The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [75]
And suddenly, Beckett understood. The answers snapped together so powerfully in his mind that he, for half a moment, suspected that Skinner could hear the click of interlocking facts. He knew who, really what, had killed Herman Zindel and Horace Lightman, and why. He knew why they’d had to kill the coachman, and what had killed his murderer. And he knew where to go for the last answer that he needed.
“So,” Beckett said. “Where did they build it, Valentine?”
The thing young man looked up from his book. “What?”
“The answer’s in there.”
Valentine looked startled, then looked closely at the book. He flipped through the pages, checked the imprint. “I don’t understand. Is there a code?”
“What’s it about, Valentine?”
He set the book down. “Oh. Well, it’s a kind of, it’s like this: what if the royal family had had this horrible, monster offspring, and they wanted to get rid of it, but they couldn’t kill it? So, they take it up into the mountains and it lives up there in this house on a glacier, right? And it’s told from the perspective of the monster’s keeper, and he has to keep riding up the mountain to . . . to . . . what?”
Skinner was smiling. “Think about it. Why did they kill the coachman? The book’s about the royal family having a terrible secret, and a man that has to go out into the mountains to care for it. A terrible secret, like Zindel’s engine.”
Understanding dawned on the man’s face. “Huh. And you think . . . you think James Crowell gave his son the real location, and that’s why…? But it’s not real. The house. It was supposed to be a Gorgon-Vie summer home on…” he checked the book. “Mount Hood. Trust me. I know all of the Gorgon-Vie houses, and they haven’t got anything that far into the mountains.”
“Not Gorgon-Vie,” Alan said, startling everyone. “Rowan-Czarnecki. It’s called Gotheray Castle.” He met their incredulous stares with his own open face. “It’s on one of the maps. Uhm. Ministry of the Exchequer’s Taxable Land Estates of 1686.”
Beckett sighed. “Well. I guess you’re going with us.”
“I…” Alan began.
“We need to find the house, boy, and you know the way.” Beckett crossed his arms. “Or maybe you’ll tell me that you don’t remember what the map looks like.”
Alan sighed. At least it meant they couldn’t execute him. Yet. “No, I do. I remember—”
“Everything, I know. Wait here. We’ll leave shortly.”
Valentine came into Beckett’s office while the old coroner was shrugging into his coat.
“Beckett.”
“What?”
Valentine shifted uncomfortably. “I…I can’t go. Not now.”
Beckett said nothing, just stared at him with an obdurate, unreadable expression.
“You’ve seen…you know what’s happening out there,” Valentine told him, passion warming his voice as he grew enthusiastic about his subject. “The city is ready to explode. The riots we’ve seen…it’s going to be worse than that. Whatever happens is going to be worse. I know it, I can feel it. I don’t know how to explain…it doesn’t matter. I know what’s going to happen. I can’t leave now. My Family is here, they’ll need…” he trailed off.
“Need?”
“Me. They’ll need me. I can’t just…I can’t just go…”
“What do you think they’ll need you for, Valentine?” The younger man was silent. “What do you think you’re going to do? If there’s a riot, if the sharpsies decide to lay siege to Comstock Street? Are you going to shoot them?” Silence, then, as Valentine looked down at his finely-polished shoes. “You want to help, I understand that. You want to protect your city, I understand that to, but listen to me, and listen very closely: there is only one way that you can help your city. There is only. One. Way. You come with me, and we find out who did this. We find the truth. We do our jobs. And if we’re lucky, we can stop this.”
“Do you really think we can?” Valentine asked after a moment. “That it’ll be enough? Even if we do find out…”
Beckett sighed. “I don’t know. You never get to know. You just do your god-damn job. Because someone has to do it. This is what you signed up for, this is what matters.