P. Elrod: The Hanged Man

“And how the blazes did he get up on the roof in the first place?”

She broke away to check the dividing wall of the neighboring house, gesturing for Lennon to bring the light. “More disturbance in the dirt. He climbed over here. When it’s daylight you can send someone to backtrack farther.”

“What, no mystical horripilations from beyond?”

“There’s nothing to sense. He would not have lingered long enough to leave an emotional impression”-not that he’d left one in the death room-“and the sleet and wind would have the same effect on his psychic trace as a wave on sand. If it warms into rain you’ll be hard pressed to follow even a physical trail. Perhaps you better not wait for the dawn and get someone up here now.”

He looked over the wall, but the lantern light did not carry far. “You know, you’d make a first-rate detective if you packed up the spook business.”

The compliment surprised her. “I’ll keep that in mind, Inspector.”

“I’m serious. Everything you found is to do with what’s in the here and now, not spook land.”

She did not correct him with the term favored by Spiritualists. He was in a relatively good mood, no need to spoil it.

Lennon paced off the distance between the chimney and the roof. “He’d need at least seventy feet of rope and a bit more, so there’s some left to string up the toff. Brassy devil, doing circus acrobatics in this weather.”

“It would be nothing to a mountaineer or a sailor,” she pointed out, willing her teeth not to chatter.

“You suss out if any of the household has been to sea, climbed Ben Nevis, or had recent dealings with such a bloke.”

“It could be a woman.”

“Then she’s a proper Amazon and not a little tweak like yourself. It would take real effort to pull that big boy from his sheets and haul him up, so unless you notice a Brunhilde struttin’ about lifting horses for sport, my money’s on some strapping lad for the dirty work.”

The inspector had mixed his mythologies, but she had to agree with him. “Are we done?”

“What? You chilly? An’ this such a balmy night.”

* * *

Alex shivered on the upper landing as Lennon bawled for the morgue attendants. They hurried past, bringing the long straw basket that would carry the body.

One of them muttered something about bloody spook chasers just loud enough for Alex to hear. She was always on guard against comments from the uneducated and superstitious about her trade. Her internal defenses were up; their emotions would not leak past and pollute her own. They didn’t understand, didn’t want to, and never would.

Lennon ordered each to the bedroom to smell the pillow in situ. One claimed to have a cold, but the other confirmed the stink of ether.

“Good,” said Lennon. “Remember that if you’re called to give evidence. Brook, get his name and make a note.”

That done, the four of them initialed the page as witnesses.

“Plain as pikestaff,” said Lennon, summing up for the benefit of the morgue man who asked why he had to sniff some toff’s bedding. “Person or persons unknown made entry and inflicted a dose of ether on the man as he slept. Some of it slopped on the pillow. They strung up the poor devil, neat as neat, expecting to draw a verdict of suicide at the inquest, which they won’t get. Cut him clear and get him out.”

With no desire to watch, Alex went downstairs, feeling sick and sad as she always did afterward. Only it wasn’t afterward; more was yet to come, all part of the investigation. She would have no sleep tonight. Closing her eyes would only conjure images from the death room. Those would fade, given time and some meditative cleansing. Regrettably, given her trade, there would always be replacements.

The under-stairs door leading to the kitchen opened, and a slender man of middle years garbed in a robe and slippers stepped out. Taking him for the valet or butler-a person she preferred to avoid for the moment-she did not meet his eye. Her attention was instead fixed on a laden tea tray left on the foyer table.

She hurried to it, pouring a cup of the blessed brew with the same reverence another might accord a French brandy of noble lineage. Blessings on high, it was hot and strong, but not bitter. No need for milk, she drank it straight, glad of the heat.

“Please, miss, what’s to happen?” asked the man behind her. His voice was hoarse and hushed from grief.

She shook her head in reply, not wanting to think about the hours to come when she would sit with each member of the household and Read their various feelings. That was invasive, exhausting, and uncomfortable to her, but necessary. Murderers were the most vulnerable when the shock-or guilt or triumph-was fresh. If any here was or had aided the killer, she would discover it, pointing to the most suspicious or discounting the innocent. It was almost impossible to lie to a trained Reader.

Alex had studied cases where the murderers showed and felt no remorse, even considered what they’d done to be a good job, though she’d yet to encounter one. This might be her first.

If so, then she would look for that which wasn’t there, but … later. Another cup of that wonderful tea, sweetened with an excess of sugar, would brace her up.

From the corner of her eye she was aware of the man’s hesitant approach. “Miss, begging your pardon, but-” He stopped in his tracks. “Good heavens.… Lady Drina?”

She gave an involuntary start and nearly dropped the cup. She’d not heard that name in years. Years. Not since-

Alex rounded on him. Time slipped treacherously and dizzily backward as she matched his face to one in her memory. He was older, his thin hair showing gray, but the port wine birthmark on his right ear was unmistakable.

“Fingate?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Bless you for remembering, Lady Drina. It’s myself, sure enough. How you’ve grown, if you’ll pardon my saying.” A crooked smile passed briefly over his drawn features.

“Whatever are you doing here?” she asked, and the question sounded foolish even as the words left her lips. She abruptly knew the answer, but her mind froze, absolutely froze.

“What I’ve always been doing, looking after-oh! Oh, no .” His expression shifted to horrified dismay.

She stared up at the landing where the grunting morgue men were just beginning to descend with the heavily laden basket. It had no lid. A grimy sheet of stained canvas served as a cover, but it caught on something and began to peel away, revealing what was inside.

“They didn’t tell you…?” Fingate whispered.

She blinked rapidly as ghastly realization flooded in. Step by step, the men lugged their burden closer to her, and she would see-

“Is it-? I … I didn’t know it was … no one said …”

Fingate rushed forward, putting himself between, blocking her view. Against all rules of proper deportment that male servants must follow toward their female betters, he threw an arm around her shoulders and dragged her to the parlor. “There now, you’ve no need to see your poor father like that. In here-and for God’s sake close your eyes.”

There was hell to pay when Lennon was informed.

As a relative of the deceased, Alex should never have been allowed anywhere near the house. In a case of murder, family members were always the first suspects.

Her psychical observations would be discounted, the room sealed again until another member of the Service arrived. Of course by now the scene had been emotionally contaminated by the coroner’s men, by Brook and Lennon, and by Alex herself. A very experienced Reader might make sense of the mess, but each passing second meant the dispersal of latent emotions-including those of the servants who had yet to be questioned. Given time, some suspects could cover their reactions, masking their feelings as well as the most adept actor.