Sporemageddon - Volume Five - The Detective Two

The Detective Two

Several weeks ago.

The morgue was cold. Not surprisingly so, but still, the chill bit through his shirt as he stepped into the room, following a reedy older gentleman who may well have been the owner. “This’a way, sirs,” the old man said. 

The morgue--Deadman and Sons--was an older but well-maintained building. Clean, dignified. It was likely that this was where plenty of nobles appeared once their days ended. Morgue work was gruesome, but that didn’t mean that it couldn’t have some veneer of civility to it, and Deadman and Sons tried to provide that.

The antechamber before the cold chambers was a small space. Tiled floors, a couch, a small table with a tea set on it, another by the door with a vase filled with fresh, fragrant flowers.

“Have autopsies been carried out on the three victims?” Mallory asked.

The old man paused. “Only on two. One of them has left already.”

“Hmm?” he asked. 

“The count and his wife,” the mortuary owner said. He rubbed his hands together, a gesture of supplication, almost. “I’m afraid that they were moved this morning. They will be interred this evening.”

“I see,” he replied. “Was there an autopsy conducted on them?”

The man shook his head. “No real need for it, I’m afraid. Neither were secured well in their carriage. When it went off the cliff... well, the impact took their lives in a rather brutal manner. We did what we could to disguise the worst of it, but the countess’ burial will be closed-casket.”

The detective nodded. He’d attended a few of those. He’d seen the scenes that led to them as well. Mangled bodies sometimes flashed in his mind when he closed his eyes. 

“And the other two?”

“Barons Erspell and Milo are here,” the man said. “This way. Mind the door.”

Mallory turned towards the entrance to the antechamber, where the young Smithson was still standing. “Stay here a moment, I’ll be back shortly.”

The young man saluted smartly and watched as the detective followed into the cold room.

The space was a few degrees shy of freezing. A rather loud machine in the corner was pushing in a constant flow of cool air that tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. The device probably cost a small fortune to run, but it was a sensible purchase. The room had double-stacks of locked cubicle on the walls on opposite ends of the room.

The detective followed as the mortuary man moved to the far end of the space and unlocked two of the units. Soon, two corpses on metal slabs were laid out before him.

“Here they are, sir. I’ve worked with a few detectives, as you can imagine, it’s always interesting to see your sort at work.”

“Thank you,” Mallory said. “They’ve been here for how long?”

“Three days. Undressed, wounds cleaned. No autopsy. I’m afraid that the families would be rather cross with that idea.”

Mallory nodded, then removed the coverings on one of the bodies. A man was beneath the blanket. Middle aged, with a well-trimmed beard. Pale as a corpse, but that was hardly surprising. 

He inspected the body from the top down. Poking, prodigy. This was Baron Milo, and he enjoyed good food and good wine. There was some discolouration here and there, signs of some gout around the big toe and ankles. 

He opened the man’s mouth, closed it, checked his eyes, then touched his chest.

“Anything?” the mortician asked. “Rumour has it that his heart gave up on him. The shock of Baron Erspell there’s passing.”

“I see,” Mallory said. “Let’s look at the good baron then.”

Erspell was an older man, a bit more corpulent as well, which didn’t bode well after his passing. The inspection was more tedious because of it. Still, a half-hour later, Mallory stood, stretching his back out.

“Were any of them wearing any jewelry?" he asked.

The mortician nodded. “Removed and catalogued. We’re very careful about such things.”

“May I see it?”

“Returned to the family, but I have the records, I’ll fetch them.”

Soon enough, Mallory was covering both bodies with a white cloth once more and the mortician was back with a sheet for him to look over. There was much, but one thing caught his eye. 

“Interesting,” he said.

“Hm?” the mortician asked.

It was a professional risk to let rumours slip, but on rare occasions, especially when dealing with fellow professionals, it was a risk that could very well pay off. “Erspell was poisoned, I suspect. Though I don’t know the type of poison that was used. Do you know a reputable alchemist?”

The mortician’s eyebrows had risen already. “I do, yes.”

“Good. I’m aware that the families don’t care of autopsies, but it would be immensely helpful if we merely had a sample of blood to work with. Could that be arranged?”

“I’ll see what I can do, yes,” the mortician said. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“None yet,” he admitted. “I’ll be back in a day or two.”

He did indulge in a little bit of small-talk with the mortician. He had several active spells that allowed him to suss out someone’s criminality, how innocent or not they were, and those spells only sharpened with conversation. The mortician was a little grey, morally, but was clean as a whistle when it came to respecting the law. A good combination for the detective.

“Smithson,” he said as he left the room, using a humid towel to wash his hands. “We’re heading back. You mentioned accommodations for me?”

“Ah, yes sir!” Smithson said as he jumped to his feet and set aside a local rag, some magazine plastered in advertisements. 

“Good show. Let’s head over to those, then. Will you be my contact with the captain?”

“With Captain Knox? Ah, yessir, I will be,” Smithson said. “Was there anything you wanted me to convey to him?”

He nodded. “Yes. Let him know that I visited the mortuary. I’d like to start the investigation in earnest tomorrow. I’ll be poking into the police archives in three days. I’d like to have a good lay of the land with regards to local criminal elements. It might not lead to anything, but sometimes there are hints that pay off.”

“I can tell him that, sure,” Smithson said.

Three days would give the officers time to cover a few indiscretions up. He hated that level of politicking, but it needed to be done. “Also, if you can arrange a meeting with the Milos and the Erspells, I’d appreciate that. Just a short talk with the barons’ respective families. I’d like to see if they had common adversaries or the like.”

“You think there’s a plot afoot?” Smithson asked.

“Better to assume the worst and find proof otherwise than to be caught off-guard later on,” he said.

“Wow!” the young man said.

Detective Mallory resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Gods above save him from honest-hearted young fools.

The ride over to the hotel where he was staying was mercifully short. Grumming’s hotel in East Town was just a few blocks over from the police headquarters. It wasn’t the most luxurious space he had ever seen, but the room was large enough, had a small bathroom, a tiny cooking space, and most importantly of all, a small adjoined room with just enough space for a writing desk, chair, and a small bookshelf. A window in that space overlooked the rather anemic backyard of the hotel, but that was fine. 

He opened his suitcase and pulled out his things. Two changes of clothes. One nicer than the other. A spare hat. A revolver and some spare round, as well as a holster. Then a small detective’s kit. Spyglass, notebooks, yarn and tape and blank post-card sized cardstock, a magnifying glass. 

He was a Central Detective. One of the best. 

He sighed. This was going to be a bad case. He could feel it in his bones. The fact that he had a well-levelled skill that gave him hunches like that only made it so much worse. 

Sitting at the desk, he penned a letter to Central, a report that’d be picked up at City One. Four nobles dead, and no suspects yet. But it might have been poison, at least for two of the four. 

Was it political in-fighting? He wasn’t sure yet. He’d have to study the factions that had appeared in City Nineteen. Nobility did love to have their little in-groups. 

Was it someone outside of all that? The city was half slums. Poverty at that level was bad for business. Worse, there was the rare person amongst the poor who would occasionally wake up one morning and decide to do something about it, something violent. 

He’d have to move fast. The further he was from the moment the crime was committed, the harder it was to pin down a culprit, and the people above him liked quick and easy answers, even if they knew full well that reality wasn’t quick, and it certainly wasn’t easy.