Frank Tuttle - The Banshee's walk

The man doing the choking and the woman being choked were far too occupied with the business at hand to even notice me. A fireplace poker was leaning against the wall, and I took it and raised it and would have brought it solidly down on the gentleman’s murderous head had not the tiny blonde woman spoken.

“You’re not Robert,” she said, in a voice far too casual to be used at the scene of a brutal murder. “Don’t tell me he’s claiming sick again.”

She never lowered her hands from her mouth, or lost her expression of dawning horror.

“He’d better not be,” added the woman being choked. Her tone indicated the sort of offhand annoyance one might express as being short-changed a penny by the kindly old apple-seller. “Or I swear I’ll see him replaced, today.”

The monocled choker nodded, released the chokee, frowned at the poker in my hand, and then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a dog-eared sheaf of papers.

“I thought I got hit with the poker in Act Three,” he said, rifling through the pages. “They haven’t changed it again, have they?”

I lowered my poker.

The woman being choked produced a similar document and, frowning, began to leaf through it.

“You’re not Robert,” repeated the blonde. She finally lowered her hands, and looked confused rather than terrified. “You’re not even in the cast, are you?”

“My name is Markhat,” I replied. Confused glances were exchanged all around. “I heard what sounded like a woman being murdered, so I let myself in.”

The blonde raised an eyebrow. “So when you lifted that poker…”

“I was about to enact Act Three a bit too early and a bit too hard,” I said. I leaned the poker carefully back where I’d found it. “I apologize for barging in. Are you Mrs. Hemp?”

“He thought we were real,” said the brunette, beaming. “He thought you were really about to kill us.”

The man grinned. “Not bad for a stand-in, huh? I haven’t rehearsed Robert’s role.”

I stuck out my hand. It was the least I could do, after nearly braining the man.

“You had me thoroughly convinced,” I said. Then I turned again to the woman while we shook hands.

“Mrs. Hemp?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m Mrs. Hemp,” she replied, smiling. “I’m sorry. I should have closed the door, but I didn’t want to leave Robert out on the stoop.” She stepped forward, laughed again, and offered me her hand to shake. “We’re rehearsing,” she said, as we shook hands. “Of course we rehearse at the theatre as well, but this scene is so sticky we wanted to work on it here.” She brightened suddenly. “Are you with the theatre, Mister Markhat?”

I grinned back. “I’m not, Mrs. Hemp,” I said, while the brunette and her murderous male friend sat down on the couch and began a whispered exchange punctuated by numerous stabs at the script. “Actually, a friend sent me by with a parcel for you. She knows I’m interested in art, and I understand you have a new piece by-”

I trailed off as Mrs. Hemp flew into a silent but furious flurry of shushing signs at me. She glanced at the pair on the couch, sighed in relief when she decided they hadn’t been listening, and ushered me out of the room, through the foyer, and out the door, which she closed with a solid bang.

“That’s a secret, Mr. Markhat,” she said. “I’m not even going to hang it until the evening of our cast party for Three Murders by Midnight . It’s a Werewilk,” she whispered. “The best I’ve ever seen.”

I winced. Darla’s linen clad gown lay crumpled on the stoop, so I bent and picked it up and handed it ruefully to Mrs. Hemp.

“It’s from Darla’s,” I said. “I dropped it when I thought your friend was being throttled.”

She brushed it off and smiled. “Well, I can hardly blame you for that,” she said. “I doubt it’s hurt. Darla always double-wraps.”

“I’ll make it good if a stitch is out of place,” I said. “Now, about the you-know-what.”

“You can’t see it,” said the blonde. “Not unless you come to the cast party.” She grinned a sly grin. “It’s two weeks from Saturday,” she said, looking up at me with an ever-widening smile. “If you’re interested?”

I smiled back. I’m a generous fellow, with my smiles.

“Oh, I’m interested,” I said, with commendable accuracy. “Do you know Lady Werewilk? Personally, I mean.”

Mrs. Hemp nodded a happy yes. I began to wonder where Mr. Hemp might be, and if he himself had access to any wrought iron fireplace pokers.

“Erlorne? Oh yes, I know her quite well,” said Mrs. Hemp, with an unwifely gleam in her eye. “Very well indeed.”

Mrs. Hemp’s hand had made its way to my collar, and was adjusting it. Ordinarily, I’d have made mention of Darla and her collar-straightening duties, but in the interest of keeping Mrs. Hemp talking I let her correct whatever imperceptible flaw had crept into my shirt.

Inspiration struck. “Let’s say I wanted to get my hands on a Werewilk right now, Mrs. Hemp,” I said. “You know the art community. How would an outsider go about that?”

“Well, Mr. Markhat, if you’re so eager to get your hands on something, I suppose you could just go visit the woman herself,” she cooed. “You know, like you did with me. Just show up at the door.”

Now it appeared my neck needed attention. I’d run out of stoop on which to back up. She knew it, and grinned, showing teeth that were white and straight.

“Oh, bugger,” she said. “At least have the kindness to tell me I almost had you.”

I frowned before I could stop myself.

Mrs. Hemp pouted. “That was my best femme fatale,” she said, stepping back. “Or are you in love?”

I stared and she laughed. “You are in love,” she said. “That’s all right, then. No wonder you didn’t succumb to my wiles.”

“I was succumbing, really I was. Another minute, I’d have been in a swoon, proposing marriage, assuming your husband wouldn’t mind.”

“Mr. Hemp did me the courtesy of dying on our wedding night,” said Mrs. Hemp. “But I’d have said no, in any case, Mr. Markhat. I know all about you and Darla Tomas, you see, and I simply couldn’t lose access to Rannit’s best dressmaker’s for any mere man.”

I grinned and wiped sweat I hadn’t known was there off my brow. “Good show, Mrs. Hemp,” I said. “And all that without a script.”

She bowed. “Now then,” she said. “What is it you want to know about Lady Werewilk?”

“Anything you can tell me,” I replied. “I’m not out to hurt her. The opposite, in fact. But the art scene isn’t one I know, Mrs. Hemp. And I don’t have much time to learn it.”

“All right,” she said. She paused to let a gaggle of pedestrians pass. “I’ll tell you what I know. But only because you came charging to my rescue, you understand?”

I nodded.

“Erlorne Werewilk wanted to be an artist, Mr. Markhat,” she began. “But she had an accident as a child. You’ll never see her with her gloves off, but if you do, you’ll see she’s missing three fingers on her right hand.” Mrs. Hemp shook her head sadly. “She’s had a lot of bad luck, now that I think about it,” she added. “That. Her poor addled brother. The Regent’s Council of Arts refusing her admittance, bad-mouthing her artists. And the rumors too…”

She shut up, realizing she’d said something she hadn’t intended.

“Oh, the rumors,” I said, with an air of dismissal. “I’m not interested in those. Nonsense, every word.”

She nodded assent. “I never believed them,” she said. “Her fiance had no business being on that horse in the first place.”

“He certainly didn’t. And Lady Werewilk certainly had nothing to do with that accident.”