Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [43]
“That can’t be true,” protested McIntyre. “How could it make any difference?”
Sir Magnus shrugged.
“Clearly someone believes they need moondawn daffodils to make a terrible poison. I wonder what they intend to use it for?”
“And what about the empty coat?” asked McIntyre. “The running man who was . . . was just daffodils?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Magnus. “The adept would have cut the keeper’s throat, and when the blood spilled on the earth he quickly fashioned a kind of simple golem from the resulting mud, using cut daffodils for the arms and legs. He threw his own coat and hat over it and sent it away to create a diversion.”
“Magnus . . .” warned Susan Shrike. “Remember?”
“Or, far more likely,” Magnus continued after a moment’s pause, “in the relative darkness—he was between two gaslights, I expect—as the constable took his arm, the murderer spun about, at the same time turning himself out of the coat and throwing the daffodils at the policeman’s face, blinding him for the few seconds required to drop to the ground and then crawl away along in the darker shadows next to the park railings.”
“I prefer the second explanation,” said McIntyre. He stared at Magnus for a few seconds, then stood up, casting an air of finality over the proceedings.
“Thank you very much for your time and thought, Sir Magnus,” he said, shaking hands over the desk. “You have given me something to think on, to be sure. A pleasure to meet you, likewise, Miss Shrike. Sergeant Cumber will show you out. Please pay my respects to Mr. Sherlock Holmes when next you see him.”
“But the adept . . . the murderer . . . you’ll need my help to find him and bring him to justice,” protested Sir Magnus.
“We’ll get our man,” said McIntyre. “Thank you again, but this is pure police business now. Good day.”
“Sherlock said that apart from Lestrade and . . . and Gudgeon or someone . . . you were—”
“Sir Magnus! We really must be going,” said Susan forcefully. “Thank you, Inspector.”
Outside the inspector’s office, Sir Magnus turned to Susan. “We didn’t even get our tea,” he grumbled.
“I expect there was a queue, after all,” said Susan. She took Magnus by the arm and led him out into the corridor, hustling him along past the startled Sergeant Cumber and the department’s best silver tea tray loaded with the good china.
“You know we can’t let you out if you will insist on telling people the truth,” she admonished him as they climbed into their hackney cab, which was not, despite its very ordinary appearance, one for hire by the general public.
“I can’t help it,” said Sir Magnus. “Krongeitz really knew what he was doing with that curse. It’s all I can do not to babble out all sorts of esoteric stuff.”
“It is fading, though,” remarked Susan. “You’ll be right as rain in a few months.”
“The forced veracity is fading,” said Magnus. “But the transformations continue.”
“My, you are cheerful today. Magister Dadd says it will go in time, with the treatment, and he should know.”
“He also said it will get worse before it gets better,” said Sir Magnus. He leaned over and took Susan’s hand. “Promise me that you’ll act at once if it seems to be . . . spreading into the daylight hours of its own accord. I mean, without the use of the blue pill to bring it on.”
Susan gently withdrew her hand and rested it on her Gladstone bag.
“You know I will do whatever is necessary, Magnus,” she said. “But I am sure it won’t be necessary. Now tell me, do you have any thoughts about who might be behind this moondawn daffodil business?”
“An adept who can make a golem from blood, mud, and flowers on the fly? And who wants moondawn daffodils to reap their poison? I’m not sure we should try to find whoever it is. Could be very dangerous.”
“Magnus. We can’t leave it to the police. Tell me about this moondawn poison business. Does it really make the flowers that much worse?”
Magnus chuckled grimly.
“I didn’t even tell the inspector the best part. If you distil the poison properly, you don’t even have to deliver