Chapter 3: Chapter 3
10th October
Brannon stepped out of the mirror in the middle of the small dark living room, put two suitcases on the floor, and held out his hand to his wife. Valentina looked around curiously - she had only been to Longsdale's house twice, and the consultants' lair clearly piqued her interest. Jen met them in the living room - alone.
"Good day. Longsdale is sending messages to other consultants and got a little carried away," the witch said, glanced at Brannon and smiled uncertainly. Their relationship was severely frozen after she burned more than sixty townspeople. The girl clearly tried to erase this act from Nathan's memory - she could hardly understand why he could not just forget it. She's not human.
"I'll take your things to the room, sir."
"You shouldn't," Brannon said hastily. "We'll just give Longsdale the notebooks and head south straight away."
"But I would not mind having a cup of tea," Valentina added. "After all, leaving so quickly would be impolite."
"Uh… yes, I suppose," Nathan agreed, somehow relieved. He wanted to talk with Longsdale about the progress of the case - after all, the consultant was here alone, and he had to literally tear himself apart. "What about the identification? Longsdale said you're handling the remains in the lab."
"Yes. Almost finished. We collected samples from three individuals. These are called marabbekki here - this is a water undead that feeds on what drags people under the water."
"And there is at least enough water here," the commissar said thoughtfully, looking out the window. Instead of a street, a canal splashed below.
"Marabbekki?" Valentina frowned. "But they do not hunt in a pack and hibernate in the fall. They almost cannot stand the cold, and therefore sleep until mid-spring."
"So now is not the season?"
"Yes, sir. And besides the strange behavior, I found an almost erased imprint of the spell," the witch added and grunted gloomily: "Damn flowing water everywhere! It erases traces of magic cleaner than fire!"
"So, you think the girls didn't turn into these barabeki by themselves?"
"Marabbekki. No, they were helped. I am sure that to fall out of the windows - too."
"And how can a person turn into an undead by himself?" Nathan involuntarily became interested. "Well, with the utburd it was clear, but why here?"
"Most often, the reason is a curse or death in a bad place," Valentina answered. "Evil spirits from the other side can also turn people. Or," she touched her finger to the glass, "the impact of the Rift."
Brannon glanced where she was pointing - far away in the bay, almost obscured by the haze, was a tiny island.
"But the Rift under the dome? Redfern claimed it to be safe and sound."
"Yes, that's right," Vivene agreed. "Otherwise I would have felt it right away. But, nevertheless, undead always appear around the holes to the other side."
"Well, that's definitely not the point," Jen said. "The girls were deliberately turned into undead, only they were floating in the flowing water for so long that I would never know who and how exactly. Sir, and you..." she touched the Commissar's hand, and he involuntarily shuddered. The girl looked down and retreated.
"Sorry," she said despondently. "You'll never forget, will you?"
Brannon was reluctant to discuss this — especially since he doubted the witch would understand.
"Jen, imagine that someone will kill sixty of your relatives. I know you didn't do it because you personally wished them harm. But they were just victims of the curse. You shouldn't have killed them."
"I couldn't stop," Jen whispered. "The initiation cannot be stopped if it has begun. It just happens and that's it. I would... I could even kill you and not notice..."
Valentina put her arms around her shoulders, and the witch finally drooped. But, fortunately, footsteps were heard in the corridor, and the appearance of the consultant interrupted this inappropriate and unpleasant conversation. The hound wagged its tail violently at the sight of the commissar.
"Hi, Fang," Brannon said. The hound snuffled indignantly. But in the end it must have a nickname!
"Oh, there you are!" Longsdale was delighted. "I'm sorry, I was late, discussing the situation with colleagues."
"I think," Valentina said, "I'll go up to our room. Jen will walk me out and get my things."
"Wait," Brannon opened his suitcase and took out a bag of notebooks. "Here, please. Redfern's observations."
Longsdale's eyes flashed with impatience, and he snatched the bag from the Commissar's hands as if it were his long-lost child.
"Are they really being conducted since one thousand six hundred and thirty-one? This is the most valuable information, Urquiola's notes begin sixty years later," the consultant instantly unpacked the booty and, glaring maniacally with his eyes, buried himself in the first notebook. The hound sniffed the others noisily. Jen took the suitcases and looked questioningly at Brannon. Of course, at this point they all should have said goodbye, but... but Valentina had already slipped out of the living room and climbed the stairs, and Nathan could not just leave without asking Longsdale. It's just impolite, damn it! The Commissar nodded to the witch, and she snapped her fingers. The suitcases are gone.
"Jen said you suspect interference from a warlock like Jason Moore or Roismann?"
"Ah? Yes, yes, of course," Longsdale replied absently. Without letting go of the precious notebook, he sank into an armchair by the fireplace.
"You should have looked at the scene of the accident at the orphanage. Who did Urquiola work with? Can this person help?"
"Cardinal Girolamo Savarelli, head of the local inquisition," Longsdale muttered, and the Commissar nearly choked.
"With whom?! Are you kidding me?"
"That's the way it's done here, sir," the witch said almost apologetically. "Local police - a herd of stupid-ass rams. They are rowing bribes, not give a flying f**k on the rest. Even with hypnosis, I didn't knock anything useful out of them."
Brannon sniffed. However, during his last visit, he noted the glaring ineffectiveness of the local police. Fang snorted and lay down in front of the fireplace.
"We're going to that guy today," Jen reminded, more to Longsdale than to the Commissar. "In couple of hours!"
She kicked the leg of the chair. The consultant mumbled weakly, enthusiastically studying some scheme.
"Sir, can you go with him? I don't want to be around the churchmen too much. And, as you can see, he cannot be left unattended."
"And what am I going to do there? I can only mumble in the local."
"It's not a problem!" Jen snorted. She opened the drawer of the secretary in the corner and, rummaging around inside, threw the case into Nathan's hands. It contained a pin in the shape of a flower with an amethyst head and a beryl leaf.
"Pin to the lapel. Amethyst translates Ilarian for you, beryl - your words in Ilarian."
"Okay," Brannon surrendered. Valentina seemed to want to get some rest, so if he spent an hour or two accompanying Longsdale, he would not waste time. "I'm going to the inquisitorial reception. Let's hope the church rats won't send us on a walking trip to... the papal throne."
"Oh," Longsdale said placidly, emerging from his notebook, "a pleasant acquaintance and a fruitful collaboration await you, I'm sure."
***
The Cardinal's Palace seemed like a black slit in the blue sky. The view of the building was so ominous, as if the inquisitors had in advance hinted at the visitor of pain and suffering. The impression was pretty spoiled by mold, rickety shutters, muddy windows, rusty gutters and mortar crumbling from the masonry. Longsdale moored the gondola to the covered gallery in front of the entrance, and while the hound carefully flowed from the miserable bowl to the solid ground, warned:
"The cardinal knows a lot by the nature of his activity, but it is better not to go into some details. Especially about us."
"How would the cardinal know that?"
"Don't you think the church knows anything about the other side? The hierarchs of the church know about the undead and evil spirits, especially since many parishioners are looking for protection in the temple."
"So the Inquisition knows about everything?!" Brennon gasped in disbelief. "Then why doesn't they do shit?!"
"I have no idea," Longsdale sighed. "For me, the church is a mysterious organization."
They stepped under the arches of the palace and walked towards the clerk's desk. Barely glancing at the gentleman with the hound, the young man motioned to follow him and began to climb the stairs.
"Without a report, so you're going to the ideological enemy, huh?"
"Why the enemy?"
"What else do you represent from their point of view? Surely some kind of satanic creature with a satanic hound that does all sorts of satanic affairs. Pfff! Our bishop even treats me the same way!"
"Signor Savarelli is a more enlightened man," Longsdale replied with a smile. The clerk let them into the spacious office, and Nathan sighed enviously: the cardinal modestly settled down in an area slightly smaller than an entire floor in the department.
"Ah, Signor Longsdale," it came from afar: His Eminence was visible ahead, at a large table. He sat in a chair that looked like a throne, and closely watched the approach of visitors. "Signor Urquiola mentioned you... among others."
When they finally reached the table, the cardinal rose to meet them. By sight, Brannon gave him fifty-five or fifty-seven years. Savarelli was tall, well built, very dark. Strong shoulders and a solid belly were guessed under the cassock. The cardinal reminded Nathan of an owl - a round head, round greenish bulging eyes, a beanie among curly black hair and a large hooked nose.
Savarelli held out his hand with the ring, Brannon pretended not to understand the hint, and shook it firmly. The cardinal chuckled slightly and sat down heavily in a chair, not offering his hand to the consultant, but looking closely at his hound.
"Where is your animal?" He asked the Commissar.
"I'm not a consultant."
His Eminence's bushy eyebrows rose to his forehead:
"No? What are you doing here then? Who are you?"
"This is the Riada Police Commissar, Nathan Brannon," Longsdale said softly. "We work together in the Riada and the Commissar has generously agreed to give me some help in this matter."
The Cardinal gave Brannon a suspicious look and, with obvious reluctance, pointed them to the chairs. Nathan sat down; Longsdale remained standing. The hound curled up calmly in a ball between them and closed its eyes with a bored look.
"Don't you consultants work alone?"
"Not always. In addition, Mister Brannon is extremely professional in everything that concerns the investigation of human."
The Commissar coughed in embarrassment. In addition, he first learned that, it turns out, intends to provide Longsdale with some help.
"Why do you need him? Signor Urquiola managed it himself, and you need two assistants?"
"Signor Urquiola has disappeared without a trace," Brennon chuckled, deciding that since he had to help, it's time to get down to business. - Which tells us how successfully he coped with this problem without help.
Their eyes met; contrary to expectation, the cardinal's gaze was not at all as stupid as that of Bishop Whitby and other churchmen. Savarelli looked at the Commissar with irritation, but at the same time - appraising and even expectant, as if he was really waiting for some kind of help. The hound, sensing the conflict, opened its eyes curiously.
"We found out," the consultant said, "that the girls did not turn into undead by themselves, but because of the spell. Alas, this print is too weak and washed out by the flowing water."
"Spells? Savarelli" asked sharply. "So, this is the work of human hands?"
"Yes. The undead have already begun to hunt. On Sunday, they dragged away four children, although I managed to recapture one. We put the three turned girls to rest, but we do not know if more victims will be turned."
"However, the main difficulty lies not in this," Brennon intervened again, "but in the fact that we have already encountered such actions, as well as with the abduction of a consultant," and he briefly told Savarelli about Roismann, his undead and the destroyed sorcerer's lair. The commissar tried to omit the details and speak more simply, so that even thшы hollyrolly would understand from the first time what the essence of the problem was.
"Well," His Eminence said thoughtfully when Nathan finished. To the commissar's surprise, the churchman's eyes still shone with reason, and the next phrase completely struck Brennon to the core: "None of my predecessors who worked with Signor Urquiola had ever encountered anything like this. We couldn't even imagine that the consultants were, um... vulnerable."
"Your predecessors?!" Brennon exclaimed. The cardinal gave a short chuckle.
"Did you think that the church is in blissful ignorance? The Holy See forbids us to use maltheistic magic, but we are allowed to observe. Of course, in one thousand six hundred and ninety-one, the head of the Inquisition in Farenza was pretty shocked and very colorfully described the first meeting with Signor Urquiola. But since then more than one hundred and seventy years have passed, and for the first time I hear that someone is able to hunt a consultant and even more so to catch him."
The Commissar swallowed. He somehow did not even think about such a scale. Compared to that, his work with Longsdale is just a grain of sand in an hourglass.
"That's why," the consultant said, "I need help. The girls turned into marabbekki, now there are six of them, but if they continue to hunt in different parts of the city - and they will continue..."
"Mister Longsdale cannot burst," the Commissar interrupted. "Last time, too, it all started with the raids of the undead. If a man like Roismann is behind this, he must be neutralized as soon as possible. Do you have police connections?"
Savarelli shook his head ruefully.
"This is difficult for us. Our police, to put it mildly, do not shine with enthusiasm, and therefore we do not have a complete crime report, and, therefore, there is no exact number of victims. Maybe this man has been operating here for several months, hunting homeless people."
"That's also true," the commissar remarked sourly. Damn it! Are the locals so useless? And he was hoping... "In any case, we need to inspect the crime scene - that is, the girls' rooms in the orphanage - and interrogate the staff, as well as the pupils. At the same time, search the entire building, inspect the surrounding area, interrogate local residents, homeless people, beggars..."
"And you, I see, are accustomed to getting down to business dashingly," the cardinal observed with a kind of strange, cheerful approval. "Is it so customary in your Riada?"
"In the police, yes," the Commissar said dryly. "But, as Mister Longsdale hinted to me, we can't get into the orphanage without your permission. Actually, we came for it."
The consultant coughed in embarrassment. The hound snorted.
"Well," His Eminence concluded, rising from the table like a whale from the waves of the sea, "since you insist so, then perhaps I will not only allow you to disturb the peace of the orphanage, but I will even be present at the same time."
***
From the outside, the orphanage looked more like a prison. Except that there were not enough bars on the windows. They sailed to a narrow strip of pavement on two boats - in one under a dense canopy the cardinal was comfortably seated, in the other the consultant, the hound and the commissar were soaking in a rare rain.
"A remote place," Nathan said quietly. "You can carry out rituals at least weekly - behind such walls no one will hear or see anything."
"Do you think that our attacker is from among the workers of the shelter?"
"Or he could enter here without arousing any suspicion. For example, a carpenter, a bricklayer, a doctor - or a priest."
"Why don't you like them so much?" Longsdale asked curiously. Brennon decided not to explain why he considered the priests in their mass useless fanatical rams - especially that Savarelli's boat came close to the consultant's gondola. The commissar immediately asked sternly:
"Where is everyone?"
"Which everyone?" the cardinal was surprised.
"Where is the cordon, the police on duty, the officers or the detectives working at the crime scene?"
"Ah. Well, how can I tell you," Savarelli sighed heavily. "The police visited the shelter in the morning, ascertained the death of nine pupils, drew up a protocol and left home. The cordon was not set up because, as I understood, they did not find any traces of the murder."
Brannon was silent for a few seconds, absorbing what he heard. He wanted to say a lot, but limited himself to a short one:
"They didn't even leave the guards on duty near the murder scene?"
"Men in a girls' orphanage at the women convent? Of course not," the cardinal said with a woeful grin.
The boats were moored. The hound was the first to get to the shore and trotted towards the high gray fence that surrounded the orphanage building. Small windows on one of the walls looked out onto the canal; Brenon immediately found those from which the girls threw themselves out - there were no frames or shutters on them, and the openings were already filled with boards. Savarelli rang the bell at the tightly locked gate. The face of the doorkeeper flashed through the window.
"Open," the prince of the church majestically ordered. The woman squeaked in fright, bolts and locks immediately creaked, and then a narrow gate opened at the gate, into which the cardinal squeezed sideways, somehow pulling his stomach.
While Savarelli was explaining to the doorkeeper why and who they needed to get to, Brennon looked around the courtyard - a small and square, a real stone bag, with benches around a stunted fountain. On three sides it was embraced by a covered gallery connecting the orphanage, the building of the monastery and the church. The hound sniffed, nuzzled the stone slabs, and grunted in disappointment.
"Nothing?"
"At least there are no traces of magic in the courtyard," Longsdale muttered, secretly waving some kind of amulet in the air. "Evil spirits and undead are not, too."
"Come on," said Savarelli, "we'll be escorted to the abbess who runs the orphanage."
Mother Agnes looked like a revived mummy - thin as a stick, wrinkled, and with deep-set, colorless little eyes, which she stared hostilely at Brennon, Longsdale and the hound from the bowels of her klobouk. In appearance, the woman could be given from forty to sixty.
"Our orphanage has been taking care of orphans in the name of the Lord for fifty years now," this creature of God hissed and crossed himself minutely. "We will humbly endure this terrible ordeal…"
"Yes," the cardinal coldly said. "However, the death of nine girls at once requires the most close examination and inquiry about their life and conditions in the orphanage."
"We have the Pope's blessing!"
"We remember. And we strongly recommend that you provide our consultants with everything they need."
"These people?" Agnes's mother inquired, in a tone as if hardened drunkards were lying in front of her, just fished out of a ditch. Fang received a separate indignant gaze. The hound bared its teeth and sprawled on the carpet in front of the fireplace.
"But Your Eminence, the morality of our pupils..."
"Will it suffer in any way if they continue to jump out of windows?" The commissar finally intervened. Time, damn it, does not wait! She and Valentina have to leave tonight... well, tomorrow morning at the latest.
"I'd like to see the girls' rooms," Longsdale said meekly. Mother Agnes squeezed the rosary, as if she wanted to hit this offspring of Satan in the face with it.
"Hurry up!" Savarelli snapped. The abbess bowed her head with a sour expression and rang the bell. She told the nun who came to the bell to take the consultant to the pupils' rooms - and with obvious relief she took a deep breath when the hound left after Longsdale.
"Well, let's start," Brannon said, and sat down at the table and opened his notebook. The cardinal watched all his actions with curiosity. "Describe in sequence all the events of that day, starting in the morning."
Mother Agnes gave the commissar a look that would have been the envy of the archfoe, an enemy of the human race, but after Savarelli's demanding gesture, she reluctantly began the story. According to her, life in the orphanage went on as usual until midnight, when, on a round, the nun on duty discovered that nine girls had disappeared and the windows in their rooms had been shattered.
"And there were any excesses? Until this night? Strange behavior, suspicious conversations, incomprehensible phenomena, maybe someone brought unusual objects here?"
"Are you implying that the devil penetrated the walls, overshadowed by the blessing of Innocent the Eighth?!" The nun hissed.
"And how can the blessing prevent this?"
The cardinal coughed. Mother Agnes blushed pale.
"Where were you that night, and who can confirm it?" Brannon asked.
"I was in my cell and prayed!" The nun exclaimed indignantly.
"Which side do the windows of your cell face?"
"I don't understand why I should be subjected to such outrageous interrogation when such a misfortune..."
"Answer him," Savarelli said weightily.
"To the Grand Canal."
"Yeah, and you were awake. What have you heard?"
"Nothing! I was immersed in prayers to our Lord..."
"That is, when several windows fell into the canal along with frames and shutters, and then nine bodies went there - you heard nothing, deafened by the power of proven faith?"
Mother Agnes pressed her lips together so tightly that the skin on her sharp chin and cheekbones pulled tight.
"I heard the splash and the sound of a fall," she said finally. "Then I left the cell and was among the pupils and nuns, which they all can confirm."
"Hm. You previously stated that the nun on duty raised the alarm."
"I think even you can guess that it happened at the same time," Mother Agnes hissed. "I left the cell and went down to the rooms of the pupils, where I met Sister Benedica. This happened around midnight, and, of course, after that no one was able to fall asleep."
"When did you call the police?"
"About six in the morning."
"Why so late?"
"Because we prayed!" The skinny creature barked in rage, and Nathan raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"What, at least five or six hours? Let's say an hour to calm down the panic, I agree, but then what?"
The cardinal coughed again, hinting at the proverbial power of faith.
"I provided spiritual support to my nuns and pupils," mother Agnes said through set teeth.
"Six hours? While the corpses of your girls floated under your windows?"
"They didn't float!"
"And where did they go?"
The abbess fell silent and, after a long pause, muttered:
"They were carried away by the current."
"In your..." Nathan almost said "stinking ditch." "…in your channel is so strong current that it blows away nine bodies in a few minutes?"
"I didn't look down."
"That is, you saw empty beds, broken windows, but did not look down? Okay, but the nun on duty, Sister Benedica, guessed to do this?"
"She didn't see anything either."
"Hmmm? Well, I guess she'll tell us about that herself." Brennon slammed his notebook shut and stood. "I will need a room where I can interrogate all the nuns and pupils."
"Never!" mother Agnes snapped. "This is completely unacceptable within the walls of our monastery! Even the police showed more respect for the house of God and our children!"
"I will be present during the interrogations," the cardinal uttered imperiously and looked intently at the abbess: "You don't think that communication with me will cause spiritual harm to the pupils and nuns?"
Agnes's mother gave up after a short internal struggle and said through clenched teeth:
"I'll make arrangements for the room."
***
"You have in vain turned Mother Agnes against you," Savarelli remarked in an undertone as they walked down to the rooms of the dead girls. The abbess gave them a room on the same floor, and Nathan decided at the same time to see how Longsdale was doing there.
"I still would not be able to win her love and sympathy. Besides, her behavior doesn't mean anything yet. A lot of people, completely innocent, are extremely hostile to the police. Moreover, for her I am not a policeman either."
The cardinal frowned.
"Don't you think that something does not agree in her testimony?"
"Of course," the commissar grunted. "I'm sure she leaned out of the window and got a good look at the corpses... or their absence. Or the presence of the undead. And this could well have scared her so much that now she does not want to talk about it."
"Or she herself was involved in it."
"That's also an option," Brannon agreed, and looked with some surprise at the doorways covered with screens. "What it is?"
"The doors are completely rotten," Longsdale's voice came to him, "as are all the things inside."
Nathan pushed the screen aside and entered. Mold stains on the walls and ceiling, rotten ceiling beams, remnants of beds, mattresses and linens... Longsdale had already removed the boards from the windows, and Brennon leaned over the windowsill. Beneath it, a long, wide strip of something like a sea sponge stretched to the very water. But the Commissar immediately understood something else. When the nun looked into the room, he turned sharply to her and barked angrily:
"Who dared to clean the rooms?!"
The woman staggered back:
"Wh-wh-what? Here? Mother Agnes ordered... to wash the floor and all kinds of things... to lay down the beddings, well, what is left..."
"Before or after the arrival of the police?"
"Before…"
Longsdale, who was on his knees studying something under the window, raised his head and said:
"Then it explains a lot."
"Hell yeah," Brennon said. Unsurprisingly, the police found no trace of the murder. Whether intentionally or not, the abbess tried to destroy all evidence.
"Are you going to interrogate her again?" The cardinal asked with interest.
"Yes, but later. Let she marinate for now. Where are the girls' things?" He asked the nun.
"Our pupils have no things," she whispered. "Only clothes and shoes. Mother Agnes ordered it to be burned."
"Why?"
"She said they were impurity. After all, if they are suicides, then... then..." the woman hesitated.
"Often you have nine girls here at once decide that it is better to commit suicide than to live like this?"
The nun looked at him haunted.
"Whose beds are these?"
"Magdala and Catalina," she whispered.
"Did you hear anything?" Longsdale asked, rising from his knees. The woman stared in fright with round, stupid eyes at his hound, then at him. The cardinal explained in a whisper that Sister Benedica, who had grown up in the orphanage, was not very mentally developed.
"Did you look after them that night?" The commissar asked more gently. "Was your shift?"
The woman first nodded, and then shook her head in dismissal.
"No, I changed. With Sister Anna. She should have, but asked to change, because..." She wrinkled her forehead. "I don't remember why. I agreed. Mother Agnes did not forbid."
"Does she usually forbid? Usually you can change?"
"Well, sometimes."
The cardinal looked in bewilderment from the nun to the commissar. Fang's face, on the other hand, had a very understanding expression, just like Longsdale's.
"Did you see anything strange that night?" The consultant asked. Sister Benedica licked her trembling lips and crossed herself. "Maybe not seen, but heard?"
"Water," the nun muttered barely audibly. "I heard - dripping and flowing. Quiet, quiet, but loud, loud. Almost like music."
"Did you tell mother Agnes? Did you call someone?"
"No," she shook her head. "They won't believe me. But it was dripping! Quiet here," Sister Benedica gestured around the room, "but loudly here," and tapped her forehead with her finger. "I heard, and that's why I opened the door early. I thought it was flowing here, but it did not flow. And they disappeared." The nun nodded on the bed.
"I see," Nathan concluded. "Come with us. The Cardinal will do you no harm. Will you still work here?" He turned to Longsdale.
"Yes. This is only the first room, and there are three more ahead. And I also intend to inspect the bedrooms on the floor above and the floor below."
"Okay. Then we'll meet at the boats. I feel we'll sit here until evening," the commissar sighed.
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