Ghosts in the Snow (27 page)

Risley backed away, rubbing his forehead. "Pig roping?"

"Came in second, too," Dien said. "You won a copper pot. Yauncy keeps track of such things."

"Where is the razor, Risley?"

"I don't know."

"You put part of a dyer in a boiling vat. Why?"

"I didn't."

"Or you can't remember?" Dien prodded.

He abruptly turned to Dien. "I absolutely do not remember putting anyone in a vat."

Dubric kept his voice low and soothing. "Do you remember nearly decapitating a young woman near the well or hacking another to bits?"

"No! I haven't hurt anyone."

Dien loomed close and snarled, "You tied Lars in intestines and shoved him under a chicken coop."

"No! I'd never hurt Lars. Never. He's like my brother."

"You didn't hurt him," Dubric said, sitting again. "You merely tied him up and shoved him aside while you had your fun."

Risley took a deep breath and another. "I am the King's grandson, for Goddess's sake, not an uneducated fool. I did not hurt anyone, nor did I receive a razor, let alone one like that. Unless you can prove, with something more than bits of paper, that I did, I am not going to listen to this madness any longer. Excuse me." He looked at Dien, then shoved past, nearly running from the offices.

Dien watched him go. "Catch all that?"

"Yes, sir," Otlee said. He initialed the papers and handed them to Dubric. "Every single word."

* * *

After discussing Risley to the point of exhaustion, Dubric decided that their suspect was not going to get into additional trouble in broad daylight while being observed by Lars and two other trustworthy men. Barely conscious, Dubric reached his own chamber door and yawned. He had to get some sleep, and he had to get away from the ghosts, murders, and frightened rabbits of the castle, at least for a little while.

Half asleep already, he located a length of red cording and tied it on the door handle as a signal not to disturb him even if the castle was burning down. He slammed and locked the door, pushed a chair in front of it, and climbed onto his bed, not bothering to remove his sword or his boots. He ignored the damned ghosts. The busy ones, the fresh ones, and the screaming ones. He closed his eyes and told them all to go to the seven hells.

He was asleep before his head had touched his pillows.

He slept past lunch, a whole three or four blessed bells, and woke feeling like a new man. He washed— even took a moment to shave—changed clothes, and readied himself for the remainder of the day. Sighing, he unbarricaded his door and opened it, wondering what had been left outside for him to deal with.

His laundry waited bright and folded in a woven basket, and a lunch tray sat atop the laundry. An envelope had been stuck into one side of the basket and a parcel from Waterford in the other. He lifted the entire basket and carried it inside. The hallway was utterly empty, but some of the ghosts watched with bland boredom.

He set the lunch tray upon his little table, the laundry basket on his bed, reached for the envelope, and broke the seal.

It was his copy of this morning's physicians' notes. Normal details with the girl, if any aspect of brutal murder was normal. Meiks had been cut on the back after his throat was slashed.

Dubric read the rest of the details with slight boredom—notes about angle and depth and body positioning—and he opened the lunch tray.

Fried chicken and potatoes. Praise the King!

Grunting happily, he grabbed a piece of chicken and ate while he read. The physicians still seemed to agree that the weapon could be a razor and that gave Dubric some satisfaction, however minor. He finished the letter, tossed the chicken bone in the wastebasket, and grabbed another piece before tending to his laundry.

Shirts put in one drawer, kerchiefs and socks in another, a chicken thigh sticking half in his mouth, he stopped and stared at the laundry basket.

There was something under the folded trousers. Something bulky. Curious, he set aside the piece of chicken and pulled a stiff brown package out of the basket. It was not quite square, about a length long, less than a hand tall, and wrapped in stiff cloth. As he lifted it, he noticed that the whole thing stank of death and rot. The cloth was an odd, mottled color of russet brown and had been tied with a cheery green ribbon. It seemed to be the same kind of ribbon most of the cleaning girls wore as part of their uniform. He set his food tray on the floor and considered the new curiosity as he placed it on his table.

He lifted the package, turning it this way and that to examine the outside. He saw no writing of any kind on the blood-soaked cloth. Once again, he had no apparent clues. The wrapper seemed to be made of muslin or a simple weave cotton, and had definite weight. Something hard was inside; it clinked, like metal.

He set it back upon the table and examined the ribbon. Unlike the wrapper, the ribbon was pristine and clean, without a drop of blood to be seen. But there was something. On one of the tails. He turned the ribbon over and saw NB written in black ink. Tiny perfect letters.

He knew most of the girls marked their things to avoid confusion and theft. It was Nella's ribbon. He was sure of it. His heart hammering, he tugged at the ribbon and the bow opened. It had not been knotted.

He took a single breath and opened the package. Grimacing, he grabbed his notebook and desperately examined the gruesome present. He had been presented with a smorgasbord of clues, but what did they
mean
?

Minutes later he was out in the hall, hurrying to his office.

Lars yawned. Risley had barely spoken a word since returning from Dubric's office and the day had dragged along like sludge in a creek bed. They leaned against the wall of two east and watched the maids work while an additional pair of guards watched them. The girls' shift would be done in a bell or so, and he had gathered not a single bit of useful detail. The two men staring at Risley were not helping matters.

"So Nella stitched up your hand?" Lars asked, trying again to encourage Risley to talk.

Risley glared at the pair down the hall. "I'm not saying anything, and your fishing for a confession isn't going to work."

Lars leaned back, bouncing his head against the stone wall. "Don't be mad at me,' Ris. I'm just doing my job."

"I didn't kill them. I'm sure of it now." He nodded politely to Ker and smiled at Dari. "I also know damn well Dubric is trying to pin this on me, but he's wrong." He paused, turning to look at Lars. "Besides an imaginary razor, what other evidence has he concocted against me?"

"You know I'm not allowed to discuss case particulars."

Risley seemed about to retort, but he raised his head and looked to the left. "Otlee's coming."

Both stood straight and Lars neatened his jerkin. "You have something for me?"

Otlee did not glance at Risley, only watched Lars. "Dubric wants everyone in his office. Immediately."

"Some new bit of make-believe evidence against me?" Risley asked, leaning against the wall again. "Or has Dubric resorted to rooting through my underdrawers and gathering my shoe lint?"

What do you expect, Ris
? Lars thought.
You're certainly not doing anything to help yourself
. Frowning, he said, "I'm right behind you."

Otlee hurried away, weaving through a cluster of window maids on their way to the next set of suites.

"Go on," Risley said. "Before you get into trouble."

"You sure?"

Risley bowed to Nella, bringing a sparkle to her eyes as she walked to a linen cupboard. "Go. One of us in Dubric's bad graces is bad enough."

His mind churning, Lars left, hurrying down the hall and wondering what was important enough to pull him from his post.

He stopped, frowning, as he saw Otlee waiting in the east tower. "Thought we were supposed to meet in Dubric's office?"

Otlee waited for a nobleman to walk by, heading downstairs. "His suite," Otlee whispered, turning and running up the stairs.

"But you said—"

Otlee opened the third-floor door. "Dubric specifically said to not let Lord Risley know where our meeting is."

Lars remained beside Otlee and whispered, "What happened?"

"The killer left a clue for Dubric. But I don't know what. Just that we're supposed to meet in his suite." They turned the corner toward Dubric's suite and Otlee nodded to Fultin, who stood outside the door.

Fultin knocked, then Dien opened the door from the inside.

As soon as they entered, Lars wrinkled his nose. It smelled as if something had died and had been soaked in chicken grease. "What happened?" he asked.

"You'll know when I do," Dien said, motioning them in.

* * *

"So, what did you want to show us?" Dien asked as he stepped into Dubric's suite with the boys walking behind him. "I've noticed you've gone sloppy."

Dubric glanced around the room. He had always been particular in his neatness, but today he had left laundry tossed on the bed, a food tray lying on the floor, and the air smelled like fried chicken and decay. Perhaps he should have tidied up before fetching his team. He almost laughed at the thought.

"Never mind about that now. Lars, did Risley leave your sight for any period of time this afternoon?"

"Other than when Dien came to get him?" Lars asked. "Yes, he did. A couple of times, to go to the privy." He frowned, approaching the table. "What's going on? Otlee said you'd found a clue."

So Risley had opportunity after all
. Dubric placed his hands on the top of a box, patting it. "I received a parcel today."

"You got a box?" Otlee asked, tilting his head.

Fytte and Elli both looked at Otlee and laughed. Ennea tilted her head and yawned. The rest of the ghosts loitered around the room, oblivious as always.

Dubric rubbed his eyes and the ghosts faded away for a few moments. "No, no. It is inside the box. I am merely storing it so I will not lose any part of it." He lifted the lid and tossed it aside.

Eagerness pulsed in Dubric's veins and everything within his sight seemed clearer, sharper. Was it an effect of hope? Something else? He barely contained his giddiness as he spoke. "I tied it back up, so you could see how it came, see all of it, just as I had."

"Is that fabric or paper?" Lars asked.

"Fabric. But do not touch it. It has been soaked in blood."

Lars leaned in for a closer look. "Where did you get it?"

Dubric lifted the parcel from the box and set the revolting bundle on the table. "It was in my laundry. See the ribbon? It belonged to one of the girls."

Dien glanced at Dubric before returning his attention to the package. "Which one?"

Dubric tugged at the ribbon and pulled it away from the package. "Nella, I believe. I think the fabric came from Celese. Her whole blouse was missing." He dropped the ribbon onto the table, where it puddled into a pile much like Nansy's intestines.

"What's inside?" Otlee asked.

"This," Dubric said. With the slightest touch of his fingers, the package opened like a gruesome flower. The smell that wafted out was as bad as a bloated deer corpse that had been rotting in the woods for several sunny summer days.

"Is that grass?" Otlee's eyes were huge.

Dubric shook his head. "No, it is hair. Bloody hair."

Dien swallowed as if it pained him. "And that meat…"

Dubric said, "Kidney? Probably, but I have to check with the physician to be sure."

Dien ran his fingers through his hair. "Taiel'dar's balls, sir. It's on a plate!"

Specifically a china plate, from Lord Brushgar's custom service, reserved for special guests and private dinners. If that was not a clue, he would eat his own boots. He pointed to the flash of gold peeking out from beneath an artful pile of curly light brown hair, most likely Fytte's. He kept his voice calm yet curious. "Cutlery, too. He took the time to arrange it like a gourmet meal."

Dien grimaced. "What kind of lunatic would do such a thing?"

"Is that all he sent, sir?" Lars asked. "A plate of kidneys and hair? Why go to all the trouble?"

"Because of this." He moved the plate from the wrapper and placed it on the table, taking great care to not dislodge a single hair.

Hidden under the plate, a long dark braid tied in a ribbon as cheery and green as the one outside the parcel lay coiled in a near-perfect circle over a piece of folded parchment. "I almost missed this," Dubric said softly. "If I had not moved the plate, I would never have seen it."

Dubric lifted the braid and it hung like a dead snake from his fingers for a moment before he dropped it on the table.

Unlike the wadded tangle of other hair, the braid was clean and unclotted by blood. Much like a surviving victim.

"It's Nella's, isn't it?" Lars asked.

"Yes, I believe so. It seems to be the right length, the right color, and perhaps half of what he cut." Dubric lifted the parchment from the bloody wrapping. "Our friend sent me a note."

The three remained quiet and watchful as Dubric opened the parchment. "As I said, I almost missed this. But I think he planned it that way. To test me, perhaps."

"What does it say?" Otlee asked.

Dubric cleared his throat and read with as little emotion as possible.

" '
My Dear Castellan
,

"'I have marinated Rianne and aged her to a fine and sinful vintage. You will find her juices to have a delightful flavor: piss and corruption and lust. To welcome carnal sin back, my Lord Castellan, to consume it, is to purify oneself.

" 'You've overlooked the blood on my hands, the blood and lust cleansing my soul. You've witnessed it, yet ignored the perfect truth of my atonement. Girls are dying, my Lord Castellan, every night beneath my razor, but you are not making a lick of difference. I expected so much more of you, but you continue to disappoint me.

" 'No matter. I shall savor these wicked sheep as whim takes me and I shall no longer be constrained by darkness. Soon I shall be pious once again. I know how sin tastes, how it purifies. Do you?

" 'Enjoy your repast. ' "

Dubric looked up from the note to see the others staring at him. "That is all he wrote. No signature."

Dien blinked, then shook his head. "That's all? Pardon me, sir, but I've never frigging heard of a letter from a criminal, let alone one so damn conversational."

"Yeah," Lars said. "At best we get a crude nude drawing in a cell or a botched forgery."

Otlee asked, "Can I see it?"

Dubric handed Otlee the letter and then pulled his notebook from his pocket. "A good man died today, as did another maid. I'm eager to hear any insights you may have. This must stop. Remain impartial in your observations. It may not be Risley, after all."

"All right," Lars said, rooting through the hair on the plate with one finger. "Can I separate this?"

Dubric bowed his head in agreement but said nothing, trying to let his men come to their own conclusions.

"He's definitely educated," Otlee said. "Not only can he write, he writes well." He held the paper to the light, squinting at it. "This is parchment, not paper, right?"

Dubric nodded, checking off notes he had listed upon his initial examination of the package, and preparing to add new ones.

"Who would use parchment?" Dien asked. "We use ground wood pulp for all of our paperwork." He lifted Nella's braid and examined it, weaving it through his fingers.

"The accountants do, too," Lars muttered. "Eamonn uses parchment for some of his maps, I think."

Eamonn
, Dubric noted with a slight smile. At nearly eighty summers of age and crippled, the mapmaker barely saw past his drawing boards, but he knew his papers and inks.

"Mostly lamb vellum these days," Dien said, measuring the braid against the loose bit of ribbon. "He says inks shine against it."

"This ink isn't shining," Otlee said, setting the letter on the table. "It's cheap. Cheaper than what we use, at least. It smears and fades as he writes."

Inexpensive ink
, Dubric noted.

Dien sniffed the braid. "It smells like soap, even with the decay stench." Setting the hair aside, he reached for the wrapping cloth and paused, looking back at the braid and puddle of ribbon. "Risley's girl's here twice. Her ribbon and her hair. Think that's significant?"

"Maybe the killer's infatuated with her?" Otlee offered. "She is a servant, like the rest. And we still don't know why he didn't kill her."

Dubric added more notes.

Lars fiddled with some small things in his hand. "Ten thin slices of kidney," he said, setting a roundish dark bit of dried mud onto the table, "and one hunk of dirt. The girls and Meiks?"

When everyone nodded, he pulled the next trinket from his palm, a bit of white feather. "This would represent Beckwith, I'd assume." He paused, chewing his lip before dropping a silver coin on the table. "This was mine. I think. It's an old scepter with King Byreleah Grennere on it." He glanced at Otlee and shrugged. "My great-grandfather. I hadn't seen it for a few days, but I honestly can't remember if I had it with me on patrol that night."

"You think he might have stolen it?" Dubric asked, scratching in his notebook. "From your rooms?"

"It's not impossible," Lars said. "We never lock the door, and people are coming and going all the time. Heck, I'm almost never there. I'll check with Trumble. He'd know if other things have turned up missing."

"Is there a way to find out whose parchment it is?" Otlee asked.

"I know how," Dien said, paling. He glanced over his shoulder and said, "That damned mirror."

Otlee tilted his head. " 'Mirror'? What 'mirror'?"

The mirror
! Dubric wrote, underlining the word.
Why, for King's sake, did I not think of that earlier
?

Leaving Dien standing near the table, Dubric walked to his mirror while the boys followed him. "Sett Nuobir made it a long time ago, intending to use it for communication, or to watch over loved ones far away." He pulled the cover off, letting it fall to the floor, and the mirror shone, polished and well-tended. "It was supposed to be destroyed, but Nuobir could not bear to smash it. I have had it ever since."

"How can it show us who this belongs to?" Otlee asked.

Dubric had the boys stand on either side of him. "Like this," he said, holding the parchment in his right hand like an offering. "Show me."

Their reflection wavered, flickering, and seemed to move backward and to the right until Lord Brushgar's image appeared. He lay on a divan with a blanket across his lap and his mouth hanging open, drooling through his snores.

Otlee grinned as he leaned toward the glass. "Who could get parchment from Lord Brushgar?"

Dubric lowered his hand and Brushgar faded away. "I have no idea. To the best of my knowledge, his parchment is in his desk, in his office."

Dien chuckled. "How can you tell he has a desk, let alone parchment? There's nothing in there but a pile of rubble."

Otlee squinted at the mirror. "Could the killer have pilfered it? Who goes into Lord Brushgar's office?"

Dubric considered the idea. "I suppose that would shorten the list considerably." He tapped his chin, thinking. "Josceline cleans for him, and of course the accountants are always there. His squires, Friar Bonne, the herald, Flavin—"

"Don't get too close, Otlee," Dien said. "It's dangerous."

Entranced, Otlee took another step forward. "Amazing! Hey, look! There's something written along the edge of the frame."

"Merely a message left by Nuobir, warning users to be careful," Dubric said.

"It might be 'amazing', but it's not fair to spy on innocent people." Reddening, Lars stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I mean, everyone needs their privacy, don't they?" He walked to the table and started rooting through the clues again.