Strong Mystery: Murder, Mystery and Magic Books 1-3 (Steampunk Magica) (10 page)

“Now, My Lord, what word have
you to say about my father’s death?” she rapped out in a voice like steel. She
crossed her arms over her stiff white dress and awaited Owen’s reply, a
determined fire in her face. 

Owen straightened his shoulders,
noting that the noblewoman before him was a far cry from the demure lady in mourning
she had appeared inside.

“I am investigating the deaths
of Sir John and some others, My Lady. I believe that your father may have been
the victim of malice.”

The older woman behind Lady
Hastings stirred as if to speak. Lady Hastings held up a hand to stop her.

“A moment if you please,
Melinda,” she ordered the Sorcerer, never taking her eyes off Owen. “Are you a
member of the police?”

“No, My Lady, I am a private
agent,” Owen replied, matching her matter of fact tone.

“I see,” said the Head of House
Hastings. “Do you know how my father was killed?”

Owen shook his head. “We have
some theories, My Lady. That is why I am speaking to you.”

“I see,” the young woman
repeated. Her face and voice could have been carved from granite. “What do you
require of me?”

Owen attempted to look
apologetic. “I’m sorry for this, My Lady, but we need to examine his body
—
that is to physically examine it.”

“This is outrageous, My Lady!”
the Sorcerer burst out from behind Lady Hastings. “Both Doctor Syn and myself
did all that we could to save your father. As we have both stated, it was a
heart attack that killed him! There was nothing anyone could have done! That
you should even listen to this
—
this
stranger and his ravings, is an insult to your father’s memory, especially on
this day of all days! I shall call the guards.”

“You will do no such thing,
Melinda,” Lady Hastings ordered, turning to the older woman. “You forget both
who and what I am. I am the Head of House Hastings now, and I know he is
speaking the truth. I shall avenge my father as is my right as Head of House.
You may leave us, Melinda.”

“My Lady,” the Sorcerer rocked
back as if slapped. “He is a Sorcerer,” she protested.

“I am aware of that,” Lady
Hastings said. “My Lord Strong,” she asked raising her voice. “Do either you or
your companion intend me either harm or compulsion of any kind?”

      “No, My Lady,” Owen replied calmly. It appeared that Lady
Hastings was establishing herself as no one’s figurehead. Owen was too familiar
with the power plays that bedeviled great families, and said nothing more.

“Leave us,” Lady Hastings
repeated. The House Sorcerer moved past her mistress, her gaze shooting figurative
daggers from her eyes at Owen as she left.

Lady Hastings turned back to
Owen, speaking as if nothing had occurred.

“And if you are wondering if this is simply a young woman’s
fancy, My Lord, you should know that I am True Born. Naturally, that is not
commonly known, and I trust to your discretion.  If, however, your beliefs are
borne out, I shall see my father avenged, I so swear it.”

Owen nodded. If one person out
of a hundred had some talent for using Magica, perhaps one in a hundred
thousand was born with the gift of divining the Truth of a person’s words when
they heard them. Owen had some sympathy for her. If anyone was looked at more
warily than Sorcerers, it was the True Born. Normally the bearers of such a
gift were dedicated to some priesthood at an early age. That someone with the
ability was Head of a Great Trading House would make them very formidable
indeed.

Owen bowed his head at her
declaration.

“As is your right, of course, My
Lady. It is those beliefs we intend to test, in the hopes that they will lead
us to those who are responsible.”

“And how do you propose to test
them?” she demanded. “My father shall be consigned to the flames by nightfall.”
She glanced out at the fading light, “Which is not far off. Even I cannot stop
the ceremony now, and he lies in full view until the torches are lit.”

Owen gave her the smile that had
caused Jinhao to roll her eyes earlier.

“I have a thought on that, if My
Lady is willing?”

The Priestess of the Goddess of
the Cauldron gave a start as the new Lady Hastings climbed the steps to the
bier with two strangers, and then resumed her chanting. If the Lady Hastings
wanted to say her farewells personally, it was none of her concern.

The trio stood before the cloth-of-gold
covered body. Owen arranged both Lady Hastings and himself to screen Jinhao
from the view of the surrounding priests.

“It has to be now, Jinhao,” he
muttered under the chanting. Quickly Jinhao pulled back the cloth to reveal the
face and upper body of Sir John Hastings. Wordlessly, she pointed to a tiny
fading red mark on the dead man’s chest.   

Chapter 8

Lady Hastings stood with them outside the building
that was Hastings Shipping and Trading while a footman ran to flag down a cab
for Owen and Jinhao
.

“I still fail to see what a tiny mark on father’s chest
proves,” she demanded. “It is smaller than a flea bite. In fact at this time of
year, it probably is a flea bite.”

Owen looked to Jinhao, who had
stayed curiously silent through the whole affair, then turned back to the young
heir.

After the discovery on Sir
John’s chest, Owen had attempted to extradite himself and Jinhao from the
ceremonies, only to find that Lady Hastings had attached herself to them like a
burr to their sides. Weaving in and out of the well-wishers that stopped them
every few feet, Owen had hoped that Lady Hastings would finally leave them at
the door. Instead she doggedly followed them outside. Lady Hastings leaving the
ceremonies was, in all likelihood, causing a scene, or at least some
consternation within.

“We believe that the assassin
somehow introduced a poison through that wound, My Lady,” Owen explained
briefly.

“Wound?” Lady Hastings face
showed her surprise.  “That tiny mark? But how?”

“When we know that My Lady, we
will be one step closer to finding the killer,” Owen replied. He decided to
take advantage of their relative isolation to question her further. “Forgive
me, but were you present when your father collapsed?”

“No,” she answered. “I was in
the building of course, as it was a business day, but I was upstairs. I came as
soon as I was called down, with Lady Ap Rhys and the House Sorcerer.”

“So you and the House Sorcerer arrived
at the scene at the same time? What did you see?”

Lady Hastings nodded, clearly
thinking back to that day. 

“Yes. One of the clerks came to
get Lady Ap Rhys, the House Healer, to see if she could help my father.” Her
face briefly twisted. “When we reached him, he was lying on the floor. Dr. Syn
was bent over him. Lady Ap Rhys began the laying-on of hands immediately, but
it was already too late, he was just…gone. Mistress MacAllister, the House
Sorceress, arrived just as we were closing his eyes. She tried to help also,
but it was to no avail.” The heiress dabbed at her eyes for a moment, then
looked at Owen dry-eyed.  

“I am sorry to have you recall
this Lady Hastings,” Owen said sympathetically. “You are doing splendidly.  Was
there anything, or anyone that seemed out of the ordinary? Think carefully.”

She frowned in concentration.

“No, nothing. There was just
father on the floor, with the courier tube lying beside him. Everyone was
running about, it was a scene of madness, as you may imagine.”

“Courier tube,” Owen pounced on
the anomaly. “What courier tube was this? Was your father expecting a courier? 
Is that not normally something that someone else would handle?”

Lady Hastings shook her head.
“He was not expecting a courier that I know of. It was his habit to ‘stretch
his legs’ as he put it about that time of day. He would step outside the front
door for a time.” She smiled. “I believe that he often indulged in a drink of
brandy while he was outside. He kept a flask on him. I am sure that he thought
no one knew. It would not have been the first time that he had intercepted a
courier while he stood outside. He usually simply took the tube from them.”

“I see,” Owen said. “And what
happened to this courier tube?”

She startled at that question.

“Why I have no idea, now that
you mention it. I simply assumed it was some routine thing. People are always
sending contracts and such through the couriers. It must happen a dozen times a
day.” She looked at him. “Do you think this is important?”

“It could be,” Owen temporized,
“Or it might be nothing. Would you, of your kindness, enquire about it and let
me know the answer?” He produced a card with his address on it.

Lady Hastings clutched the card.

“Of course,” she said, “Anything
that might be helpful. But I shall have to give the task to another. I am
coming with you.”

Owen struggled not to allow his
dismay show at her pronouncement. He looked to Jinhao for support, and saw the
same silent, inscrutable face. 

“I am sorry Lady Hastings,” he
said as gently as he may, “but that simply isn’t possible. We work best on our
own, and we know not where this inquiry may take us. Besides,” he continued, “you
have a duty to your guests and your father still.”

She clenched her hands into
fists at this.

“But this
is
my duty! You
cannot simply leave me here after such pronouncements as you have made. I may
be useful in your inquiry with my truth talent!” Owen was saved from further
awkwardness by the arrival of both the coach, and the younger male version of
Lady Hastings, who was running up to them.

“Sister.” he panted, out of
breath. “We are almost at the raising of the cup speeches! You are needed! Mr.
Richards told me to come and find you!”

Lady Hastings swiveled from Owen
to what was clearly her brother then back to Owen again.

“My Lord Strong,” she said
desperately, “I plead with you!”

The footman opened the coach
door, and Jinhao climbed inside without another word. Owen sketched Lady
Hastings a bow.

“I promise that I shall inform
you of our results, Lady Hastings. Rest assured that you have already been of
enormous aid. Please,” he said climbing up into the coach, “see to your
guests.”

Owen watched Lady Hastings
reluctantly enter the building as they drove away.

“Well…” he declared as he sat
back in the padded seat. “That was decidedly awkward at the end there.” He
turned towards Jinhao. “You might have been of more help you know. What’s come
over you?”

“You were doing fine,” she
replied absently. “I saw no need to interfere. I am now thinking of couriers.”

“Yes…” Owen breathed. “Courier
would be a perfect disguise for our killer. They are everywhere in this
correspondence happy age we live in, or so it seems. And the disguise would
only take a messenger bag, really.”

Couriers were ever present in
modern cities, carrying everything from messages across the street to state
documents for officials.  Most couriers worked for established companies that
were trusted and bonded, but in Hong Kong there was nothing like unions or
guilds to prevent anyone from picking up a bag to earn a few bob.

  After a moment’s thought, Owen
shook his head. “It is not enough,” he declared. “The delegates arrive tomorrow
for the reception at Government House, before the talks start. There must be
what, a dozen, legitimate courier companies in the city? And that does not
count the independents and more questionable actors. We do not have time to
chase down every courier in the city.”

 “Perhaps we could approach it
from the other side, so to speak?” Jinhao stirred in her seat. “The poison
would require an Alchemist, to make it in the strength we are thinking of. I
know of one that may have heard of something. What time is it?”

Owen took out his pocket watch.
He peered at it in the gloom of the cab.

“Just on seven of the clock.”

“Excellent.” Jinhao nodded. “He
should just be opening for the night.”

Owen snapped shut the watch,

“An Alchemist who keeps night
hours? Very good, let’s go pay her a visit.”

“Him,” Jinhao corrected. “We
should stop at home first, and change into clothing that is a bit
less…respectable. His shop is in Joy Luck Street.”

Owen pursed his lips.

“In that case, much less
respectable, I should think.”

The Street of Joy and Luck was
only a short distance away from where they had started their day at the embassy
on Main Street, but the contrast could not have been greater. Just as the
dignified stone buildings along Main Street were turning off their lamps and
emptying out, the less grand wooden facades on the Street of Joy and Luck were
opening.

By the time Owen and Jinhao
disembarked from their cab, anonymous in hooded night cloaks, the street was
bustling with people seeking various vices and pleasures, as well as the
swindlers, pickpockets, and toughs who preyed on them.

The crowd was from a dozen
nations and empires. As Owen followed in Jinhao’s wake, a group of uniformed
Russian sailors staggered past, roaring out a song which they marked time to by
waving bottles in their hands, splashing the unwary with spirits. A pair of Azteca
nobles stalked the street, resplendent in bright colored feather capes and tall
headdresses; those passing by gave them plenty of space. 

Another group of high-fashion
British ladies flounced by in daring costumes, laughing, all of them wearing
little more than body paint, together with the many-tiered skirts inspired by
the recent excavations on Minos. Owen thought he even spied a live snake on one
lady’s arm.

From overhead, the paper
lanterns shone in the open fronts of buildings, spilling light in an array of different
glowing colors across the pedestrians, while barkers vied with street musicians
for the attention of passers-by. 

Some of the more expensive
establishments had hired freelance Sorcerers, who filled the air in front of
their doors with moving illusions that beckoned people to come within. 

A rich fog of incense, hemp and
tobacco mixed with alcohol and perfumes hung over the street like a fragrant
cloud.

Jinhao turned abruptly down an
alley way. They passed various colorful people, conducting the kinds of
business usually conducted in such places. When the inhabitants saw they were
neither constables nor interested, they calmly went back to their transactions.

Jinhao turned into a narrower
alley way which broadened into a trash-filled area with a door lit by a single
lantern. Jinhao turned to Owen.

“Roberet is a Frankman,” she
said in a low voice. “He is suspicious of all the British. It may be best if
you allow me to do most of the talking.” Owen shrugged.

 “He’s your contact, I follow
your lead. Although if he’s like most Franks I’ve met, for the Gods’ sake try
to come to the point in under an hour, and remember that we are not made of
money.”

The ghost of a smile touched her
lips.

“He does go on, it is true. I
doubt, however, that coin will be an issue.”

With Jinhao still in the lead,
they entered the Alchemist shop. Owen looked around. It looked like most Alchemist
shops, with tall shelves lined with bottles that were filled with mysterious
ingredients. The shelves lined the walls, and an unpronounceable smell filled
the close air. At the far end of the narrow shop, a bas relief of the five
Chinese elements dominated the wall, with the usual stained wooden counter
below it. What was unusual was the dark-haired Chinese man, in street wear,
behind it. No Alchemist’s robes, or amulets on this one. He looked to Owen as
if he’d be more at home in the alley they had just passed through than in the
shop. He also didn’t look as if he was happy to see customers at all.

The man watched them unspeaking
until Jinhao stopped a few feet away from him.

“We are looking for Roberet,”
she said in lower dialect Mandarin, “Tell him it is an old friend from Barley.”

The man’s eyes shifted from
Jinhao to Owen and back again.

“Roberet isn’t here now. You should come back tomorrow.”

This clearly wasn’t what Jinhao
was expecting. She frowned at the man and tried again, with more force.

“Tell him it is an old friend
from Barley.” She followed this with a hand gesture that was so atypical that
Owen was certain it was a recognition sign of some kind.

When they had met, Owen had
asked if she had any current Imperial entanglements that he should be concerned
about. When she had said no, perhaps he should have asked if there were other
entanglements as well.

He knew that she was an Adept,
and that Chinese Adepts were under the will of the Chinese Imperial Court, on
pain of death. There were no freelancers. That meant that she was a runaway, or
something similar, at least.

Jinhao had hinted only that she
was fleeing romantic troubles in the North. The few comments that she had given
indicated she had no love for the current Imperial Court, ruled over by the
Dowager Empress. At the same time, she had been scathing about the various
rebel movements stirring the pot, both here and in the kingdom.

  She was good company for an
embittered Sorcerer, and he instinctively trusted her. He was good with his
instincts. He suspected that she would say much the same about him, even though
both of them clearly had secrets. Owen could be comfortable with secrets.   

The man again shifted his eyes
from her to Owen, and back again. This time he gave an insincere smile and
wiped his hand across his forehead in a clumsy counter-sign.

“Oh,” the man said, still in
gutter Mandarin, “The old friend from Barley.”  Owen restrained himself from
rolling his eyes.