Witchmark

by C. L. Polk

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I went back to check on him when he didn’t show for work,” Avia explained. “I already feared the worst. I went looking for a note. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in his office. Not even the list I’d written for the grocery order.”

  My heart pounded. Tristan and I shared a look. “What were you looking for?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “A note, maybe. But then I looked for his manuscript, any papers at all. It was all gone.”

  “Including the grocery list. You said you’d ordered groceries for him before,” I said. “Was there anything different about this order? Anything at all?”

  “It wasn’t Cedric.”

  “Cedric’s the delivery boy?”

  Avia nodded. “It was a man. Recently fallen on hard times, I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “His clothes. Oh he was in tweed, but it wasn’t scrap woven. It was fine stuff. And he had a beaver hat. Much too good for such a humble job.”

  I wondered if he rode a brand-new bicycle.

  “Thank you.” Tristan rested his elbows on his knees, leaning as close as he could get. “What you’ve told us is very helpful. Would you recognize the man, if you saw him again?”

  “Unless he shaved off his mustache.”

  “It was memorable?”

  “It was the pride of his face. The ends curled up, like a soldier’s.” She eyed me. “Did you wear one? You probably looked quite dashing in yours, hero.”

  “I had to, Miss Jessup. Regulations.” I smiled back. “They’re a bother to groom.”

  “He had watery blue eyes. Not like yours, Mr. Hunter. They were pale. If I saw him again, the mustache is how I’d know him.”

  “Would you give a witness statement?”

  She sat back. “You think he’s the murderer.”

  “Don’t go looking for him,” Tristan warned. “All you newspaper people would follow curiosity to your death. If he is, he’s dangerous. Promise you won’t.”

  She put one hand up as if swearing an oath. “By my heart’s own blood, I’ll be a good girl.”

  “Thank you, Miss Jessup.”

  “One more thing,” I said.

  Avia smiled. “Whatever you like, hero.”

  I hoped the heat in my cheeks wasn’t a blush. “What was Nick’s opinion of the war?”

  “He hated it,” Avia said. “He read The Peaceful Press and The People’s Voice, you know. Kept his mouth shut at work, of course—nobody at the Star would listen to an antiwar argument for a second. … He’d never disrespect you for going over, Dr. Singer. He wasn’t angry at the soldiers.”

  “Who was he angry at?”

  “The War Committee, of course. Sir Percy Stanley chief among them. Did you know that Sir Percy’s on the board for half a dozen companies with particular commercial interest in Laneeri exports? I’m no slogan shouter, but this victory is lining his pockets with gold, and I mean that literally.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Oh, sure. Crown Lumber, Royal Mining, Queen’s Textile and Export, Aeland Aether and Lights, National Rail and Shipping … I can’t remember the last. It adds up to a mountain of gold though, doesn’t it? I can see why Nick was cynical.”

  “I see,” I said. “It does put a rather personal cast on Minister Stanley’s motives, doesn’t it?” My hands shook for another cigarette. If I were to follow this to the end …

  Well. I no longer needed to worry about getting caught by my family. Perhaps a mouse could hunt a fox after all. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Percy would ever answer for Nick’s murder, but we could keep him from taking the Invisibles, and perhaps I could find a different way to make Sir Percy pay for Nick’s life.

  Miss Jessup rose to accept Tristan’s bow over her hand, handing me another cigarette before she left. I stashed it in my breast pocket while Tristan escorted her out. He opened the parlor windows on his return.

  “I prefer the scent of burning hashish,” he said. “But Miss Jessup saw Nick’s murderer. Do you want to bet it’s not the man we chased through the street?”

  “I wouldn’t even bet a button against it.”

  “Cedric, hmm? Mrs. Sparrow buys our groceries from Swanson’s. We have a quest,” Tristan said. “Swanson’s isn’t far. We’ll go tomorrow. They’re closed by now.”

  “I should check on Grace.”

  * * *

  She lay on her side with the blankets pulled up to her ears, but she wasn’t asleep. I waited by the door. “Do you want me to bring you something to eat?”

  She didn’t move. “How can you be nice to me?”

  “You’re my sister.”

  “I made your worst nightmare come true.” She rolled over and lifted her head. She looked near bloodless, she was so pale.

  Guilt and shame touched me from our link. She knew what I had fled as a boy, and here it was, done to me.

  It had been the worst thing I could imagine, at seventeen and brought up in the palm of privilege. But I had suffered worse. I had the medal to prove it.

  I laid my hand on her forehead, reading her health. “What’s your worst nightmare, Grace?”

  “Losing the Voice.”

  She would be fine. She needed a good night’s rest, plenty to eat, and no magic for a day, but she would be well. But … “Have you ever wondered what it would have been like if you didn’t have to be the Voice?”

  “I have to. Father—”

  “Has a couple more months.”

  “That’s all?” Distress cracked her voice. “Will he live until the wedding?”

  “At New Year? He might.”

  “It’s not enough time.”

  “It has to be. Why do you care so much about Secondaries?”

  “You’re a Secondary. Edwin…” Here she faltered, and her lips and eyelids clamped shut as she remembered her girlhood love. “He’s bound to Regina Howard.”

  “Regina Howard isn’t an Invisible, is she? What does she need a Secondary for?”

  She gave me a pointed look. “Regina Howard isn’t married, but she’s pregnant with her second child.”

  It took a minute to sink in. “That’s monstrous.”

  “It has to stop. As the Voice, I can stop it.”

  “And Sir Percy won’t.”

  Grace’s laugh was bitter. “Children are a blessing, Miles. There are Invisibles who effectively have two wives … only one doesn’t have the legal rights of a spouse.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Before you climbed out the window and came here?”

  I shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “I mean it, Miles. I don’t want to control you. But I need you. I need you.”

  She did, blast it. And she needed me to be the Secondary everyone expected, so my return to the family would be a triumph.

  “I want my independence. I will live my own life. I will continue to be a doctor at Beauregard. I will have my own home.”

  She took my hand. “Miles. I promise you. You will be as free as I can let you be.”

  “You’ll negotiate cause for unbinding for Secondaries,” I went on. “So one who is mistreated or ill-used can petition to be freed.”

  She sat up, face alight. “Yes. And training of gifts. Calling them gifts, not tricks—oh, there’s so much to do, Miles. So much.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss it over supper, downstairs.”

  The fire in her eyes faded. “You know what he is, don’t you?”

  “His name is Tristan.”

  She narrowed her eyes at my familiar address. “Miles, you can’t stay with him.”

  “He hasn’t hurt me, Grace.”

  “You know what happens after Amaranthines tire of their mortal toys. You can stay at the Edenhill. As long as you like.”

  “I’m not his toy. Tristan is my friend.”

  “His kind don’t have friends.”

  “He has one.”

  “I can’t lose you to madness.
”

  “Grace, you know the stories as well as I do. Tristan’s a vain, restless creature. He’s arrogant. He’s kind because he chooses to be.” The criticisms flowed from my mouth, unfettered. “Am I bewitched?”

  She bit her lip at my frank recitation of Tristan’s faults. “No. But he could—”

  “I trust him.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  I folded my arms. “I pick my friends.”

  She let her head drop back to the pillow. “Why’s he even here?”

  I turned to the slim collection of shirts in my wardrobe. Tristan had loaned me a few, and I picked out one of those, linen soft from laundering. “That’s his story to tell.”

  “He won’t tell me.” Grace sat up and stuck her arms in the sleeves, flopping back against the pillows when dizziness made her pale. There was a spot of blood browning on the lace border of her chemise.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be a prat to my friends.” I lifted her hands and buttoned the cuffs, closed the buttons on her borrowed shirt. “I’ll fetch you something. Stay right where you are.”

  Tristan met me in the hall in front of the kitchen. “How is your sister?”

  “She can’t get out of bed yet,” I said. “But plenty to eat and some rest, and she’ll be perfectly well.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m practically recovered.”

  Tristan folded his arms.

  “But I wouldn’t mind another orange.”

  “Feed yourself before you tend your patient.” Tristan led the way into the kitchen. “And tell me what you’re going to do.”

  “The situation is more serious than when I left.” I picked out an orange from a painted blue bowl. I tried not to defend the Invisibles as I explained what Grace had told me. Tristan’s face was stone before I finished.

  “Come with me. Hang all of this.”

  “I have to help them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they matter,” I said. “I can’t leave them to suffer if I can do something to help.”

  Tristan twisted up one side of his mouth, folding his arms. “And your sister cares about this. The way you do.”

  “No. But she does care. She sees it’s wrong.”

  “And the best way to help them happens to be her holding one of the most powerful positions in Kingston.” Tristan scooped up my orange rinds and took them to the trash. “That seems suspicious, but very well. Will she be well enough to leave in the morning? We have to find this Cedric before I have to go back.”

  We didn’t have much time. Only today, and Restday—I had to work on Firstday—and then Tristan would go. The delivery boy was our latest lead, one more piece of a picture jumble, and I didn’t know where to find the rest.

  NINETEEN

  Carnage

  The chaise lounge wasn’t too bad to sleep on, and after a late breakfast Grace was well enough to take her automobile west while Tristan and I walked east, impatient to be on our errand. Swanson’s Groceries boasted a bright yellow awning shading the stands of fruit and vegetables displayed half in the sidewalk, with a stand of local apples free for anyone to take. Tristan picked one up and bit into it.

  “I’ve never bought groceries,” he said. “Mrs. Sparrow does the shopping.”

  I’d only done it a few times myself, but I knew enough. Workers wore yellow aprons over their clothes, so I found a boy putting up tins of preserves.

  “Help you find something, sir?”

  “I’m looking for a delivery boy named Cedric. Is he here?”

  “If he is, he’d be in back.” He stopped stocking shelves long enough to point to a door next to sacks of porridge oats and dried vegetables.

  The back area held more food in storage on stacked wooden platforms. A gingery-haired man set a wooden crate full of produce on a shelf made of horizontal cylinders, and a shove sent the box on its way to the end of the line, where boys read the order slips and packed the crates on three-wheeled bicycles to take away.

  The man glanced at me and Tristan. “Help you, gentlemen?”

  “I’m looking for Cedric.”

  He put his fists on his hips and squinted at me. “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing bad,” I said. “I want to ask him about a delivery he made last week.”

  “Something wrong with it? You can’t take it out on him; he’s just the one who brings it.” The man scowled.

  “There’s been no trouble,” I said, soothing. “I’d just like to speak to Cedric.”

  “He’s a valuable part of your service.” Tristan offered a bank note. The man blinked. It was a generous, even outrageous tip, but it disappeared into the man’s pocket.

  “Cedric!” he bellowed, and a boy startled like he expected a blow. “These men want to talk to you.”

  He trotted over, eyebrows aslant with worry. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Not at all. We wanted to ask you a question about your delivery route. Do you share your territory with anyone?”

  “Janey Cooper. She does my route when I’m not working.”

  “But you were working in the afternoon last Firstday?”

  He nodded. “Busy day. I was loading three orders at once.”

  “Do you remember delivering to Nick Elliot at 301, 1455 Wellston Street West?”

  He nodded. “Sure. That one was easy, since the man waited for me downstairs.”

  “Nick waited for you downstairs?”

  He shook his head. “No, sir. It was his friend. Said he’d take it up for me, since he was going to see Mr. Elliot. He gave me three dimes for a tip.”

  Three dimes could buy enough candy to make him the best fellow of his peers for a week. “Do you remember what the man looked like?”

  “Rich. Not like him—” He pointed at Tristan’s cashmere coat and kid leather gloves. “But almost. He had a mustache like a Serviceman, but he wasn’t wearing a coat like yours.”

  “Was he tall?”

  “Not like you,” Cedric said. “What’s the matter? Did he steal the food after all?”

  Tristan and I shared a glance. “What do you mean?”

  “He went in the hall downstairs,” Cedric said. “Mr. Elliot’s on three, and the building’s got no elevator.”

  Where the utility rooms were. He could have hidden down there, doctored Nick’s food, and then delivered it. I remembered what Nick had said: “in the tea.” He meant the meal meant to tide one over to supper, not the drink.

  “Thank you, Cedric. If you saw the man again, would you recognize him?”

  Cedric scrunched up his brow. “He was kind of ordinary. Nothing special about him.”

  “But the mustache.”

  “Right.” Cedric touched his own upper lip, tracing the down there with his fingers. “Did you want to know anything else? I have to work.”

  “For your time,” Tristan said, and silver coins dropped into Cedric’s palm. “You’re a sharp-eyed lad.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The coins went into a pocket, and Cedric trotted off.

  I led the way back into the public part of the store, stopping at an ice-cooled case for bottles of apple soda. Tristan browsed down the aisle, waiting for me to get through the lineup to pay. He touched the covers of magazines with photos of cinema stars. I sorted past the Herald to see the Star, and bile rose in my throat.

  Carnage! the headline read, and a picture of a uniformed policeman barring the way to a brick rowhouse dominated the page.

  “The paper too, sir?” The cash-girl asked me.

  I paid and stuffed it under my arm, headline hidden in the folds.

  “You take the weekend paper? I didn’t think you a devotee of the leisure section,” Tristan commented.

  “There’s been another murder.”

  “Another? What do you mean?”

  We were out on the street now, shoulder to shoulder with the wind at our backs. “You remember the first night, when the police wouldn’t come because they were at another murder?”<
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  Tristan gave me a rueful look. “Vaguely.”

  “Veterans have been killing their families. Wives, children, and then themselves,” I said. “It’s happened again.”

  * * *

  We shared the paper between us, back in the parlor at Tristan’s house. I read about Cpl. Terrence Pigeon, a Serviceman recently returned from Laneer who’d slit the throats of everyone in his home, then attacked people in the street until police subdued him. Tristan leaned on me, reading over my shoulder.

  “This is awful. And this happened last week?”

  “Yes. All ex-soldiers, recently home from the war.”

  Tristan cocked his head. “You treat soldiers at your work.”

  I nodded. “They captured this one. The other two killed themselves.”

  “And you wonder why.”

  “The soldiers I work with are … War is terrible. I can’t even describe to you what it was like over there. What happened to us, what we did to them. It hurts the psyche in profound ways.”

  “Does it make them murder their families?”

  It was speculation. I didn’t have any evidence. I didn’t want to believe it—not with the number of men I’d seen at the homecoming parade with the same infection as Old Gerald, the same as Bill and the twenty-one other patients I’d kept off the discharge list. But I told Tristan the truth.

  “I fear that it does.”

  Tristan rubbed my shoulder while I stared down at the policeman on the cover of the Star. “Go on.”

  Outside, someone shouted a merry invitation to share a drink. Sunshine slanted across mirrors, the bright light of afternoon. I leaned into Tristan’s hand and went on. “Some of the men have a delusion in common. They believe there’s a killer inside their bodies, who wants to lash out at everyone. I think there’s a physical cause, but I can’t find it.”

  “Is this something you can see with your power?”

  I sighed. “Yes. I’ve been keeping it a secret while I try to discover the problem with a mundane test.”

  “Because it would betray your talent,” Tristan said. “However, you were a surgeon when you were in Laneer. I know enough to know people revere surgeons and think psychiatrists shouldn’t even be called doctors. Why did you switch?”