The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [69]
“Leave him.” Skinner’s voice was cold. “We have work to do.”
After a moment’s thought, Valentine decided to at least move the sharpsie to the sidewalk, and attempted to arrange its limbs in a restful position, instead of the tangle of broken arms and legs that the gendarmes had left. Reluctantly, Valentine returned to the coach.
The two coroners found James Crowell’s house without difficulty. They were surprised, however, to discover that it was not empty. Skinner had opened the front door of the small, single-story dwelling. She leaned in close to the lock and there was a tinny, metallic rapping. After a few seconds something clicked and she turned the knob.
There was a young man in the house, sitting in an overstuffed chair next to the woodburning stove. He was thin and pale and lank-haired, and his eyes had the glazed-over look of a habitual fang user.
“Who the hell are you?” Valentine asked, as he entered.
The young man required a moment to regain his focus, but once he had his eyes were suddenly sharp. “This is my house. I think it’s perhaps customary that you should introduce yourselves, first.”
“Coroners.” Valentine showed the brass double-eagle shield. “Also, this is James Crowell’s house.”
Eyeing the badge suspiciously, the young man replied. “We share…shared it. I’m Phillip Crowell. His son.”
“Oh. Ah. Yes.” Valentine put his badge away. “Sorry… well, sorry about that, we didn’t realize that there’d…I mean, that he’d had, or that…you know.”
“We’d like to talk to you about your father,” Skinner said calmly and, if not soothingly, at least dispassionately. Her cane, swiftly swinging back and forth, discovered a second chair, not quite so well-stuffed, which she sat in without invitation.
“You would? The coroners?” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Please sit, by the way. No need to wait on my account.” Phillip fumbled with a small bottle that he’d had set on the floor, finally pouring a measure of amber-colored liquid into a tiny glass and then sipping from it. “My father was a coachman, not a scientist. I can’t see that you’d be interested in him at all.”
“You don’t think it’s possible,” Skinner asked, “that he might have been involved with some people in whom we might take an interest?”
Phillip shrugged. “My father didn’t talk about his work. He believed in being discreet.”
Valentine snorted, but said nothing, choosing instead to prowl around the room. It was dark, and small, with only a few pieces of mismatched furniture. There were no pictures, but there were many books, piled in corners, stacked up on bookcases, standing in place for one of the chair legs.
Skinner ignored the other coroner. “So, you’ve no idea at all why someone might want to kill him?”
Philip smiled cruelly over his little glass. “I have a number of ideas. A hundred ideas. I am full to the brim with ideas.” He downed the remainder of the amber liquid, and winced slightly. “That is not the same as knowing something.”
“You don’t seem very upset,” Valentine put in. “About your father being murdered, and all.”
Philip shrugged. “I’m not.” After a moment, he added, “My father and I . . . did not get along very well. I suspect he imagined more affection from me than really existed. I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t especially care for him.”
The two coroners were silent for a long time. “That is...shockingly cold, Mr. Crowell.” Valentine said. Philip only shrugged a second time.
“What was your father doing in Printer’s Close?” Skinner had begun to tap her eye-plate again.
Philip Crowell seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “He was. . .dropping something off. For me.”
“That was nice of him.” Valentine was practically sneering. “Suppose it was because of all that imagined affection.”
“My relationship with my father is none of your damn business,” Philip spat at the coroner. He seemed angry but petulant; mad enough to shout, but not mad enough to get to his feet.
“What was he dropping off?” Skinner interjected.
“Pages from my book,