Since the latest “short story” in the Observer Tales quickly developed into a novelette, I have decided to publish its four parts in short story-sized installments.
In Part I last week, our disgruntled narrator — known only by his office: Observer — had only recently been posted to the port of Lemaigne by the Security Corps. I call this the “latest” story because it is the latest to be written, but it is the earliest in chronological order, happening well before the events in The Dun Cat of Mill Bridge, and shows us how The Observer met Diana Ashcraft during his first truly strange case.
Wasting a Sunday morning dockside trying (and failing) to catch some fish, he was sought out by the monk Frer Jacob, who tells him that…
The Sheriff and his men shot a madwoman in the chest last night. She brandished an axe at them, or so they claim. They hit her maybe seven times, point-blank. Then, she just ran off.
The Observer decides that this qualifies as something of interest to the Security Corps, so he heads off to get his pistol, badge, and uniform — with the monk still in tow. This leads us to second installment of The Woman Who Wouldn’t Die.
_
PART II
MANTISSA RICE
On the way back up to my office, Jacob told me that Deputy Tom Sul had spent the morning interviewing locals who had seen this blood-thirsty woman before the incident with Lemaigne’s badges. Apparently, she had arrived in town a a few days before with — some were saying — two other strange women who had thus far not allowed themselves to be seen outside the shadows.
Tossing the fishing pole into one corner of the room that served as office and quarters, I retrieved my pistol from the wardrobe.
“What kind of gun is that?” He must have noticed it wasn’t a standard one-shot.
“It’s a new Stockton Company model. They’ve only been making them for about five years now. I picked up one of the first on my way to the Corps academy.”
From the way he leaned into me, I could tell his curiosity was not sated, so I flicked open the top-lock with my thumb and let the frame fall open to show him the cylinder. “This beehive holds six pre-packed cartridges with flintless caps.”
The Observer's Stockton revolver, broken down to show the "beehive."
He flashed an appreciative grin, “It’s a Six-Killer!”
“Uh, yeah.” I opened the cigar box I used as an ammunition case and started slipping the little paper-wrapped cartridges into their slots. “I guess you could call it that.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Six-Killer is a name the Indigens gave St. Tanna when my order converted them.” He tucked his thumb in piety. I sensed an unsolicited lesson coming on. “What the typical Sunday homilies don’t tell is that, when She saved us from our murderous rebellion against the Children of God in that primordial Tabernacle, the chiefest of Her fellow Angels she slew in our stead were Her six eldest siblings.”
“Well, Frer,” I whipped the pistol frame back into place, “this Six-Killer doesn’t slay anyone to keep me innocent of bloodshed. I pull the trigger myself.”
I stacked a dozen or so extra cartridges into the metal pocket case (also designed by Stockton) and set it on top of the cigar box. My Observer’s uniform had just been cleaned by a family on Brook Street, and it still sat folded on the wardrobe’s overshelf. I pulled it down and unfolded it, noting the ragged edges and salt-bleached charcoal color. By regulation, it was required to be black, and clean around the seams.
God-awful climate, this Lemaigne; in the few months I had been here, it was already destroying my uniform. But, then again, these government rags were cheaply made, no matter how dear they were to replace. Rumor had it, the contract was awarded to a third-rate linen mill owned by the cousin of some well-placed Commander in the Provisionary Corps.
God-awful climate and God-awful graft. I snatched my Observer badge from the over-shelf and just pinned it to the breast of my plain, civilian shirt, then stuffed the cartridge case in the front pocket of my trousers.
Jacob had picked up one of the cartridges and was eyeing the “Fouled S” trademark on the base of the copper cap. “So, you have to buy shot like this from Stockton, too? Couldn’t they eventually put you up against it on pricing?”
“Yeah, but until then I can put everyone else up against it on shooting.” I tucked the pistol into my belt.
~♥~
When we got to Lemaigne’s jailhouse, the noise of men arguing inside could be heard from the street. Since the Sheriff and his men were clearly not in control of the situation, I decided to step in. With my boot against the door.
“What in the Name of the Bloody Saint is going on in here?!”
There were four men inside, and I only recognized one: Deputy Tom Sul, standing slack-jawed with that mop of unkempt hair half-covering his eyes. Luckily for me (since he also recognized me) he was the only armed man present.
The other three were as different from each other as men could be, except that they were all sitting around the jailhouse’s work table and tucking their thumbs against their chests, probably in reaction to my cursing.
The first wasn’t much more than a boy, barely a beard shading his chin, and a sailor judging from his ragged clothes. The second was a man in his middle years, a veteran if his rigid stance and stiff jaw told anything of his past. The third was an older, high-toned fellow decked in fine cloth with one of those new, flat-topped Cuzzy Will caps sitting absurdly in his elder lap.
“Observer,” came Jacob’s whisper behind me, “This is still a Sunday.”
I cast him my darkest save-the-preaching-for-the-pews glance over my shoulder and walked right up to the table around which the three witnesses were seated. I turned to the only man not making gestures of piety.
“Deputy, what’s the squabble about?”
“Well,” Tom started, stepping forward with a hint of renewed confidence. He must have realized that I was there to help. “These are the last of the witnesses who saw the woman who has been assaulting children around town.”
I shot another dark look at Frer Jacob. “Assaulting children, you say? That’s news to me.” I turned back to Deputy Tom. “I heard she attacked the watch with an axe.”
“That too,” said Tom, with a glance toward Jacob, “She was reported asking after children, and then assaulting them once she found them. Scratching or cutting them, and tasting the blood. These are the ones who were seen, um, pounced upon.”
Of all the perverse aberrations! That particular criminal oddity was never covered in the Security Corps’ coursework, but it probably should be. Why in the Name of God would someone feel the compulsion to taste the blood of children?
“And, there were others?”
“Well, other than those who were seen attacked?” Tom shrugged. “There are a dozen or so girls missing, and two found on Buckler Street with their throats cut. Which is why we were looking for this woman. And her accomplices. And we cornered her and she picked up an axe that was leaning—”
“Yes, yes,” I said. Since the Deputy wasn’t getting to my original question, I repeated it. “So, what’s the squabble about, here?”
“Well,” Tom started again, “They can’t agree that they all saw the same woman. So that’s partly why we think she’s been working with accomplices.”
He shrugged again. “Maybe.”
Tom proceeded to introduce me to the three witnesses seated around the table, but I won’t bother repeating their names, since they really aren’t important.
The Boy was, in fact, son of a scrub farmer from Mill Creek, but had found work in Lemaigne working as a deck talker helping foreign captains and sailors do business. Somewhere, somehow, between leaving plow and finding port, he had picked up seven languages.
The man was a former Colonel in the Provisionary Corps, retired and now the proprietor of a tavern called The Blood Letter. I had heard of the place, named I believe for the huge crimson “S” on its hang-shingle. It was a notorious haven for youths turning to ill ends, and therefore a common location for the arrest of lads and lasses employed to traffick in stolen and incensured goods.
The Oldster was — fitting enough — from old money with an old name, his family probably denning in Lemaigne since before the city gave up on good government. Notwithstanding his age and station, by his own report he hosted parties like some college rake. He was a witness because the woman had infiltrated his regular Friday night function, attended by the city’s poshest catercousins.
I questioned the Boy first. “You say you saw her come ashore?”
“Aye, sir. Wednesday afternoon, I was cross-talking between some Indigen sailors and their quartermaster, trying to settle a dispute about the quality of tobacco—”
“You saw her come ashore?” I repeated.
“Aye, she and two others, down the gang from a ship with a red-striped mainsail. And this joint sighting is how I know she was the mistress of the company: the other two wore their hair short, like nuns, but hers was long.”
Colonel Blood Letter leaned forward and pointed one thick finger at the Boy. “The length of it was never in dispute, you little rick!” he shouted.
I pounded my fist against the table. The Colonel retreated again to the back of his chair.
“That’s all fine,” I said evenly to the Boy, whose composure was surprisingly unshaken by either the Colonel’s shout or my thumping. “But, you know this was her by what evidence?”
“Well, sir, she immediately began asking around about children. And with an odd manner of speaking, just as everyone else has reported. And, sir, her accent was slight, but I had never before heard it.”
Well, if anyone could confirm that she spoke strangely, it would be a deck talker.
“She claimed she was looking for a cousin and a niece. And the niece, she said, was a half-breed.”
Tom and Jacob stepped forward together, as if hearing a cue in some fiddly stage play. Scratching away in his ledger, the Deputy stuttered, “She said she was looking for a half-breed girl? You didn’t say that before!”
“These two never let me get past the color of her hair,” the Boy shrugged.
Jacob and Tom exchanged a glance. “Do you have another of those pencils?” the monk asked. Tom pulled a squarish length of wood from his jacket and handed it to Jacob, who opened his book of Scripture and — to the visible discomfort of all three witnesses — began furiously scribbling notes inside the cover.
“Brother Jacob!” protested the Oldster, tucking his thumb against his chest.
“‘Tis a mere frontispiece,” the monk smiled, turning the woodcut illustration to the Oldster, “I would never overwrite the Holy words themselves.”
I needed to keep this interrogation from unraveling into a theological discussion. Commander Lea Thomas teaches that the best way to conduct an interview is to repeat the subject’s own words — to keep from unwittingly leading them toward a conclusion not their own — so I prompted the Boy: “The color of her hair?”
“Aye, sir,” the Boy began again. “To my eye, her hair was as red as wine.”
“What else did she say about the child she was seeking?” Tom asked.
“Just that, sir. The girl was a niece, the daughter of a cousin, and of mixed blood. One of the stevies asked her what mix, but she claimed not to know.”
That seemed unlikely. At the very least, she should know the ingredient her own cousin contributed to the mortar.
“Wait,” I said, realizing that we still had not gotten to my original question. Turning to Colonel Blood Letter, “To your eyes, her hair was not red?”
“Not to mine, or the eyes of any of my patrons! Her hair was gold as sure as your badge is silver.”
It was, in fact, made of tin. But, no matter.
“Her hair was gold?” I prompted the Colonel, using Lea’s Method.
“Yea, and same as with the sailor, she was talking with a queer cadence and searching for some girl. Came to my establishment Thursday night, locks as fair as winter grass.”
“And long,” the Boy said. I pointed at him.
“Yea,” the Colonel confessed. “She wore it long, all the more to see how fair it was.”
“And searching for a girl?” Tom asked.
“Same as with the sailor,” the Colonel answered, “A cousin’s issue, and some strain of mulatta. Also said the girl she was looking for would be of a wild temperament.”
“Which detail would explain her looking in your place,” I said. The Colonel set his jaw and shrugged. I turned to the Oldster. “What’s your tint in this tricolor?”
“She was, without possibility of rational dissent, a brunette.” He looked up at some feature of the ceiling, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze.
“Bare assertions aren’t rational either, Pop,” I said. “Cough up an explanation.”
Oldster spun the hat in his lap a quarter turn, and hesitantly met my stare. “Well,” he looked at the door, “I have a dining chamber along the south wall, with light more than adequate to the purpose of identifying color. The entire balcony is faced with glass doors, in fact.”
“A dining room?” I asked. There really wasn’t much else to work with.
“Every Friday, I have friends and relations over for,” he inspected the top of his hat, looking for words, “entertainment, enrichment. Some poetry, piano compositions from Callea. And wine, also imported from Callea, or from Cavalis. Lobster, cheese —”
“I’m not interested in the cuisine,” I said. “When did you realize she was there?”
He stared at the ceiling with pursed lips. “It was still late afternoon. We had not yet lit the lamps. One of my nephews drew me aside to inquire who she was and why she was asking odd questions.”
I glanced at Tom. “I assume this nephew’s testimony is also penciled into that ledger of yours.”
“Oh,” the Oldster shrank, “He was compelled to depart yesterday morning by ship to Amberton. He is employed as a clerk for the Caucus.”
“Fair enough,” I said, “but what sort of questions was she asking that now lead you to believe this is the same woman?”
“Questions about a girl, a first-cousin once removed, and of a dark complexion.”
Tom and Jacob scribbled. Three stories, three women, if hair color is any indication. Yet, the same woman. Perhaps a guiser, wearing a different postiche each time. That seemed a lot of effort, particularly since her single-minded questions and freakish perversion would give her away.
Of course, the same mental corruption that drove her to taste blood might render her immune to an argument from efficiency. There had to be some sort of simpler explanation. Something in plain sight.
And, only the sailor had actually seen her in plain sight. Driven by a hunch, I turned again to the Oldster.
“You entertain in high style, I imagine?”
He looked at me sidelong, likely suspicious of my intent. “I do not insult my guests, if that is what you mean.”
“The finest decoration and accouterments? Fine glass?”
He frowned, perhaps at my pronunciation. “I had lately purchased a new set of air-twisted stemware from the works in Pitchington. This was their debut, and they were well received.”
Ah, yes. Pitchington is well-known as the center of swank (and costly) glass-making in the Republics; their tradesmen are so crafty that there are certain things made of glass you can only import from there. “And, your glass doors: their panes are also from Pitchington? The famous Pitchington Blue?”
“I… well, yes.” He raised a brow. “I have lately considered replacing them with a warmer, amber glaze. How did you guess?”
Turning to the Colonel, I smacked my lips. “I would bet that a tavern-keep like yourself can’t afford such fluff, eh?”
As still as a gravestone, the Colonel let his eyes snap from me to the Oldster like a signal flag. “Not on a tavern-keep’s take, no. I watch my coin like an only son.”
“Watching the expenses on everything, I expect. Even the lamp light. I would wager you’ve bargained yourself into more than a few batches of bad oil.”
“Yea. Oil-hawkers are shy about confessing the whale-sickness.”
“Observer,” the monk’s small voice from behind me. “What are you getting at?”
“There’s no real squabble, Jacob.” I gestured to the Boy. “Our deck talker here is the only witness to see the woman in the light of day. Or, as near to daylight as this city’s skies allow.”
“I take exception!” sniffed the Oldster.
“You saw her red hair through a blue filter. Your sight is true, but the light was not. The blue tint made her red hair appear darker. And the Colonel here saw her in the reddish glow of lamps loaded with bad whale oil. Same woman, same hair, three different hues of light.”
“Damn,” Tom muttered. The three witnessed tucked their thumbs in abjuration.
“Did any of you get a name?” I asked. At once, all three witnesses and Tom Sul spoke the same two words: Mantissa Rice.
I took a deep breath, put my fists against the table, and focused on the far wall, letting my rankle burn off at the edges. The three witnesses leaned back in their chairs: the Oldster lifted his hat as if to leave, the Colonel put his hands on the table to brace himself, and the Boy cocked an ear toward me to hear what I was about to say.
“You all agreed on her name and her nature, and you were arguing over the color of her hair?” I needed to get away from this damnable city. And its damnable residents. I closed my eyes, opened them again, and turned to the Oldster.
“Your people saw her last. Do you have any idea which girl she might be after next?”
He flipped his Cuzzy Will hat and looked inside, as if the answer were hidden there. “My nephew reported that one of the serving men had mentioned a girl, and the woman disappeared after getting her name and description.”
“What name?”
He studied the insides of his eyelids. “Diana Ashcraft.”
Jacob, Tom, and the Colonel all took in a breath. I turned to Tom and Jacob. “Do you know this girl, Diana Ashcraft?”
“I do,” the monk confessed, “And you do, as well.”
The Deputy touched Jacob’s shoulder and said, “She’s the girl arrested at the Blood Letter two weeks ago for trafficking in stolen goods.”
CLICK HERE FOR PART III
