The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [10]
“—I’m going in there—”
“—you have a responsibility of service to the Crown—”
Harry, the coachman, a rail-thin man with grizzled mutton chops, sat tensely in his seat during the shouting. Beckett could see how much he wanted to take a shot at the gendarme, and found himself sympathizing.
It was Skinner’s voice in the cab. Beckett recognized it as they approached, and his temper flared. Like many men of his generation, Elijah Beckett took it poorly when he saw slimy, malodorous, tobacco-chewing thugs shouting at young, blind women. Furthermore, he liked Skinner. “Gentlemen!” He called, putting a reasonable amount of effort into making his voice friendly, and still failing miserably. “Beckett” and “friendly” could only under the best of circumstances by the kindest of observers be called more than passing acquaintances. “What’s the problem?”
The gendarme whirled on Beckett, took in his leather tricorn and his long coat, and eyed the red scarf around his mouth, then spat sullenly. “Who’re—“
“Detective Inspector Beckett. Coroners.” Beckett brushed past the gendarme and opened the door of the coach. Skinner sat primly in her seat, lips pressed together in a thin line.
The gendarme muttered something unintelligible, then, “I’m Captain—“
“I don’t care.” Beckett interrupted. “Take your men and cordon off the street. They’ll have to stay until at least noon; we may need them to canvass the homes around here for witness statements.”
The captain snorted. “Folks around here like their privacy…” He trailed off in the face of Beckett’s icy glare, then spat again. “If the sharpsies broke into a man’s home, I’ve a right to know—”
“You’ll be updated regarding our investigation when and if we deem it appropriate.”
The captain’s face was red and he was practically foaming at the mouth. The red number five branded into his cheek had flushed a dark crimson. “North Ferry is my territory, Inspector. I don’t care who called you but you’ve no business in my town.”
“The entire empire is within the jurisdiction of the Coroners, captain,” Beckett told the man very quietly. “Valentine.”
The young man stood behind him; he’d pushed the driving goggles up on his head, but at least he’d had the foresight to take off that ridiculous scarf. “Sir?”
“What does ‘coroner’ mean?”
“Sir,” Valentine began unbuttoning his heavy coat, then shook it to reveal the pearl-inlay handles of the revolver in his belt. “Literally ‘coroner’ means ‘agent of the crown.’ In our case, ‘Coroner’ refers to an elite division of the Imperial guard given a mandate by the Emperor both in his capacity as secular and religious commander of the Imperium, and answerable only to him and the Minister of Internal Security.”
Beckett turned to his companion and feigned surprise. “Really? Answerable only to the Emperor?”
“And the Minister of Internal Security.”
“But not to any filthy militia-man that stumbles into my crime scene and can’t keep his truncheon in his pants?”
“Not that I am aware of, sir.”
There was a long pause, as the captain looked from Valentine to Beckett, and clearly mulled over some choice words. Words about what they could do with their mandate, about what he’d do to them given half a chance, and, perhaps, a few words about their mothers. Words that he was prepared to deliver to devastating effect. Finally, he leaned forward and pulled his coat aside, revealing the walnut grip of a heavy revolver. “I’m not afraid of you and your coroner bullshit.”
Beckett said nothing, just stared right in the captain’s face, letting the tension build. There is an art to the intimidating glare, and thirty years of working for the coroners had given Beckett plenty of practice. The captain’s mouth began to twitch. Beckett, his face concealed by his scarf, appeared as still as a bronze statue. The stillness made him even more intimidating, and the captain began to feel that he was trying to stare down a stone. The man narrowed his eyes, only by the tiniest fraction, and dropped his shoulder a quarter of an inch.