Dwellings Debacle

by David Lee Stone

  Still, education was education … and she’d triumphed. Then, one winter evening like none before or since, she’d asked her mother to tell her about him, and she’d been given the bare essentials. She knew immediately that she would have to meet her father, but she didn’t want to do it in the normal, everyday “Hi, I’m the daughter you abandoned” kind of way in which people tended to do these things; she wanted to get to know the man before she got to know the father.

  Well, what a flame-grilled disappointment that decision had turned out to be. Because now she did know the man — and she didn’t like him … not one little bit.

  The spiteful, competitive and violent nature she could ignore, but cat-napping? That was the lowest of the low. After all, what kind of deranged, psychopathic lunatic steals a girl’s cat five minutes after meeting her, then uses the deed to blackmail her into becoming his secretary for the rest of the year? It absolutely beggared belief, and if Obegarde hadn’t been her father, she’d have gone running to the militia without a second thought.

  I still will if he’s murdered Tiddles, she told herself determinedly, rummaging through boxes, tearing aside curtains and peering around doors all over the building. I’ll drop him right in it and I won’t feel the teensiest bit guilty.

  Then, while searching around on the top floor of the building, she stumbled across the secret wall.

  Obegarde’s library was a complete fabrication. On the face of things, it looked like your typical professor’s library, with sturdy, leather-bound volumes lining the walls on all sides, some of them stacked in dusty bookcases while others stared out from elegant glass cabinets ranged one on top of another. And all of them were made of cardboard.

  Lusa couldn’t believe her eyes.

  She checked again, reaching for the nearest book and picking up the whole row with unreserved ease. She chuckled at the absurdity of it, and at the thought of Obegarde showing people around the room, pretending he was extremely well read and remarkably studious.

  It was as she stood there, a mock-row of cardboard books in her hand, that she noticed the one book still standing on the shelf. She immediately reached for it, and stood back in total surprise as half the wall opened up before her.

  Lusa took a step back, waited until the portal had swung wide, and stepped through …

  … into the bedroom of Enoch Dwellings.

  Lusa didn’t realize what had happened immediately; at first, she thought she had stumbled upon a small and secret room that Obegarde might have used for sleeping when he didn’t fancy the coffin. The room would certainly have suited a vampire: it had no windows and only a single door which managed to shut out even the merest hint of light from what had to be a landing beyond.

  Lusa stood in the quiet gloom, pondering the significance of this find: Obegarde had a secret door into Dwellings’ home. Did this explain how he’d been able to steal most of the detective’s cases? The more she thought about the idea, the more it made sense. The rich and desperate would turn up at the door of Enoch Dwellings, for it was he who had the reputation, and then Obegarde would sneak in during the night, take down all the details and solve the cases before Dwellings had time to get to them! Ha! Doubtless, he probably pretended to be one of Enoch’s assistants into the bargain: the wretch!

  Lusa smiled at the discovery, and was just about to creep back through the secret door when she spotted her cat — fast asleep — on a cushion in the far corner of the room.

  Six

  “CAN YOU BELIEVE THE audacity of that fiend?” Dwellings exclaimed, heading along the palace corridors as if the hounds of hell were baying for him. “Sending that young spy of his to steal my case out from under me?”

  “It’s disgusting, Enoch,” Wheredad panted, making every effort to stay level with his employer. “I don’t know why we stand for it.”

  Dwellings stopped dead in the corridor.

  “What do you mean?” he said, staring at the assistant from the corners of his eyes. “We’re not standing for it! We’re not standing for it at all …”

  “No, Enoch, of course not: I just meant to say that … well —”

  “You just meant to say that I’m a fool!”

  “No, really I —”

  “Well, if I’m a fool, Wheredad, then what does that make you? Assistant to a fool? Apprentice to an idiot? Ha! Well just remember that YOU HAVEN’T HAD A GIRLFRIEND EITHER!”

  Wheredad rolled his eyes.

  “Why does it always come back to girls, Enoch?” he pleaded. “Is that really all you think about?”

  “Of course it isn’t!” Dwellings spat. “It doesn’t bother me at all. You’re the one who keeps mentioning it.”

  “But I haven’t said—”

  “There you go again! Girls, girls, girls! I tell you something: you need a damn good doctor yourself!”

  “Really, Enoch. There’s no need for that—”

  Dwellings held up an admonitory hand.

  “Look, let’s just focus on the case, shall we?”

  “Yes. Please let’s.”

  “We’ll ignore the fact that you’re obviously head over heels for that girl of Obegarde’s.”

  “Me?” Wheredad’s sudden look of incredulity caught his employer totally unawares. “I didn’t even see that girl; you were the one talking to her!”

  “That’s right, Wheredad, pass the blame around. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re in denial.”

  The assistant counted to ten under his breath and checked his pulse. Then he said: “Look, Enoch. I know I’ve never had a girlfriend before, but I really, truthfully don’t want one at the moment … and that’s the difference between us: I think you do.”

  Dwellings pursed his lips, sucked in a breath and sighed.

  “You’re absolutely right, Wheredad,” he said, reluctantly. “We really should focus all of our attention on the case.”

  The assistant let out an exasperated breath, and his shoulders slumped.

  “Yes, Enoch,” he said, weakly. “Let’s.”

  They’d arrived in the palace courtyard, where several coaches were being painted for the viscount’s next public address.

  “It’s only two weeks away, isn’t it?” Dwellings asked one of the decorators.

  The man took a pencil-thin paintbrush from behind his ear and squinted back at Dwellings.

  “Eh?”

  “The duke’s next address: it’s only two weeks away?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry yourself — we’ll ’ave all these shipshape by then.”

  “Good,” Dwellings said, flashing the man a smile he reserved for people he’d taken an immediate dislike to, “but it’s really not the coaches I’m worried about.”

  “Say again?”

  “I said ‘keep up the good work’!”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The man returned to his patient destruction of the coach and Dwellings idled back to Wheredad.

  “So what do we do now, Enoch?” said the assistant, stowing his notepad away in the pocket of his jerkin.

  “Hmm … an interesting question. I think we should probably look into recent city kidnappings; and I’m almost certain that we should investigate Jenacle banshees, find out where they come from and how rare they are. D’you think you can handle that?”

  “Of course, Enoch. I’ll get to the library at once!”

  “Good, good. I’m going back to talk to Mr. Spires about getting some help from the council.”

  The royal secretary leaned back in his old oak chair and carefully rubbed his tired eyes with a fingertip.

  “I understand your concern, milady, I really do,” he said. “But you must realize that we are doing absolutely everything we can to find Rav — His Excellency. Apart from all that, you really should be resting: you went through this terrible ordeal the same as everybody else! How is your hearing?”

  Contessa Curfew, a tall lady with generous weight behind her and hips that could have supported a platoon of children, blew her nose lo
udly on the handkerchief she’d been waving in Spires’ face.

  “I don’t think you are up to the task, Spires,” she said accusingly, ignoring the secretary’s question. “If you were, we would have heard something by now.”

  “Please be patient, milady. Rest assured that Mr. Dwellings is on the case and we won’t have long to wait before this matter is completely resolved.”

  Lady Curfew took another half-hearted blow on her handkerchief.

  “Mr. who?” she said.

  “Mr. Dwellings,” said Spires, flinching slightly. “Enoch Dwellings? The legendary detective?”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “No, well, he’s very … discreet.”

  Spires shuffled some papers and made to stand up, his own ever-so-subtle hint that he wanted out of the conversation.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything, milady. You have my word.”

  “Very good, Spires.” She turned to leave, then hesitated in the doorway. “Because, if you don’t find my husband and bring those responsible to justice, I’ll have your head.” She gave a final, tearful sigh and departed, leaving the royal secretary muttering bitterly under his breath.

  Unfortunately, Spires didn’t get much respite: the contessa had only been gone two minutes when Enoch Dwellings made an unscheduled appearance at the office door.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Spires …”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Is it going to bring back the viscount?”

  “It may help.”

  The secretary let out a sigh.

  “Go on, then.”

  “I’m going to need some cooperation from the city council,” Dwellings said, taking a seat at the secretary’s desk without being asked. “I need access to criminal records, daily guard reports and non-Yowler related acts of theft, murder and vandalism.”

  “Fine, I’ll speak to the chairman immediately.”

  “Thank you; still old Sands, is it?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Quaris Sands? Is he still the council’s chairman? I’m afraid I don’t tend to keep up with such things.”

  “Obviously not: Quaris retired some years ago — I believe he now lives in Legrash. The head of the council is a troglodyte named Burnie. He’s not from the same stock as Tambor Forestall or Quaris Sands, but an amiable little fellow nonetheless. When were you thinking of popping in?”

  “Tomorrow morning: I have some other inquiries to follow up before then.”

  “Very well,” Spires mumbled. “But do work quickly, I implore you: the contessa is baying for my blood and if Lord Curfew isn’t found soon, I fear I’ll be first for the chopping block.”

  Lusa crept over to the huddled yet recognizably cute form of Tiddles, and stroked him gently behind the ears. Then, whispering to him in the way that all cat owners tend to do when disturbing something that could feasibly remove their face with its claws, she carefully prodded him awake.

  “Tiddles?”

  An eyelid flicked open, and the cat began to purr.

  “Oh it is you! Did he hurt you, baby? I’ll kill him if he hurt you …”

  She had to admit, the cat didn’t look that put-out: his fur had been brushed, the basket he’d been sleeping in looked clean and snug, and there were several squeaky toys around the room.

  She was about to scoop the cat into her arms when a thought occurred, and instead she replaced it in the squashy confines of its bed. Then, carefully crossing the room on tiptoes, she opened the bedroom door and inched out onto the landing.

  The house was quiet, but she listened for several seconds, just to make sure. All she could hear was the rattle of coaches outside and the rhythmic sound of her own breath.

  Steeling herself to the task, Lusa dropped down onto her hands and knees and began to examine the ancient floorboards. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for: a slight yet unmistakable boot-print in the dust. Lusa nodded … and a grim but nevertheless determined smile settled on her face.

  Seven

  VISCOUNT CURFEW WASN’T ACCUSTOMED to fear. He was a shrewd swordfighter and a brilliant marksman, and people who dared to engage him in fisticuffs inevitably crawled away on all fours, searching for their teeth. He was also the eldest son of one of the most powerful families in Dullitch, and he had the sort of relaxed attitude toward personal safety that only money can bring about.

  However, right now, Viscount Curfew was scared: not by the rhythmic chants resounding around the dungeon, nor by the lion-like roar from the corridor beyond the cell, nor even by the fat snake that had begun to slither underneath the cell door. No, Lord Curfew’s particular focus of fear had been drawn to the deep, cavernous hole in the floor of the cell, and to the terrible creature that was emerging from within …

  As he fought desperately to try to free himself from his bonds, he averted his eyes from the writhing, shapeless mass that was filling the room, feeling its way blindly toward him on bloated tentacles, each with their own slavering tongues and thin, needle-sharp teeth. It spread out further, seeking, searching, until …

  … Viscount Curfew woke up, screaming.

  The cell was just as it had been on first sight: there was no hole in the floor, no snake and, more importantly, no monster.

  There was only the silence, and the drip, drip, drip.

  Eight

  IT WAS A NEW morning in Dullitch, and the city was alive with bustle. Birds twittered among the trees, had stones thrown at them and fell out. Children dashed up and down the cobbles, tripped, hit the cobbles and ran home screaming. Normality reigned.

  The coach conveying Enoch Dwellings and his bulky colleague came to a screeching halt outside City Hall, and the two passengers clambered out. Neither man looked particularly happy to be awake, though Wheredad had discovered something interesting at the library: Jenacle banshees, it appeared, were currently bred in Crust.

  Dwellings paid the coachman and the two men started toward the hall’s grand entrance.

  Burnie, the troglodyte chairman of the Dullitch Council, was waiting for them at the top of the steps.

  “I’ve spoken to Secretary Spires,” he said, leading them through the large double doors and into a small office on the left. “Anything you need, just name it.”

  Dwellings nodded.

  “Thank you. I’d like to see a complete record of any kidnappings that have taken place inside the city walls over the last — oh, I don’t know — twelve months?”

  “None.”

  Dwellings flinched slightly at the abrupt response.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “None,” Burnie repeated. “There haven’t been any kidnappings in Dullitch since Diek Wustapha ran off with all the kids during the Rat Catastrophe.”

  Dwellings scoffed at him.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not seriously telling me …”

  “I am.” Burnie nodded, a wry smile on his mucus-dripping face. “Not one. Good, isn’t it?”

  “Murders?”

  “Hmm … well, we’ve had plenty of Yowler hits this week, but nothing out of the ordinary — unless, of course, you count the men they found on the cart this morning.”

  “Dead?” Wheredad muttered, casting his employer a significant look.

  “Yes,” Burnie confirmed, rifling through a stack of scrolls. “It was reported just after eight o’clock: a guard found two bodies in an old cart. I don’t think they count as Dullitch murders, though: the cart was found near the North Gate, on its way in by the look of it, and both blokes were dressed in funny outfits.”

  “Spittalian?” Dwellings inquired, his interest suddenly aroused.

  Burnie shook his glutinous head.

  “No, looked more Western than that, like something they’d wear in Irkesome or Crust.”

  “The cart,” Wheredad prompted, sticking doggedly to the points on his notepad. “It wasn’t covered in drop cloths, by any chance?”

&n
bsp; The troglodyte councillor consulted the scrolls, unfurling one and staring confusedly at another.

  “Sorry,” he said eventually, shaking his head. “Says here it was a vegetable cart.”

  Dwellings caught Wheredad’s glance and immediately seized upon it.

  “You say the cart was found near the North Gate?” he asked, reaching across to take the scroll from Burnie’s gloopy fingers.

  “’Sright,” said the troglodyte, grimly. “We’re still looking for the chap who owned it.”

  “Excellent,” said Dwellings. “I take it you still have the cart impounded? We need to see it immediately.”

  The troglodyte heaved a sigh.

  “Fine,” he said. “But them boys’re not a pretty sight, I’m telling you.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The militia’s jail,” Burnie muttered. “I’ve got some things to do right now, but I can meet you there in about twenty minutes?”

  “Jimmy, old friend! How — where are you going? Hey! Come back here!”

  Obegarde raced across the cemetery, but Jimmy Quickstint had already shinned up a giant oak tree by the time the vampire arrived, puffing and panting, beside it.

  “W-what are you running away from?”

  “You!”

  “Me? What have I done?”

  Jimmy peered down through the branches and thrust an accusing finger at the vampire.

  “Last time I got mixed up with you, we ended up in Plunge, fightin’ a dark sorceress.”

  Obegarde smiled.

  “I know — good laugh, wasn’t it?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No, of course not! Anyway, none of that was my fault! It was old Duke Modeset that dragged us all out there, remember?”

  “Yeah, whatever. Just get lost, will you?”

  Obegarde shook his head.

  “Not until you come down from that tree! Besides, that’s no way to talk to a friend!”

  “You’re not my friend, Obegarde. You’re a damn stinkin’ nuisance.”

  The vampire drew himself up to his full height and bellowed up at the tree top.