The House at Divoro, Page 3

  ‘I will return,’ he announced — grandly, for the dramatic nature of the proceedings seemed to require it.

  And then he left.

  Walking in the ridiculous shoes was no easy task, and he was not able to stride about at his usual pace. In fact, he feared he was reduced to mincing like the fop he most definitely was not as he made his way down tiled corridor after tiled corridor, through several false turns, and found his way at last to the kitchens (huge, scrupulously clean and well equipped) and hence to the pantry (the same). The kitchen, of course, was swarming with activity and noise, with a full complement of cooks and maids who stared at Konrad in puzzled surprise as he minced — no, strode — past them. All this he ignored.

  The pantry, thankfully, was empty. His two serpents hovered near the stone ceiling, both invisible to the ordinary eye.

  Welcome, Master, hissed Eetapi.

  ‘Thank you. How polite. Wherein lies the unfortunate victim?’

  The snakes led him deeper into the cool, dry room, past row upon row of heavy wooden shelves stacked with jars and boxes and wrapped bundles of food. At the back, a series of sturdy wooden cupboards had been built against the wall, each fitted with tightly-fitting doors.

  Lockable doors.

  Eetapi indicated the one tucked into the leftmost corner of the pantry. In there.

  Of course, the cupboard was locked.

  ‘The downside,’ said Konrad conversationally to the thin air, ‘of having a pair of insubstantial ghosts as assistants is that one is left with problems like these.’

  It is the upside! Ootapi insisted. For we may go where you may not.

  That is the whole point, Eetapi agreed.

  ‘True, true,’ Konrad grumbled, unconvinced. If he was not saddled with the two snakes, he would never have known about the corpse in the cupboard, let alone be forced to find a way to deal with it — starting with the simple but fiendish problem of gaining access.

  It was, however, his duty.

  He did not feel that he wished to announce the discovery to the household in general, not just yet. He could not openly investigate, and he did not want to put whoever was responsible for the murder on their guard. That ruled out breaking open the cupboard by force.

  ‘Serpents, help. In your forays about the house, have you seen a housekeeper-like being?’

  What is a housekeeper-like?

  ‘Usually a female of advancing years, soberly dressed in dark gowns and carrying big bunches of things like… keys.’

  Eetapi was instantly alight with enthusiasm. I saw such a thing! It was in the hall.

  ‘Excellent. Then pray go and find it again, and steal its keys. Quietly. Do not let it see you.’

  Will it miss its keys, all that much?

  ‘In all likelihood, yes.’

  The serpents streamed away, leaving Konrad to his own devices.

  Fresh and fair, Ootapi had said, which implied that whoever was in the cupboard was not long dead. Had they been killed in that very room? Ensuring, first, that the door was properly shut, Konrad occupied himself with a thorough search of the pantry, alert for signs of unusual activity. He found none whatsoever. The stone floor was perfectly clean; no signs of bloodshed did he discover. It was dry, too, so it probably had not been cleaned that day.

  Since the shelves, cupboards and other surfaces were equally spotless, Konrad judged that the killing had not taken place within.

  Useful as far as it went, but it did not help him with the problem of where to look next.

  The serpents reappeared as he was pondering the possibilities. He was alerted to their arrival by the sound of something metallic clattering against the outside of the door. Or, perhaps, several small somethings all in a cluster.

  ‘Do, please, remember that not everything is as incorporeal as you are,’ Konrad called, and went to open the door.

  On the other side, a fat bunch of well-worn keys on a simple iron ring hung suspended in mid-air.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Konrad, and took them down.

  The housekeeper did it! said Eetapi in high glee as she swooped back into the pantry.

  ‘Oh?’ Konrad closed the door again and crossed swiftly to the cupboards at the back. He could not know how long it would be before some member of the busy kitchen staff had reason to enter the room, and felt a need to hurry.

  She has the key to the cupboard!

  ‘So do I, at this moment. Does that mean I must have done it?’ Konrad fitted the heavy iron key into the lock and swiftly turned it. The lock clunked satisfyingly.

  Master, no! Eetapi was shocked. You did not have them before!

  ‘My point, dear Eetapi, is simply this: if you can steal the poor housekeeper’s keys, then others can, too.’

  He felt her disgust. I do not like the way she looks.

  ‘Oh, don’t you? How does she look?’

  Old.

  ‘Ahh. Then I take it all back: she must be the culprit.’

  Thank you, Master. Eetapi draped herself around his neck, like an affectionate gust of wind. A sadly frigid one, too, and he shivered.

  ‘Away with you, please.’

  Eetapi slunk away, and Konrad opened the door.

  Inside, the cupboard was fitted with shelves until about halfway down. The bottommost had been removed at some time past, probably to accommodate large jars. One such, a graceless construct of stocky earthenware, still stood in one corner of the cupboard, its contents a mystery.

  Next to it there lay a bulky bundle of something wrapped in white, threadbare cloth — an old sheet, perhaps, or a tablecloth.

  The quantity of blood that had soaked through the fabric heralded that the serpents had not been wrong.

  Konrad stared at it a moment, suffering a degree of sick foreboding that he could not comprehend. After all his years as the Malykant, how could he still feel that same dread, upon beholding the macabre — or the imminent promise of it? He had wallowed in death year in, year out; he had seen, he hoped, virtually everything of the horrific that humankind was capable of inflicting upon one another. He ought to be fully inured to it.

  But the sick churning of his stomach told him he was not. He had ceased to be so aware of it, that was all, thanks to the Malykant’s interference.

  Sometimes he missed those halcyon days, when he had felt nothing.

  Looks juicy, hissed Ootapi, and Konrad sighed.

  ‘Someone lies dead. This is not a time for your japes.’

  It is no jape, Ootapi replied, sulkily.

  It does look juicy! Eetapi agreed.

  Well enough: the serpents spoke the truth as they saw it, which was their right. It was only a pity that their little minds were so literal, and so… bloodthirsty.

  Aren’t you going to open it? prompted Eetapi, as though it were Konrad’s birthday, and the cloth-wrapped corpse was a much wished-for gift.

  ‘So I must,’ sighed Konrad, and fell to the grim task, steeling himself against whatever he might find.

  The corpse had been a man, once. His face was still intact, but the rest of him was… not. He made a strange sight, for that visage was so serene, in spite of the appalling mess someone had made of his body.

  He had died in his forties, Konrad judged, or thereabouts. Weathered skin proclaimed that he had once enjoyed the outdoors a great deal, or perhaps his profession had often taken him outside. His were strong, inelegant features, and his greying hair was roughly cut.

  Konrad took a swift, keen survey of the damage, grimly holding himself together by force of will alone. Both of the man’s legs were missing, as was one of his arms, and the hand had been roughly hacked off the other. His torso was a mess of splintered bone and spilled blood.

  Where there ought to be a heart, dead but whole, there was only a blackened, empty cavity.

  Konrad wondered, distantly, what had become of the man’s stolen organs and limbs.

  Ohhh, this is a good one! carolled Eetapi.

  ‘Were you not already dead, I would thr
ottle you myself.’

  Do it anyway.

  ‘Hush.’ Konrad stood very still, as a wave of nausea assaulted his own (mercifully intact) organs and, gradually, subsided. When he felt once again in control, he bent his thoughts to the question of what was to be done.

  Should he announce the discovery? Perhaps, but he could not. How could he explain how he had come to find a body, inside a locked cupboard, within a room he had no business ever entering at all? Impossible. He could claim that the inspector had found the corpse; Nuritov at least could explain his right of interest in a murdered man. But he had no better reason to be poking about in the pantry than Konrad, nor any way to explain why he might have had such strong incentive to examine the contents of that cupboard as to steal the housekeeper’s keys.

  No. There was no way to publicise the find without revealing Konrad’s secrets, and that was out of the question.

  But perhaps secrecy would not be altogether a bad thing. Once a murderer learned that their crime had been discovered, they were placed upon their guard, and started taking greater pains to conceal their activities. If the man or woman responsible for this man’s death imagined themselves undetected, they would be easier to investigate.

  Of course, they might also imagine themselves quite free to kill again, were they disposed to.

  Will we make him talk? Eetapi might be gleeful, but her brother sounded bored.

  ‘No,’ said Konrad at once. He had to pause a moment in thought, to understand the source of his own distaste for the idea. It was a common practice of his, to use the serpents to bind a murdered man’s spirit back into his body for a brief time; the body could then talk, and once in a while they were able to shed significant light on the identity of their killer.

  But he did not always make the attempt. If too much time passed before Konrad reached the body, the spirit had usually frayed and faded to the point that it was no longer possible to bind up its unravelling shreds. Such might be the case here.

  Moreover, sometimes the prospect was simply too… horrific. It was distressing in the extreme, for a murdered man or woman to be brought back, however briefly; to discover the fact of their own death, and its appalling circumstances, and to remember how it had come to pass. This poor man had suffered to a disturbing degree, for unless Konrad misinterpreted the evidence of his own eyes, his missing limbs and hand and perhaps even his heart had been removed while he still lived.

  He would not force anyone to relive such an experience as that, not for any possible advantage.

  But, Master—

  ‘No!’ said Konrad again, more firmly, and Ootapi subsided into silence.

  Konrad had still to perform his duty. He eyed the body in consternation. Could he remove a rib bone, without announcing his presence? He would require it, if he was to deliver the proper justice to the man’s killer. But the Malykant’s use of a victim’s own bones was common knowledge; when a corpse was found with his chest cut open and a rib missing, it was known that the Malykant was in pursuit of the murderer. He did not wish to advertise that the Malykt’s servant had already been in the house, and… might still be.

  But the man’s chest was such a mess, he did not think anyone would notice the interference. So he applied himself to the gruesome task of securing one of the murdered man’s stoutest ribs, pleased, at least, that long experience rendered the task relatively simple to perform. This done, he wrapped the poor man back up in the cloth, as carefully and respectfully as he could, and locked the door upon him once more.

  ‘Keep a watch on this room,’ he said to his serpents. ‘If anybody opens this cupboard, I must know immediately.’ For the choice of hiding place puzzled him. The pantry was not often visited, but somebody came in here at least a few times a day; they must do, to retrieve some part of its contents for the preparation of meals. A body in the cupboard might escape notice for a time, if the cupboard’s contents were not often accessed, but soon there would begin to be an… unpleasant aroma. Whoever had stashed the body here could only have intended it for a temporary hiding place, and must return to move it somewhere else.

  Yes, Master, the serpents chorused.

  ‘You had better return these, too.’ Konrad tossed the bunch of keys up into the air, where it was caught by one or other of the snakes, he could not tell which. The keys hung there, oddly suspended.

  Yes, Master, said the serpents again, and he turned to leave.

  He was grateful, all of a sudden, for Nanda’s foresight in bringing Nuritov and Tasha along, but he could not long entertain the idea that it had been naught but fortunate happenstance. It was time Nanda explained just what she was up to.

  Chapter Three

  ‘In the pantry?’ said Nanda with interest. ‘Odd place to hide a body, isn’t it?’

  She was reclining in a blue brocade wing-back chair in her own chamber, wrapped in a purple velvet robe, and looking very queenly. She had been looking gloriously relaxed, too, until Konrad had arrived with his ill news. Now she looked… irritated, a feeling she was trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal.

  ‘Rather,’ Konrad agreed, with deceptive mildness. He’d taken a chair across from her and sat apparently at his ease, though he watched her closely. It was no use trying to pump Nanda for information: the more she was pestered, the more stubbornly uncommunicative she became. He would have to be wily, and patient.

  But this time, Nanda surprised him. She gave a short sigh, her eyes narrowing with annoyance, and said: ‘I had hoped we would be in time to prevent this.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ said Konrad pleasantly. He wanted to add, If you had told me of the danger right away, we might still have been. But he did not, for such a comment could only alienate Nanda.

  ‘I should have told you beforehand,’ she said, surprising him again. ‘I might have, only I thought you would not come.’

  ‘A theatrical party in the strangest house I have ever seen, attended by a crowd of peculiar guests, and with brutal murder on the side? What could possibly have deterred me?’

  She smiled, but only faintly. ‘From your description, I am afraid the man in the cupboard is Alen Petranov. I believe he was invited to attend, but was not expected to arrive until tomorrow.’

  ‘How did you—’

  Nanda held up a hand, cutting him off. ‘My mother.’

  That did not much surprise Konrad. There was old blood in Nanda’s family, old and strange, and it bestowed a range of peculiar talents. Nan herself was a Reader, and could sometimes catch a glimpse of a person’s thoughts, if she came into direct contact with them. Her mother, meanwhile, was an Oracle. Her visions of the future were not usually profound or detailed, but she was sometimes gifted (or burdened) with very particular flashes of insight.

  ‘Your mother sent you here?’ Konrad was incredulous, for if the Oracle had known that this house would host so brutal a killing, why would she encourage her daughter to go anywhere near the place?

  ‘Not exactly.’ Nanda avoided his gaze, which was always a bad sign. She fidgeted in her chair, sighed deeply, and said: ‘She told me on no account to accept any invitations from Eino Holt. And she gave me a general idea as to why.’

  ‘She forbade you.’

  Nanda inclined her head.

  ‘She has met you before, yes?’

  One of Nanda’s swift, appreciative grins, and she chuckled. ‘Mother she may be, but she does not appear to have developed any profound understanding of my character.’

  ‘She ought to have known you would do exactly what you were told not to.’

  ‘I prefer to think that I have a strong sense of duty, and could not stand idly by while such atrocities took place.’

  ‘I am sure that’s what it was.’

  Nanda nodded sober agreement, and bit at one fingernail. ‘We are too late, and I am sorry for it. I met Alen only once, and many years ago, but I liked him.’

  Konrad tensed, awaiting further questions. He had said nothing at all about the manner of Alen’s death (if
it was Alen Petranov), and he did not wish to enlighten Nanda on such points of detail. Especially if she had known him.

  But Nanda’s thoughts turned in another direction. ‘Why the pantry?’

  ‘I was wondering the same thing. A temporary spot, most likely, so I have left the serpents standing guard.’

  ‘But why the pantry? Was he killed in that room?’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘Nearby, perhaps. In all probability somewhere below-stairs, for who would cart a corpse from one floor to another if all they wanted was a place to hide him for a little while?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘In that case, what was Alen doing in the servants’ quarters? He was not of the great and wealthy, but he was not a servant, either. He was a trader, I think, when I knew him. He did it the hard way, filling his packs with goods in one city and making his way to another, largely on foot. He was an old friend of Eino’s.’

  ‘Which means he will be soon missed, tomorrow, when he does not arrive. Or he ought to be.’

  Nanda flashed him a narrow look. ‘Ought to be?’

  ‘If Eino does not appear concerned by Alen’s absence, that must be taken as a suspicious sign.’

  Nanda frowned darkly, and made no reply.

  ‘What is it?’ Konrad prompted.

  ‘I… nothing. I am not sure, yet. I will tell you when I am.’

  ‘Do you promise.’

  With a roll of her eyes, Nanda said: ‘Promise.’ She surged out of her chair, energised. ‘Show me the body.’

  ‘No!’

  She stopped, shocked. ‘What? But I need to be involved.’

  ‘You will be, but… not like that.’

  ‘We are here because of me.’

  ‘I know. And I have no intention of sidelining you, I promise, but you do not need to see the body.’ Konrad stood up, too, and stepped in front of her, making of himself a physical barrier to emphasise his point.

  Nanda stood looking up at him in dumbfounded dismay — followed by irritation. ‘I have seen death before! Why must you patronise me?’

  ‘Not like this. Nan, please trust me.’

  ‘Why?’