Authors: Ginn Hale
"The Rose House. 834." The old woman closed her eyes as tears began to flood down her creased cheeks. "He's going to kill her this time. I know he is."
"834. North or South Chapel?" Harper asked quickly.
"North," she whispered. "Please hurry."
"I will." Harper took off running. After two blocks, Chapel Street forked into north and south branches. Harper sprinted up the north branch. The houses grew steadily more opulent, and the gates more formidable. He ran another four blocks before reaching the addresses in the 800s.
Harper didn't know how long the old woman had been staggering down the street calling for help. He silently prayed that it had been a matter of minutes rather than hours. Harper ran with all his strength, knowing that no matter how quickly he went, time was not on his side. Wounds were inflicted in moments; lives could be taken in a matter of seconds.
When Harper reached the elegant marble gate of 834, he expected that he might have to climb it. To his surprise, he found it unlocked. It seemed wrong that the gate should be left open, but he did not stop to think about it. He sprinted past the line of curling willows, took the stone stairs to the house two at a time, and at last stopped in front of the entry doors. Light radiated from the windows on the first floor, but only two windows on the second floor were illuminated. Harper slammed the polished brass knocker against the wood with a resounding blow.
A well-dressed servant opened the door immediately. He looked pale and deeply unhappy. He glanced at the silver Inquisition emblems on Harper's collar and quickly stepped aside to allow Harper in.
"Thank you for coming so quickly, Captain," he murmured.
"Should I take you up to Miss Let...to the body?" The man looked horrified at the words that had come out of his mouth.
"I can show myself up." Harper felt a change in himself the moment he knew the woman was dead. The pounding blood in his veins and his racing heart all suddenly went flat. The moment when he might have arrived in time to save the woman had passed. His passion and hope cut off like the gas in the safety valve of a streetlamp.
"Which room is she in?" Harper asked.
"I don't know. I haven't been up. They...She...I don't know, sir." The doorman flushed, clearly unsure of how to treat Harper, or how to even address the body upstairs. No rules of etiquette dictated polite behavior in the wake of a murder. The doorman foundered into a series of apologies. Harper was accustomed to such awkwardness and carried on.
"That's fine," Harper said. "I'll find it."
A staircase dominated the entryway. It rose in a majestic curve of marble and highly polished brass. Harper strode up the steps. He was used to having full run of other people's homes during the first paralyzed hours after a crime. He took in the house as he went up. The floor was laid out in a checkerboard of white and rose marble. Light gleamed from crystal chandeliers and glinted across the gilded scrolls that decorated the wallpaper.
A few steps from the second floor, Harper stopped. The stairs ahead of him were wet and smelled of soap. Someone had washed this section of the staircase less than an hour ago. Harper went up more slowly, checking each step before he set his muddy boots on it.
Deep in the groove, where the brass railing met the pale marble stairs, was a thin line of bright red blood. Several long black hairs were caught there also. Harper noted the length of the hairs, then continued.
The staircase opened into a wide hallway. Six tall doors lined both walls of the hallway. Light glowed from beneath two of the closest doors on the right. Harper noticed a few more spots on the floor where the marble shone wetly from a recent cleaning.
As he moved closer, Harper heard the voices of two men coming from behind the farther of the two doors. The men spoke in hushed tones, and Harper couldn't clearly distinguish their words. He unbuttoned his overcoat to allow himself easy access to his pistol. Then he started down the hall.
He stopped, noticing that the signs of cleaning ended at the first door. Harper nudged the door open.
It was clearly a girl's bedroom. The rug, the wallpaper, the swaying curtains, and even the big canopy bed were all white. A pattern of gold and pale pink roses covered the carpet. White lace dripped over the edge of the dressing table. The bed billowed up from the rest of the room like a wedding cake in a bakery window.
Harper stepped into the room slowly, studying each foot of floor before marking it with his filthy boots. Blots of vivid red led him from the door to the far side of the bed.
The girl lay on her side. A pool of blood formed a dark red halo around her head. Harper crouched down beside her. The entire back of her skull was a mat of black hair, blood, and jutting bone.
Her neck hung awkwardly between her cracked skull and shoulders. As Harper looked over her body, he noticed old yellow bruises beneath newer blue ones. When he pulled aside the white sleeve of her nightgown, he found that the marks were still red, the bruises not yet darkened.
From the old woman's words, Harper knew that a man had been beating the girl. From the marks on her body, it was obvious that the beatings had been going on for quite a while. Perhaps the girl had attempted to escape and fallen down the stairs. Or possibly the man had thrown her down.
Harper guessed what the men in the other room whispered about so urgently. They could clean up the stairs and hall, but they couldn't wash away the broken bone and deep bruises on the dead girl's body. Harper decided that it was time to talk to them.
Harper stood to leave when he noticed that he had made a mistake upon entering the room. He had thought the glass doors to the girl's balcony had been open. Now, as the curtains fluttered in the storm wind, he saw that the doors were still closed. The glass had been broken out. Harper checked for any shards of glass on the white rug. There were none.
He stepped out onto the balcony. It was too dark to see clearly, and the rainwater hid the glitter that the broken glass would have given off. Harper moved his gloved hands through the water, feeling for the hard edges of glass. He found dozens of shards in just a few moments.
"She's in here," he heard a man say, and then the door to the girl's room swung wide. As Harper watched from the dark balcony, three men entered the room. Harper recognized the first two from the Brighton Inquisition: Captain Brandson and Abbot Greeley. A man in a dark violet dressing gown followed after them.
Brandson's pale face was spattered with orange freckles, and his black coat, like Harper's own, was soaking from the rain. Brandson's fine red hair dribbled water down his face. He had clearly left his cap behind when he had been called to the murder. It was like Brandson to forget something like that.
The abbot's thick shock of white hair was perfectly dry. Despite his age, he looked much more fit than Brandson. He gestured to the dead girl's body offhandedly, as if she were a curiosity he had already seen.
The third man Harper did not know, but his face seemed familiar. He was in his late forties, a few years younger than the abbot. His black hair was streaked with gray and swept back in a rather handsome manner. The elegance of his tall, slim form almost allowed Harper overlook the white bandage wrapped around his right hand. As if sensing Harper's eyes on him, he hid his hand in the pocket of his dressing gown.
"As you can see..." Abbot Greeley directed Brandson's gaze. "The intruder broke in through the glass doors there and attacked her while she was preparing for bed—"
"I don't think that was the case."
The three other men jumped at the sound of Harper's voice. He stepped in from the balcony.
"Captain Harper." A flush of anger colored Abbot Greeley's tanned face. "What in the name of God are you doing here?"
Even at the best of times, a deep, mutual hostility seethed between Harper and Abbot Greeley. Because the abbot was his superior, Harper masked his animosity with expressionless professionalism. As a rule, the abbot did the same. For five years they had maintained that tenuous illusion of civility. But since Peter Roffcale's murder, even that had begun to collapse.
"Investigating a murder, sir," Harper replied.
"You were given vacation leave four hours ago," Abbot Greeley snapped. "You shouldn't even be in town."
Harper realized that the abbot's voice had been one of the two he had heard whispering in the other room. Harper wondered how long Abbot Greeley had been at the crime scene. Certainly long enough for his clothes and hair to dry, despite the soaking rain outside.
"I heard a woman on the street calling for help. She sent me here to try and reach the girl before she was killed." Harper held the accusation back from his voice. "May I ask how you happen to be here, sir? Normally you'd be at home by this hour, wouldn't you?"
"Lord Cedric and I are good friends." Abbot Greeley gestured to the man in the violet dressing robe. "He sent for me the moment he saw what had befallen his poor niece."
"You have my condolences, sir." Harper had seen photographs of Lord Cedric in the social columns of the papers. He recalled that the man was a cousin to the bishop of Redstone, but little else.
"Thank you," Lord Cedric said quietly. Harper recognized the rich depth of his voice. He had been the second man up in the room with Abbot Greeley.
Clearly, Lord Cedric had sent for the abbot long before he had called for any Inquisitors. The abbot would have instructed Lord Cedric in the matter of erasing evidence. It wouldn't have taken long to move the girl's body from the stairs to her bedroom and hide the signs of her previous beatings under a long nightgown. A maid would be called to clean the stairs and hall. Then, to concoct a murderous intruder, they smashed the glass doors. Their deception had been created in haste, and no doubt Abbot Greeley knew that any decent investigator would have seen through it.
But then Abbot Greeley had the advantage of choosing which Inquisition captain to summon. Briefly, Harper glanced at Brandson. The captain flipped his wet hair back from his face. He picked up one of the dead girl's hairbrushes, considered it for a moment, and then, noticing Harper's gaze, returned it to the dressing table.
"Good of you to come, Harper," Abbot Greeley said. "But we have things well in hand now. You can get back to your vacation."
"I'd be happy to." Harper continued to study Brandson. He'd never thought highly of the captain's intellect, but perhaps he could be roused to thought. "Before I go, however, I can't help but wonder what's become of the footprints and water from the intruder?"
"Well." Brandson pointed to Harper's own tracks. "Those would be them, I would say."
"I'm afraid I have a pretty tight alibi, Brandson." Harper crossed his arms over his chest. "Those are from my boots. Moreover, they don't lead in from the balcony to the body. There aren't any tracks leading in from the balcony."
"That's impossible. A rug this white would have been marked. No one could break in and not leave a single print." Brandson frowned down at the white carpet.
"A Prodigal could. One of the flyers wouldn't need to set foot on the floor." Abbot Greeley offered Harper an angry smile. "Thank you for pointing that out, Captain Harper. We now know that we are looking for a Prodigal."
"Shouldn't you also consider the possibility that no one broke in?" Harper directed the question to Brandson. "Someone might have shattered the glass to make it look like there had been an intruder—"
Abbot Greeley cut Harper off. "Captain Brandson can certainly draw his own conclusions, Harper." He still smiled at Harper, but his eyes were narrowed in anger. "I'm sure we've kept you from your vacation long enough. Brandson and I will take care of things here."
"Of course. I should be going then," Harper stated coldly.
"What about the maid?" Lord Cedric's voice carried from behind Brandson and Greeley.
Abbot Greeley glanced back at Lord Cedric, then to Harper.
"Quite right. Harper, where is the woman who sent you here? We'll need to speak to her."
Harper had no intention of handing the old woman over to Abbot Greeley, not after what had happened to Peter Roffcale. At the same time, he didn't have the proof or the authority to out-rightly challenge the abbot. The woman hadn't actually accused Lord Cedric by name. All Harper had was his own conviction, and that wouldn't stand up against the abbot's authority.
"I left her at the Convent of the Pierced Heart." Harper picked the most plausible place in the vicinity. Pierced Heart had the added advantage of being farthest from where he had actually left the old woman. Harper wasn't sure if Abbot Greeley believed him, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he answered. So long as Harper didn't directly disobey orders, the abbot couldn't have him locked up or discharged.
"Right, then," Brandson said. "I'll send two of my men out to take a statement from Captain Harper's witness."
"Send Reynolds and Miller. If they don't find the woman at the convent, have them search north toward the Chapel Street carriage house," Abbot Greeley said.
Brandson nodded.
"Also..." Abbot Greeley gave a quick glance to the shattered glass doors. "Send Camp, Thurston, and Wills out to round up the Prodigal flyers that we have on record. I want a confession from one of them within the next week."