“Where did you go?” Satrine asked once Cinellan was out of hearing. “Miss Pyle gave you a note?”
“Something that involved one of my unresolved cases,” Welling said. His attention was almost completely in his notebook.
“What about it? A new lead?”
Welling looked up, annoyance flashing on his face. “No, it remains unresolved.”
“Then what—”
“Inspe—” he spat out, then stopped. He put his pen down. “I apologize. The case in question involved a young boy who died a few months ago.”
“Murdered?”
“Not that we could discern,” Welling said. “No injuries, no signs of sickness or poison. As far as Leppin could determine, the boy just fell over and died. The captain decided it bore no further investigation.”
“So then . . .”
“I did not find it plausible that a healthy boy would simply drop down dead in the middle of the street for no reason. Nor did his father.”
Satrine understood. “His father was here to talk to you. And since the captain considers the case closed, Nyla—Miss Pyle kept the matter discreet.”
Welling closed his journal. “As I said this morning, I have twenty-five cases which I consider to be unresolved. And if I wasn’t clear earlier, most of these cases are, as a matter of official record, closed to further investigation. My cousin has extended a fair degree of courtesy in assisting me when matters like this arise.”
“That’s probably not a courtesy she extends to everyone.”
“I could hardly say what she does for every person on the inspector floor. She is a highly efficient woman, however.”
Satrine turned that over in her head. “Hilsom said something that surprised me. I’m not the first woman to be made inspector, am I?” The last thing she needed was publicity or special notice.
Welling smirked. “Hardly. Hilsom has no sense of history. It’s true they are uncommon, but . . . look over there.”
He pointed to a framed sketch on the wall near his desk. A dozen men and seven women in old-style inspectors’ uniforms, from the last century. Scrawled on the bottom it said, “Inemar Inspectors, 1164.”
“Height of the war,” Satrine said. “A lot of able-bodied men across in the islands.”
“And therefore many women rose up in the ranks.” He pointed to two of the faces, a man and woman standing together. “Fenner Welling and Jillian Timmsen. Later Jillian Welling.”
“Your grandmother?” She looked closer at the sketch. There was something of Welling’s eyes in his grandfather’s face. And now that she was looking carefully, she could see a lot of Miss Pyle in Jillian. They had the same smirk. “That’s amazing.”
“They were both—” He stopped himself. “They are both quite brilliant. I have to admit, I’ve gone down to the archives and read through every file they wrote.”
In the distance, the bells of Saint Limarre rang out. Three bells already.
“Come on,” Satrine said. “Like the captain said, the clock is clicking. You need to question Missus Tomar.”
Chapter 8
TWO MEN STOOD in quiet argument outside the interrogation room. One of them was Zebram Hilsom. The other was a thin man in a rich green vest with a half cape and rings on almost every finger. Satrine noticed a hint of rouge applied to his pallid cheeks. His shirtsleeves ended just below the elbow, showing a tattoo on his left arm: two letters surrounded in flame.
“Miss Tomar’s Circle counsel?” she asked Welling in a low voice as they approached the two lawyers.
“One would gather,” he replied. “Mage?”
“Lord Preston’s Circle if I recall correctly,” she said.
“You’re familiar with them?”
“They dominate the University system. Tend to be well educated, cooperative, and relatively neutral in Inter-Circle affairs.”
“And moneyed,” Welling added. “Or at least he is.”
“And very good ears,” the mage lawyer said. “Quentin Olivant. And you must be Inspectors Welling and Rainey, arresting officer and victim. I was offering my dear colleague here the opportunity to release Madam Tomar now and save himself the embarrassment and expense of a failed trial.”
Hilsom scoffed. “A solid case with a Constabulary officer as witness and victim? You’re chasing an empty wagon, Quentin.”
Olivant shrugged. “It’s your trouble. I, for one, would enjoy a trial. I so rarely need to go to court.”
“Is Missus Tomar in the interrogation room?” Welling asked. “We have some questions for her.”
“Not the both of you.” Olivant pointed a slender finger at Satrine. “The lovely Madam Inspector is prohibited.”
“We know that,” Satrine said. “It’ll just be her and Inspector Welling.”
“And me,” Olivant said.
“This isn’t regarding her arrest,” Welling said.
“Oh, it isn’t?” Olivant asked, pressing his bejeweled hand to his chest in grand dramatic gesture. “Then that’s a perfectly good reason to trample on her right to counsel.”
“It’s fine,” Hilsom said. “You two go in there. Inspector Rainey and I will be listening in transcription.”
“Then by all means,” Olivant said, opening the door to the interrogation room. “I’ll still have Madam Tomar in her own bed by tomorrow night.”
“We’ll see,” Hilsom said. He walked between Satrine and Welling, and grabbed Welling at the elbow. “No deals here, Jinx,” he whispered. “She’s going to Eastwood tonight, no matter what.”
Welling pulled his arm away. “Understood.”
“I suppose we’re lucky she doesn’t also have someone from the Advocate’s Office,” Hilsom muttered. “Come along, Inspector Rainey.” Hilsom entered the door next to the interrogation room. Welling gave Satrine a polite nod and went in with Olivant. Satrine followed after Hilsom.
There were a few short steps up into the transcription gallery, though Satrine felt that gallery was a generous word to describe the room. It was barely more than a closet, with several lamps burning low over a bench and two desks. Women sat at the two desks, one in Constabulary coat and skirt, the other in a modest gray wool dress. Hilsom was whispering something to her, so Satrine presumed she was the secretary from his office.
Several earhorns were mounted on the front wall, surrounding a thick glass window. Through the window, the interrogation room was visible. Many lamps hung on the ceiling in there, burning hot and bright. Jaelia Tomar sat at a simple wooden table, hands shackled. Olivant went around the table and stood behind her, as Welling took the chair opposite her.
“Jaelia,” Olivant was saying, his voice tinny through the earhorn. “You’ve already met Inspector Welling, I presume.”
The two secretaries started scribbling furiously. Hilsom silently beckoned Satrine to sit on the bench beside him. Grudgingly, she took her place. She figured she should be grateful that she wasn’t expected to transcribe.
Jaelia gave little more than a grunt in response.
Welling took out his journal. “Missus Tomar, I’m not here to discuss your arrest earlier today. I need—”
“Shut it,” Jaelia whispered.
Welling wasn’t fazed. “I need to ask you a few questions regarding your husband.”
She spoke louder this time. “Shut it.”
“I think Madam Tomar has made herself clear, Inspector,” Olivant said.
“I’ve not asked my questions,” Welling said.
“I’ve got nothing to say to this Uncircled trash,” Jaelia said.
“Uncircled?” Olivant asked, his eyes going wide.
Hilsom turned to Satrine and raised an eyebrow. “She knows?” he whispered. Satrine gave him the barest of nods.
“I am not the issue,” Welling said calmly. “The issue is the murder of your husband.”
“No, no,” Olivant said. “This is most irregular.” He started fanning his face, as if just being in the room with an Uncircled mage was making it hard to breathe.
“When did you last see your husband?” Welling asked, ignoring Olivant’s dramatics.
“Not your business,” Jaelia said.
“I’m investigating his murder,” Welling said. “It most definitely is my business.”
“You have no business in these matters, blank,” Olivant said. “You have no business at all.”
Welling’s eyes narrowed. Satrine thought she saw all the lamps in the interrogation room flicker brighter. “That’s not for you to decide, Counselor.”
“But it is for Missus Tomar,” Olivant said. “And I believe we are finished now.” His hands were shaking. To Satrine’s eye it could have been with either fear or rage.
“When did you last see him alive, Missus Tomar?” Welling’s voice had risen. The lamps were definitely burning brighter now.
“Shut it!” she shouted.
“Who was he with, Missus Tomar? Where was he going?”
“This is enough!” Olivant snapped.
The lamps were now blue. Hilsom turned to Satrine, “Is Jinx doing that?”
“Could be any one of them,” Satrine said.
Welling locked his eyes with Jaelia’s. “Did you even see him leave your chapterhouse? Or did you all leave together?”
“Don’t say a word, Jaelia,” Olivant said, taking her by the arm and bringing her to her feet.
“Sit down!” Minox snapped. “Is that it, Missus Tomar? Did your whole Circle go to that alley together?”
Jaelia looked up at Welling for the first time. “Is that what you think?”
“What else can I think if you tell me nothing?”
“No,” Olivant said. “Not to him.”
“Never,” Jaelia whispered. “He was—we would never—”
“Then who?”
The lamps were white hot now, forcing Satrine to squint. Hilsom had a hand up over his eyes.
“Who, Missus Tomar?”
Olivant was by the window. “Zebram! This is over! Pull him out!”
“Damn it, Missus Tomar.” Welling’s stare was intense, but his voice stayed even. “For his sake.”
Tears were streaming down Jaelia’s face. She was barely able to speak through her sobs. “Hessen, he said he was going to . . .”
Olivant turned back to Welling and grabbed him by the shoulder. The lamps all flared, too bright for Satrine to bear.
Then it was dark.
Satrine was on her feet, handstick drawn, and raced out the door. Hilsom shouted something, but Satrine didn’t listen. She tore down the hall to the interrogation room. Before she reached it, it burst open. Welling had his arm locked around Olivant’s shoulder, dragging him into the hallway.
“You see?” Olivant shouted. “You see what he did?”
Welling released the man, dropping him to the ground. “Your authority as a counselor does not extend to touching my person, Mister Olivant.”
“He’s uncontrollable!” Olivant said. “You saw what he did in there!”
Satrine glanced into the interrogation room, the light from the hallway casting dimly. Jaelia Tomar still sat weeping at the table, but otherwise seemed unharmed.
“What did Welling do?” Satrine asked.
“The lamps!” Olivant said. “Just like an Uncircled mage! Out of control!”
Welling gave Satrine the slightest shake of his head. “There were three mages in that room, Mister Olivant.”
“Only one Uncircled!”
Hilsom stepped out into the hallway. “What happened in there is unclear, Quentin.”
“He’s—”
Hilsom cut him off. “Inspector Welling was the most stable person in there. Missus Tomar is a weeping, angry widow, and you were a screaming ninny on the verge of foaming at the mouth. Don’t try and sell to me that he was responsible for the lamps.”
“He’s Uncircled!”
“And you and Missus Tomar are very well trained.”
“And he assaulted me!”
“After you grabbed an officer,” Satrine said. “We all saw that.” Several patrolmen came running into the hallway. They took hold of their handsticks, but looked to Satrine and Welling before moving any closer.
Hilsom brushed dust off Olivant’s vest. “Emotions are high right now, Quentin. You go home. Missus Tomar will be transferred to Eastwood. Tomorrow we’ll all start fresh, without this . . . incident to muddle the issue.”
Olivant snorted, but didn’t say anything else. He went into the interrogation room, and came back out, leading Jaelia.
Welling looked to the patrolmen. “Take her back to holding, and prepare her for the transfer wagon.” They escorted both Jaelia and Olivant off.
Once it was just the three of them, Hilsom cleared his throat. “That was quite a performance, Jinx. I hope it was helpful.”
“Enlightening,” Welling said. Satrine wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not, but Hilsom gave it a dry laugh.
“I must return to my office before four bells. I trust you and yours can handle the transfer process without incident?” He left before receiving any answer.
“Nearly four bells,” Welling said. “We still need to go over my open case. Would you prefer I brief you on the salient details while we go to the scene of the incident?”
“I would,” Satrine said. “We shouldn’t waste time.”
“Excellent,” said Welling. “However, on the way . . .”
“I can guess,” Satrine said. “Something to eat?”
“Open case,” Satrine said as Welling consumed two more of the fast wraps. He was pale and sweaty, and looked like he needed the food more than ever before. “Dead woman. Could be murder, could be suicide. Have I got that right?”
“You’ve paid rudimentary attention earlier,” Welling said between bites. “The body was found in the root cellar of a pub on Jent, called the Red Hatchet.”
“Lovely,” Satrine said. New place, or at least a new name. “So what’s the mystery?”
Welling led her down Easting. “The woman, identified as Jeyanne Holcomb—”
“Juicy,” Satrine interrupted. Welling looked in askance, so she clarified. “Juicy Holcomb, girl a little older than me, back in the neighborhood here.”
“Friend?”
Satrine shrugged. “Someone whose existence I had been aware of. Little more.”
Welling pointed around the corner of Silver and Easting. “So you could hardly guess if she was prone to suicide?”
“Back then? Any of us might have been called that. We were crazy. Fighting each other. Fighting sticks. Fighting anyone.” She laughed, despite herself. “Frankly, it’s probably a miracle that someone like Juicy lived this long, you know?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Holcomb was last seen alive at the closing of the pub on the night of the sixteenth. Three individuals saw her as they left the pub, as she was cleaning up and locking down.”
“They all left together?”
“They did. Lorr Kimmen, Westley Earn, and Stand Overman. Any names familiar at all?”
She shook her head. “I presume you consider them potential suspects anyway?”
“None of them back each other up beyond leaving at the same time. They all claim to have gone their separate ways, and they agree upon that. They each went to their respective homes, where each of them have a spouse or family member who backs their claim of a timely return.”
“Do you believe those claims?”
“I find them all dubious.”
“This doesn’t clear up the ‘murder or suicide’ question, Inspector.”
“Indeed, and I will clarify. The pub was closed the following day for Saint Ilm
er Day. Two employees came in yesterday morning to start business up. Together they found that the cleaning had not been handled, and could smell something horrible in the root cellar. But they couldn’t open it.”
“Why?”
“It was latched from the inside. Footpatrol and I had to break our way in. She was dead on the floor, throat slit, knife in her right hand.”
They turned down Jent. The creepy familiar feeling of the street crawled up Satrine’s spine. She didn’t like being here. “Seems like she killed herself. So why the doubt?”
“First, the three witnesses: Kimmen, Earn, and Overman. They were consistent in their description of her behavior that night. Jovial, carefree. Even flirtatious. They all displayed shock at the idea she might have killed herself.”
“That can’t be all,” Satrine said. She could hardly believe that Welling would let the emotional read of three laymen affect his judgment that much.
“It’s her hands. The knife was in her right hand, and the cut across her throat is consistent with performing the action with that hand. Her hands, however, had the scars and calluses one would expect for a woman working in a pub and kitchen. Far more calluses on the left hand.”
“Indicating that was her preferred hand to use,” Satrine said. She tried to dig deep in her memory of Juicy Holcomb. She could barely remember the girl’s face, let alone which hand she’d hold a jackstick or knife in.
“It’s hardly anything I can hang a murder on, though,” Welling said. “Especially given that I can’t see how a killer could get out of the root cellar afterward.”
“Magic?” Satrine offered.
“Granted,” Welling said. “I may have to concede that would solve the mystery of how it was done. But I do not believe that is the case. I have nothing solid on which to base that belief.”
Satrine had had enough experience with magic to know that it would leave traces that a skilled mage would notice. Welling was not a skilled mage, or at least not a trained one. And he refused to discuss the subject with her. It was possible he could sense the lack of magical traces but wouldn’t consider it solid evidence. There were some devices and trinkets that could give a rough idea if magic had been used. “I don’t suppose anyone brought in a mage balance to check.”
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 11
