Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [93]
“And to you, investigator,” Tarr replied, standing.
“What on earth are you doing down here?” Jeryd inquired. “Surely you’re familiar with the trappings of death by now?”
The doctor gave a gentle smile that rather unnerved the investigator. “Familiar, yes, but prepared, no. I’ve seen too many mutilated corpses, and Councilor Boll’s murder has to be one of the most horrific sights I’ve ever encountered.”
Jeryd said nothing, merely glanced across the sea of candles before them. Finally he said, “I don’t understand why you’re here though. Surely you should be examining the body?”
“There’s not too much left of it to examine, truth be told,” Tarr said. “I’ve come to realize through the years, investigator, how life can be so easily, and so horrifically, taken from us. This Empire has led an easy existence over the last few decades. No major wars, no great plagues, no crop failures on a large scale. Every single one of us has been safe, as if we have never left our mother’s knee. Look at the flames, both of you. Yet we are a besieged city, investigator. Disease attacks within our city walls, and every sunrise takes us yet another step toward our inevitable death. One wonders what happens afterward, on the other side.”
“Will you tell us what you’ve found, doctor?” Tryst interrupted.
“Of course,” Tarr said. “You’re quite right to ask. Come to the mortuary later though. In all honesty, there’s little to see, since his body was hacked into mincemeat.”
He sighed gently. These days anything seemed possible in Villjamur.
“I honestly knew nothing about it,” Chancellor Urtica confessed, the shock on his face genuine enough for Jeryd. He ran his hands through his hair, now clearly lost for words.
They were standing inside the door of Boll’s chambers, staring at the huge bloodstain covering the floor. They stared, for what seemed like an entire bell. It had spattered the walls, too, and even the glass on the window was smeared with gore.
Jeryd was quietly grateful that at least the body had been removed.
“First Ghuda … and now Boll.” Urtica’s gaze flicked about anxiously.
And next you? Jeryd wondered, recognizing the fear in the councilor’s expression.
“Please excuse me.” Urtica turned, and left the chamber.
“Bit of a mess, all this,” Jeryd sighed.
Tryst approached the worst of the carnage with a narrow step. “Guess we should have this cleaned up before we examine the room thoroughly?”
“Soon enough,” Jeryd agreed, “but let’s just take a look around first.”
For over an hour, Jeryd and Tryst examined every corner of the room. They rooted assiduously through all of Boll’s books, documents, even ornaments. All the time Jeryd was careful to keep his tail well tucked in, away from the crimson mess. He finally did a search for hidden drawers, checked for concealed panels—but found nothing out of the ordinary.
He was about to give up when he noticed a stain on a mirror. As he brushed his finger against it, Tryst stepped next to him. “What’ve you got there?”
“Blue paint,” Jeryd said in surprise, holding up his hand to inspect it.
“Was he an artist in his spare time?” Tryst suggested, staring at Jeryd’s finger.
“I doubt it,” Jeryd replied. “There’re no sketchbooks. Not even any paintings on the walls—only tapestries. So how did he get blue paint on the mirror?”
“You reckon it’s important?”
“Everything can have some importance, Tryst. The good investigator must always think that.”
Tryst walked away stiffly, as if wounded by the minor reprimand.
But Jeryd continued, “You know, on the day of Ghuda’s death, I saw some blue paint stains on the cobbles, right beside his body. At the time we assumed it was probably from a pot spilled on its way to the nearby gallery.”
Tryst stood by the window, staring out across the snow-burdened skies. “So we have a link between the cases? It’s not much to go on.”
“It’s something though,” Jeryd said. “And it’s more than we had before. Bohr, it seems we hardly even get a body to examine this time around.”
He pulled a handkerchief from inside