Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [210]
WEARING A FUR coat and a pair of men’s boots, the old woman showed us outside, behind the conservatory where she’d found her husband. Steam wrapped her words in white puffs. “There,” she said, pointing near the building. The brown bloodstains were evident even beneath the fresh snow. “He must have been working on the basement window, there.”
“Fascinating,” said Chibbins and got down on his hands and knees near the window.
I, instead, looked up. There were icicles as long and thick as my leg hanging from the gutter, jutting out from the fourth floor. They looked sharp enough to impale a man from that height. I looked at Chibbins, who, in an attempt to reenact the crime was pretending to fix the window.
“Off your knees, Chibbins,” I said. “Back away from the wall.” He did exactly what I’d asked, and when he was standing next to me, whispered, “How was that?”
“Well done,” I said. At that moment one of the icicles cracked and shot straight down, spearing the fallen snow and shattering.
My partner jumped and gave a shout. The old woman shot me a look as if I was responsible for his foolishness.
“I think it’s obvious what happened to your husband,” I said.
“Your daughter did it,” said Chibbins.
“Shut up,” I told him and tweaked his ear. I turned back to the Mrs. “An unlucky coalescing of events is what I see. Your husband was only murdered if one can ascribe criminal intent to a falling icicle.”
“You don’t know, Physiognomist. There’s a most unnatural spirit that pervades the grounds of the Summer Palace. We’ve seen it, at night, stalking through the halls. It’s everywhere.”
“How very insubstantial,” I said.
“It’s a ghost,” she said. “It wants to kill us all.”
“I’m not about to chase some fart of your imagination through the Willow Forest in the dead of winter.”
“Help us,” she said, and tears formed in her eyes.
I turned away from her and saw Ludiya staring at us from the conservatory window. She looked to her mother and then to me. I spun around. “On second thought,” I announced, “I’ve decided we’ll stay and get to the bottom of things.”
Mrs. Barlow let out a sigh of relief that somehow excited me. She drew close and put her arms around my arm. “Thank you. Thank you,” she said.
I remembered her scalp condition and shrugged her off, pretending to look for Chibbins. He was back at the basement window on his hands and knees, finishing whatever job he’d started earlier.
“CHIBBINS IS COLD,” said Chibbins as we walked a snowy path through the willows. We’d been told by Mrs. Barlow that we would find the handyman, Rothac, out in his quarters on the eastern side of the fountains. The forest was cold and the day dim, overcast and sliding into late afternoon.
“Chibbins is cold and tired,” said Chibbins, and he began dragging his feet and groaning every few seconds. I’d had enough of it long before it started. Stopping, I turned around and confronted my partner.
“Are we going home?” he asked.
I made a fist with my right hand and punched him in the face. It was like hitting a pillow. He stood there blinking at me as the blood began to trickle from a split lip. “My bowel has produced turds with more intelligence than you, Chibbins,” I said. “Unless you want me to cut your throat, I’m going to require that you at least, for the rest of this investigation, say nothing. There will also be no more of your witless antics, kissing the lady’s hands, crawling around, playing make-believe.”
“My father will be sad to hear of this,” he said.
“It won’t matter because the news of your demise will undoubtedly cheer him. Do you understand?”
Chibbins nodded, and we continued on our way. Two minutes later, he said, “When is dinner?