cradled her head in the crook of his neck as he supported her. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, they walked up the steps to the townhouse door.
Simon took her immediately upstairs and settled her into his bed. He wasn’t sure she’d sleep, but he knew she’d be safe within his home. She brought her knees to her chest as she lay on her side. He pulled up the blanket, ignoring the fact that she was fully clothed, and covered her, save her head. Brushing her hair out of her face, he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. As he started to stand, her hand emerged from the blanket and grabbed him tightly on the arm.
“Please don’t leave me,” she said hoarsely.
Simon shook his head. “I will never leave you. I’m only going to get you a drink.”
She held him tightly a moment longer before he slipped free of her grip and left the room. He hurried downstairs, sure that she wouldn’t want to be alone for long. In the kitchen, he put a pot of tea on the stove before retrieving a teacup from the cabinet. He poured honey and sugar into the cup. Walking into the study, he found a bottle
of whiskey. Veronica needed more than a cup of tea. She needed a hot toddy—a stiff drink to help her sleep.
As he poured a splash of whiskey into the teacup, the pot began to whistle gently. He started back into the kitchen before pausing and pouring in a second shot of the liquor. Adding the tea, he hurried back upstairs, delicately balancing the full cup.
Veronica was curled beneath the blankets, still sobbing silently into the pillow. He sat on the edge of the bed.
“Drink this,” he offered. “It’ll help.”
She shook her head, but he was insistent. He helped her sit upright before handing her the teacup. She took a sip and immediately coughed.
“This is awful.”
“It’s strong, to be sure,” Simon replied. “Drink it nonetheless. What you need right now is sleep and, trust me, this will do just that.”
She cringed as she took another drink, this one more solid than the last. Suppressing the cough that threatened, she tipped the teacup backward and drank the remainder of the hot toddy, all at once. Grimacing, she handed him back the teacup and lay back down in bed. Simon covered her once more and caressed her hair. He sat beside her, stroking her face until her tears dried and she fell asleep.
When he was certain she wouldn’t awaken, he stood and quietly walked from the bedroom. He walked downstairs, avoiding the steps he knew creaked, and paused when he reached the foyer. Simon glanced over his shoulder, listening intently for any sound of her awakening or moving. When he heard nothing, he opened the front door and walked back into the warm daylight.
Closing the door behind him, ensuring it didn’t slam, he hurried down the steps and to the sidewalk. A short walk later, the Inquisitor was climbing the steps to Luthor and Mattie’s shared townhouse. He knocked loudly, pausing only when he saw a shadow fall though the door’s window.
Luthor opened the door and stared at his friend. “Sir? Forgive my surprise; I just wasn’t expecting you today.”
Simon raised his chin and took a deep breath. “I need your assistance, Luthor.”
“Is anything the matter?” the apothecary asked. “You seem rather distraught.”
Mattie stepped into the foyer, curious about the exchange. She smiled at Simon, but her smile quickly faded. She wrinkled her nose as she sniffed the air, and her brow furrowed in concern.
“You reek of death,” she said in concern.
Luthor glanced quickly between the two. “Who has died, sir?”
“If you would be so kind as to invite me inside, I’ll gladly tell you everything.”
Luthor stepped aside, and the Inquisitor hurried within.
When Simon finished telling of all he had seen, Luthor and Mattie sat in stunned silence. Simon nodded, expecting nothing less, and walked calmly to the liquor rack. He poured himself a scotch and took a long draw, sighing as the liquid burned down his throat.
“Are you sure it was murder?” Luthor asked.
“Nothing that I can confirm,” Simon replied as he took another drink. “Mere speculation, but speculation supported by observation. Doctor Casan was nervous when I was querying about her death.”
“I can’t imagine how Veronica must feel,” Luthor said solemnly.
“It’s a brutal feeling,” Mattie said quietly. “It’s a feeling that you have been impaled through your chest. There is no way to lie that doesn’t cause your body to hurt in some way or another.”
The two men turned toward her. She looked up at them, not with sadness but with brazen determination. “Losing those you know and love, as my tribe did so often while in the thrall of Gideon Dosett, is pain, but pain eventually fades and life returns to a semblance of normality.”
Luthor nodded. “You just don’t think murder will happen to those you know, not in the heart of Callifax.”
Mattie furrowed her brow. “This is hardly the first murder in your city. Your newspapers reported a string of murders recently.”
“How many?” Simon asked, intrigued.
Mattie shrugged. “I couldn’t say. The newspaper was painfully vague, only reporting that a lady of the night had been murdered three nights ago, that the victims had all been ladies of questionable morals.”
“Gloria was not a woman of loose morals,” Simon sternly replied.
“Nor was I insinuating she was,” Mattie countered, “but she went missing while returning home late at night, was she not?”
The Inquisitor and the fiery-haired woman stared sternly at one another. Luthor cleared his throat, hoping to cut through the tension in the air. “What can we do to help, sir?”
Simon turned toward the apothecary. “I need the Solomon’s Way mortician’s—a Dr. Casan’s—death reports.” Simon paused and stroked his chin. “On second thought, if there have been multiple murders, I’ll need everything the constabulary may have on their deaths. Clearly, they think they’re connected, but they’re perusing the facts without the discerning eye of a Royal Inquisitor.”
“I can go by the Solomon’s Way station tomorrow in the afternoon,” Luthor said. “If you have the official request sent over tonight or even in the morning, so that the reports will be waiting, it shouldn’t be too much out of my time or way.”
Simon frowned. He stared at Luthor, all the while biting the inside of his lip. Luthor noted the Inquisitor’s hesitation and frowned as well.
“There won’t be an official request from the Royal Inquisitors, will there, sir?”
“It’s not entirely an official Inquisitor investigation,” Simon hedged.
“And the constabulary has no prior knowledge that you want these reports?”
“I may not have vocalized my needs as such, no.”
“Then what, exactly, do you intend an apothecary and werewolf to do, sir?”
Simon shrugged. “If I knew exactly, I wouldn’t have need of your expertise, would I?”
“They won’t give them willingly,” Luthor reminded Simon.
“Nor should they, if the constables are worth their salt.”
Luthor frowned, aware that his point was lost on the Inquisitor. “What I mean to say, sir, is the constabulary won’t provide them, which leaves us taking them of our own volition, which, unless I’m sadly mistaken, is greatly frowned upon. Stealing in general is hardly acceptable but stealing directly from the constables… well, it seems they’d be rather unforgiving on the subject.”
“Then be creative, my dear chap.” Simon frowned and stopped pacing. “On second thought, they do seem rather inflexible.”
“That seems a bit ironic coming from you.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Luthor chuckled. “You’re not exactly known for your flexibility. Need I remind you that you once shot a man simply because he wasn’t listening to you?”
Simon furrowed his brow. “When?”
“Walker’s Bay.”
The Inquisitor waved his hand dismissively. “I told that man repeatedly not to move. He chose to disregard my commands.”
“He was reaching for a handkerchief.”
“It could have been a gun. How was I to know?”
“The man was suffering from terrible allergies.”
Simon waved his hand dismissively again as he walked toward the liquor cabinet. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. It’s why you’re paid so well.”
“We have very differing definitions of ‘well paid’, sir.”
“And you, Simon?” Mattie asked. “What shall you be doing during all this burglary and subterfuge?”
“I’ll be tending to Veronica, of course,” Simon replied with an arched eyebrow. He dropped an ice cube into his glass before returning to his friends. “The woman is clearly distraught and in need of compassion. When you return, I’ll set to work at once divining the true criminal. Once I’ve solved the crime, which I can’t imagine taking longer than a few days, everyone’s minds will be, once again, set at ease.”
Luthor and Mattie both frowned as they exchanged glances, certain that they were not recei
ving the better end of the deal.
Veronica tossed and turned throughout the night. Simon woke up repeatedly to muffled sobs as she cried into her pillow. He wanted to hold her tighter, but there was little he could do that hadn’t already been done. Instead, he resolved to get less sleep throughout the long night, instead taking the time to caress her arm or rub her back until she fell back into a restless sleep.
By the time the sun rose the next morning, Simon was exhausted but was able to slip out of bed while Veronica slept fitfully for the first time in hours. Spending the night alone with his thoughts, he finally understood Luthor’s frustrations. Stealing from the constables wouldn’t be easy, especially for someone as morally upright as Luthor. An official request from the Royal Inquisitors would go a long way toward assisting in his mission. Simon was committed to visiting the Solomon’s Way station early that morning, hopefully quickly enough that he would be home before Veronica awoke. Detective Sugden may not accept Simon’s word that the request for the files was official, but he had to at the very least try.
He took his clothes and dressed in the bathroom, ensuring that he made as little noise as possible. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he frowned at the gentle bruising beneath his eyes and his haggard appearance. He splashed cold water on his face, helping him wake and removing some of the flush from his face. An application of shaving cream and a straight razor left him fresh-faced and gave him a more youthful appearance. Finally, wax fixed his hair and moustache, smoothing both into place and giving him at least a semblance of being put together.
Fixing his tie, he knew that he had done all he could. He strode down the stairs, again avoiding the creaking steps, and walked into the parlor. His gaze fell on the liquor cabinet, and he considered fixing himself a drink. His task at hand wasn’t one that excited him. Dealings between the constables and the Inquisitors were always, at best, strained. Sugden would take every opportunity to remind him that the Inquisitors had come to him for assistance and not the other way around. Moreover, Simon hated being emotionally attached to an investigation. Normally, his only emotions during an assignment were irritation at those around him or anger at personal attacks. Compassion, empathy, and sympathy clouded his judgment; all three of which would be present while investigating Gloria’s murder.
The Golem of Solomon's Way Page 7
