章 6: Chapter 6
HE HEADED back along the flagstone path that led to the constabulary just after dusk, foul-tempered from lack of coffee and an empty stomach. He'd almost taken the damnable book straight home, but he had yet to go over Orman's statement with anything resembling scrutiny, and he wanted to talk to the man too. Jagger was more than skilled in interrogation--Dallin didn't doubt he'd made a thorough affair of it--and certainly had more years on the job than Dallin did. Still, there was a reason the chief called his first constable in when information was hard in coming. And anyway, Jagger had handed the case over to Dallin, all of it, so digging through the debris was now his job. Despite the morning having drawn a veritable blank from Calder, Dallin's instincts usually managed to drag new details from otherwise dry wells. He hoped whatever this Orman might have to say could shed some new light on the puzzle that went by the name of Wilfred Calder.
The pleasant almost-warmth of the day had disappeared with the sun. Dallin wished he'd thought to snatch up his greatcoat when last he'd left the constabulary. Now he peered pensively at the mishmash of cottages and small houses that stumbled alongside the road, scattered in no particular order as though some giant child had been playing knucklebones and got called away to supper in the middle of a game. The cordial flickering radiance of gas lamps and hearth fires spilled through the slats of closed shutters, the chill of the gloaming all the more dismal for their teasing warmth. Dallin tucked deeper into his surcoat, scuffed a bootheel along the flagstones, and pretended not to hear the lonely sound it made in the quiet of the falling night.
This street fair swarmed with activity during the day, carts and portable stalls crowding the small thoroughfare to near choking, hawkers making a cheerful competition of the racket. More than once, Dallin had found himself holding back a growl and rolling his eyes as he tried to politely work his way around various lollygaggers. At night, though, it could be a lonesome place.
A lone dame was selling spiced lamb cubes on a stick, roasted over an open pit in front of a small but respectable butcher's shop--probably hoping to unload the last of what hadn't sold during the day, Dallin suspected. The smell hit him square in the belly. He stopped and bought one to eat along the way to tide him over. In deference to his livery, the woman tried to push a discount on him. Dallin noted the neat and subtle mending of her plain tunic, the gauntness of her cheeks, and the unhealthy pallor to her skin. There was the smell of death about her, faint but encroaching steadily. Dallin politely accepted her offer--'One does not reward pride with pity;' he'd read that somewhere--though he handed her an extra few billets as gratuity to make up for the loss.
The woman smiled demurely with a dip of her head. "Shall I scry for you, Guardian?"
Dallin jolted. "What did you just call me?" It was sharp, the tone heavily laced with accusation, but he was too unnerved to care.
The woman blinked up at him, startled. "I called you 'sir,'" she answered carefully. "I said, 'Thank you, sir.'"
"Lie!" Dallin wanted to accuse. But he peered at the woman closely and saw no lies in her frightened face, only anxiety and confusion and likely some sincere regret that she hadn't closed up and gone inside five minutes ago before the crazy man happened along. He was jumping at shadows, hearing things, and scaring a sick old woman in the bargain. What the bloody fuck was wrong with him?
Dallin rubbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, as sincere as he could make it. "I've had a long day, and I thought.... I'm sorry."
The woman accepted this with a small nod, but she wouldn't look at him now. "The Mother's blessings upon your path, sir," she said softly.
Dallin tried to smile another apology as he swept her a respectful bow. "And on yours, mistress," he answered and turned off, the fragrant meat in his hand somehow not even the least bit tempting now. He waited until the woman's little fire was no longer visible behind him, then chucked the stick of lamb into the weeds beside the road.
Shaking off his odd little go at insanity, he stepped along with purpose. He'd do what needed to be done at the constabulary and then head to the Kymberly; he'd take supper there to make up for having missed lunch and the lamb he'd just discarded, and perhaps spy on Calder while he was at it. Anyway, he wanted to go over a few things from Ramsford's statement with him too. And perhaps punch him in the mouth for having requested Dallin on this bloody case.
By the time Dallin got back to the constabulary, the bailiff's shift had changed. Instead of Beldon, Dallin met--what was his name again? Woodrow, that was it--just making himself comfortable, propping his feet up on the wide desk and stretching out for a long, boring evening. Big, like all the bailiffs, wide-shouldered and thick-armed, but none of it could take away from the round youth in his face, the bit of naïvete still left in his ingenuous gaze.
When that gaze landed on Dallin, Woodrow choked almost comically. He sprang to his feet. "Constable Brayden!" He gulped and stood like someone had just rammed a poker up his arse. "I was... I just...." His pale, sweaty fingers flicked about the hem of his blue surcoat, curled around it, then clenched tight. "I'm only just back from supper, you see, and I--"
"Ask for my sidearm, Woodrow," Dallin cut in, trying not to let the amusement into his voice.
Woodrow twitched. "Er... sorry?"
"The first thing you do when a constable comes down here is to ask for his weapon," Dallin told him. "Then you record it in your book there"--he pointed--"to prove that no arms have crossed the threshold on your watch."
"Yes, sir. I did know that, sir, I would've done, it's...." Woodrow trailed off into miserable silence.
Dallin took pity. "Your first week, innit?"
Woodrow gave a loose bobble of his auburn head, face so bright beneath his sea of freckles it almost competed for color with his hair. "First night on duty by myself, sir."
Dallin nodded back, considerably less bobbleish. "You're doing fine." He tried to make it reassuring rather than amused. "Here." He handed over his sidearm. "Careful with that, it's new and I'm rather fond of it."
"Y-yes, sir."
"And don't call everyone sir," Dallin advised brusquely. "It'll only remind them you're new and green, and they'll fob off all the disagreeable tasks to you. And for pity's sake, don't ever let a prisoner or witness see you blush and stammer like this. They see a weakness, and your size won't make a damned bit of difference--they'll have you spitted and cooked before you even remember your first defensive stance."
Another bobble. "Yes, s--Brayden. Um. Right."
Dallin allowed a smile. "Good. Now, if you please, I want to see the prisoner Orman in whatever room you've available."
"Um...." Woodrow shifted uncomfortably. "It'll do you little good, s--Brayden. The chief's been down to see him this afternoon with some toff-nosed Dominion stick. The prisoner was well enough when they went in, but came out gibbering. Chief sent for the physick and then the shaman, but...." He shrugged. "No one could make heads nor tails, and then he just up and turned mute." He shot a nervous glance to all points before leaning in and lowering his voice. "Looked like magicking to my eyes, and I reckon that Dominion blackguard done the work right under the chief's nose."
Dallin was silent for a moment, trying to parse that, before he jerked a nod and said, "I suggest you speak to no one else about what you reckon, Woodrow. Gossip can be a deadly thing." He narrowed a hard stare, satisfied when Woodrow flushed and nodded. "I'll see this man in his cell, then," Dallin went on. "Sign me in and take me to him."
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