Ghosts in the Snow (26 page)

Brushgar leaned back in his chair. It gave off an appreciable creak. "What about the girls? Any consistencies there?"

Dubric flipped a few pages forward. "Some. All are unmarried and members of the service staff. All commoners by birth. Ages range from fourteen to nineteen summers, as far as I can tell. All shapes, sizes, hair and eye colors, although he does seem to have a slight preference for blue-eyed girls."

"Nella is brown-eyed, if I recall," Brushgar said, tugging on his beard.

Dubric nodded. "But so were Celese and Fytte."

"Who's Fytte?"

"The girl from the ale room, milord. I postulate that he is afraid of being seen and that the dark, preferably outside, suits him better. But then again, I do not know that, I am merely guessing."

Brushgar thought for a moment and asked, "Of the likely men, whose name keeps turning up most often?"

Dubric sighed and sat down. It seemed like it was the first time he had been off his feet in days. "Risley," he said, without softening the blow.

Brushgar slammed his hand on the desk again. "Bisley? You have got to be joking! My grandson would never—"

"Begging your pardon, milord, but
someone's
grandson is doing this," Dubric snapped. Sighing, he flipped through his book again. "He meets the necessary criteria and then some. He has not one razor but two—that he has shown me at least—and both are collapsible and small enough to conceal. Nella Brickerman lived— damning evidence right there—and he had Albin Darril's sword. He readily admits he has no alibi for the early murders." Dubric closed his little book, putting it away. "I hate to even consider him, and I know if I arrest him it will kill Heather and Kyi. They will never forgive me. But reason and evidence insist it has to be Risley."

Brushgar's voice was soft and dry, as if he had trouble breathing. All the color had left his face. "Why haven't you arrested him, then?"

Dubric sighed and shook his head. "Because, despite the circumstances piling against him, I have no definite proof. He has been watched nearly constantly for three days. Not once has he left his suite between bedtime and breakfast. I thought perhaps there was a concealed door inside, something to give him access to the courtyard without us knowing, but that does not appear to be the case, either. For two nights I had him woken at least four times a shift, and he was always there. On the second evening he left his door propped open throughout the night so my men could enter at will to see that he slept in his own bed." Dubric paused as his fingers gripped the chair. "Now he has acquired an alibi, as well, at least for last night's victims."

Relief shone on Lord Brushgar's face like sunlight sparkling on water. "Good. What alibi is that?"

"Nella Brickerman. Risley moved her to his suite yesterday, after she was attacked. She will vouch for him even if the rest of the castle wants to hang him." Surely even Brushgar knew rumors about Risley and the linen maid had become a gossip staple. Dubric forced his fingers to relax their grip, and he flexed his aching knuckles.

Brushgar frowned. "She's one tough girl, I'll give her that. All she's been through. Stubborn little thing. My grandson seems to think he's met his match there."

Dubric agreed. "Aye, sir." And the fact that they were smitten with each other complicated matters, as well, he thought.

"But, since associating with her, Risley has become infatuated with the plight of the servants. He has demanded more privies, of all things, better rations, even improvements for their quarters. I fear she may be polluting his mind."

More likely opening his eyes
, Dubric thought, but said nothing.

Brushgar pursed his lips and stared at Dubric. "So not only is my grandson falling into madness over the plight of the peasantry, you assume he's the killer. What's worse, you haven't made a lick of progress in finding another man responsible, even though you've been looking for over a phase. How do you intend to remedy these situations?"

"I am not sure yet, sir."

"That's not good enough." Brushgar leaned back in his chair and glared at Dubric.

Dubric prepared to endure his lord's wrath.

* * *

With a right proper castigation and almost no sleep, Dubric trudged through the castle to his suite. He was dog tired, his feet hurt, his brain ached, and he felt no closer to catching the monster that had been preying upon his castle. Scores of people approached him, so many that they became a blur, and most accused him of favoritism. Everyone knew it was Risley, so why was he still free? And what about the uppity commoner whore? She knew something. And why wasn't he doing his damned job?

Tired, grumpy, and just plain fed up, Dubric refused to answer.

He had nearly reached his suite when Otlee ran to him, waving urgently. "The message, sir. From Aberville."

Dubric yawned and accepted the miniscule twirl of parchment, breaking the seal.

Trumble's message was tiny but perfectly legible.

Lord Brushgar, seven razors last autumn. No other known Faldorrahns.

"Sir? Is something wrong?"

Other than that my life is collapsing around me and I fear this torture will never end
? "No, of course not. Resume your duties."

Otlee gave him a concerned glance, then hurried off.

Cursing under his breath, Dubric read the message one more time before returning to Lord Brushgar's office. He did not bother to knock.

He slammed the door behind him and stared at the old man behind the desk. "Is there a reason why you neglected to mention that you purchased seven shaving razors?"

Brushgar stood, staring back. "Because my personal purchases are none of your concern."

Dubric stepped forward and knocked nearly every paper, ornament, and artifact off Brushgar's desk. He spoke slowly, struggling to control his anger. "Every damned thing pertaining to this investigation is my concern. I told you, days ago, by the seven hells, less than a bell ago, that the weapon seemed to be a collapsible razor. Today, after I sent a rider two provinces south, I discover that you bought seven of the wretched things!"

Brushgar blinked. "They were not 'wretched.' They were finely carved walnut, custom engraved with gilded inscriptions, and cost me nearly three hundred crown apiece." He sat and leaned back in his chair. "Such fine gadgets would not be used to murder servants, for Goddess's sake."

"Where are they?"

Brushgar rolled his eyes. "I have no idea. I gave them away as gifts at the conclusion of the fall festival, so I would assume the recipients have them. I certainly do not."

"Who? Damn you! Who did you give them to?"

Brushgar shrugged. "I can't recall."

"You what?"

Brushgar leaned over and grabbed a pile of papers and gadgets. "I can't recall. I gave them all away, remember? All but the one I kept."

Dubric let his breath out in a rush and staggered back, rubbing his eyes. "You expect me to believe that you dispersed nearly two-thousand-crowns' worth of custom-built razors and cannot remember who you gave them to?"

"Perhaps I gave them to Talmil, Berde… maybe Knude. I can't possibly remember for sure." Brushgar dropped the armload of mess on his desk. "I have more important things to do with my time than discuss this further. You will immediately cease this needless argument." He took a breath and stared Dubric in the eye. "This matter is closed. Good day." He nodded once, then leaned over to grab another armload of mess.

Dubric cursed and left Brushgar's office.
Six, perhaps seven razors
, he thought.
Damn. Who? Who would know where they were
?

He stomped past Josceline while his fatigued mind raced. Nigel would not deliver the gifts himself. That would be beneath him. Who would he assign the task to? Who would he trust with such valuables?

Frantic, he looked up the main stairs. Would Lord Brushgar's herald have any insights? Would Beckwith still be awake after this morning's drama and his injury? Dubric tried not to get his hopes up as he hurried up the stairs and to the families' wing.

Beckwith answered the door freshly washed and wrapped in a bathing robe, his head bandaged. He blinked in surprise and backed away from the door, beckoning Dubric to enter. "Milord?"

Dubric pulled out his notebook and did not bother with niceties. "Several moons ago, during the fall festival, did you happen to deliver some gifts for Lord Brushgar?"

"The razors? Of course, milord. All six, precisely as requested."

Dubric struggled to remain calm. "Do you remember whom you delivered them to?"

Beckwith paused, tapping his chin, then he turned and walked away. "I don't trust my memory after all this time, especially after today, but I do keep records of such things. One moment."

Dubric waited at the door while Beckwith opened a drawer and rooted through some papers. He returned with two bound stacks and tucked one under his arm while he slipped the twine from the other. "The fall festival, correct?" As Dubric nodded, he flipped to the lower part of the stack, then slowed his search. He frowned, shook his head, then dropped the stack on the floor.

Releasing the twine from the second stack, he searched through three sheets, then paused, smiling. "Here we are, milord. All six names, checked and initialed. They were beautiful razors, milord, and all were happy to receive them." Beaming, he handed Dubric the paper. It contained a list of names written in Brushgar's hand, each crossed out and initialed by Beckwith with a date and time beside each.

Dubric nodded his thanks and read the list:

Sir Talmil, Sir Berde, Sir Knude, Risley Rotnlin, Friar Bonne, Head Accountant Jelke

"Has someone complained of an error in delivery?"

"No," Dubric said, looking up again. "May I keep this?"

Beckwith bowed, holding his bandaged head. "Of course, milord. I am delighted to help."

Dubric folded the list and put it in his notebook. "How is your head? Did you require stitches?"

"Oh no, milord. Apparently it is more of a scrape than a gash and doesn't require stitching." Beckwith shrugged and rubbed the back of his head. "Rather painful, though."

Dubric thanked the herald, then went to find Dien.

* * *

As Friar Bonne shoved his bulk from Lars's chair, Otlee glanced at Dubric, then initialed the friar's testimony and set aside the sheet of paper. "How many more, sir? So far their responses have been the same."

"Just one," Dubric replied. He had given Dien a list of six names, instructing him to send in each man in that particular order, preferably with his razor.

Sir Knude and Sir Berde were both of ailing health, and both had insisted that their razors were treasured gifts that had never left their possession. Bonne had used his, remarking often about how well it kept an edge, but his razor was pristine, and bore no signs of being used as a murder weapon. Jelke's razor had broken—he had inadvertently dropped it on a stone floor, popping loose the spring mechanism—and Sir Talmil's razor was coated with layers of soap scum and stubble.

One man remained on the list and Dubric stared at his name. Most of the ghosts milled about, bored, but Nansy wailed silently while her guts constantly fell from her belly and Meiks glowered, staring directly at Dubric and nowhere else.

Otlee looked up at a commotion in the outer office, but Dubric clasped his hands together and tried to smile.

Risley flung the door open and stomped through with Dien right behind him. "How many times do you have to look at my razors? By the Goddess, you've seen them. He's seen them. Peg, it's a wonder half the province hasn't seen them. But now he tells me you're not interested in
those
razors, after all? Dammit, what do you expect me to do? Create one out of thin air?"

"Do you or do you not have another?"

"Yes, I have one. It's back home, in my bath chamber."

"Not that one. The one your grandfather gave you."

Risley stared at Dubric as if he had grown a second head. "My Grandda Rom never gave me a razor."

"I am talking about a gift from Lord Brushgar. Where is it, Risley?"

"He never gave me a razor, either." He rolled his eyes and turned away, but Dien shoved him back toward Dubric's desk.

Dubric remained calm. "I have documentation proving that you received one last autumn. As a gift. Where is it?"

Risley turned, fuming. "I never received a damn razor and your silly games are keeping me from guarding Nella." He started to leave again, but Dien blocked the door. "Get out of my way."

Dubric stood. "On the third day of ten month last autumn, at ten minutes before two bell in the afternoon, you received a specially crafted wooden razor with your name engraved in gold leaf. Where is it?"

Risley turned slowly. "You've lost your mind."

Dubric set Sir Berde's razor on the desk and it gleamed, polished and golden. "It looked just like this, except with your name. We have confirmation of its creation and delivery. I know you received it."

Risley stared at the razor, paling, but he said nothing.

Dien shoved him, and Risley stumbled forward, his hands landing on either side of the razor. They clenched, then opened, and Risley shook his head.

"Why did you kill all those girls?" Dubric asked.

Risley looked up at him, pleading with his eyes. "I didn't kill anyone. I swear." He shoved away from the desk. "I don't remember getting a razor from Grandda. Please, you have to believe me."

Dien remained rooted before the door. "A moment ago you insisted you did not have the razor, now you're saying you don't remember receiving it. Seems like your story is changing, your lordship."

Risley looked back and forth between Dubric and Dien. "I just want to protect Nella. I haven't cut anyone."

"Were you here during the fall festival, especially the third day of ten month?"

"I… I was here during part of the festival, I think, but I don't remember what days."

Dien pulled three slips of paper from his jacket. "I checked with the listings for contests. You participated in staff fighting, knife throwing, and pig roping on the third."