Strong Mystery: Murder, Mystery and Magic Books 1-3 (Steampunk Magica) (8 page)

“Well, I apologize for having my
past make such an unpleasant intrusion on a beautiful day.”

“Owen, who was that man?” She
asked the question carefully, with unaccustomed hesitance.

Owen sighed, and turned to face
her directly.

“Yes, I used to belong to a
secret service of the British Crown called the Obsidian Order,” he confirmed. “I
really can’t tell you much more than that without risking your life, which I will
not do.”

Jinhao nodded, and decided to
approach the matter from a different angle.

“Is what he was saying about the
city and the Austrians true? I thought they disavowed your Magia.”

Owen lit yet another cigarette,
giving his tense hands something to do.

“Oh yes, they disavow it. Their
Goddess tells them it is wrong. Except that somehow Alchemy, and what they call
‘Physicks,’ is very much allowed and is assiduously cultivated.” He exhaled a
cloud of obscuring smoke before continuing.

“As for the Disintegrator, it
does exist. I have seen it at work.” He turned towards Jinhao. “I do not doubt
for a moment that the Austrians would use it.”

“What shall we do then?”

Owen gave her his wry grin.

“We, is it? I shall value your
presence on this. Mind you, it will hardly be the romp that finding the Duke’s
daughter was.”

“Where do we begin,” she asked.

Owen closed his eyes until they
were a mere slit in his face, as he sometimes did when thinking hard. Then he tilted
his head at her, a subtle smile quirking his thin lips.

“How do you feel about playing a
widow?”

Chapter 6

The British Embassy, Main Street

“This way, My Lord, and eh, Madam.” Phineas Horton,
Third Secretary of the British Embassy, ducked his head as he entered the low
door to the morgue at the bottom of an unremarkable set of stairs
.

The morgue existed for British citizens who had asked that
their remains be returned to the homeland. Given the general uneasiness death
caused the living, its presence in the building was signaled only by a discreet
plaque on a plain door at the top of the stairs.

In the center of the chilled room, which smelled of carbolic,
formaldehyde and alcohol, stood a single table with a sheet draped over it.

An older man, with out-sized muttonchops that were as gray as
the rest of his clothing, came striding towards them, wiping his hands on a
towel.

“Here now,” he said sharply, “What is all this, Horton?”

Secretary Horton wrung his
hands, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, his role in it, and the place
in which he found himself.

“Please forgive the intrusion,
Doctor,” he murmured, “but we have a bit of a delicate situation.” He waved a
hand towards Owen and Jinhao.

“This is Lord Ivers, second
cousin of the niece of Sir Brandon. He just arrived by sky ship this morning.
And this…” the Secretary gestured vaguely in Jinhao’s cloaked direction, but
did not look at her directly. He directed his embarrassed gaze at the floor,
and coughed discreetly.

“This is Mi-Ling, a
distant relative
of Sir Brandon.” He
coughed again, and looked at the doctor. “A close, but em, eh, a distant
relationship,” he said rather awkwardly. “They wish to pay their respects.”

The doctor’s eyebrows briefly
rose, as he caught the implication that Jinhao, or rather Mi-Ling, was the
deceased Sir Brandon’s undeclared mistress. He stepped forward, extending a
hand to Owen.

“Doctor Marston, Embassy
physician,” he declared. “My sympathies, Milord. A shocking thing that he
should be taken from us so young.” Releasing Owen’s hand, the old doctor gave a
formal bow to Jinhao.

“You have my deepest condolences
on your loss, Madam.”

“Thank you,” Jinhao said in a
voice that held just the right amount of quaver, Owen thought with admiration.
He was surprised as he had no idea she could be such an accomplished actor. She
stared at the table, her delicate hand obviously trembling.

“Is that Brandon?” she
whispered.

“It is,” Doctor Marston said to
her gravely. He continued to address Mi-Ling, while he looked a question at Owen.

“Are you certain that you wish
to do this? I have cared for the body as I may, but still it is not for the
delicate of constitution.”

“I was just off ship when I
heard the terrible news,” Owen said mournfully. “I gathered Mi-Ling and came
here directly. I wonder if you can tell us how Uncle Brandon passed on.”

“Heart attack,” the doctor said
with conviction. “The poor soul was found collapsed in the front foyer of the
Embassy. I assure you, Milord, that we did all that we could.” He sniffed
dismissively, “We even called in the Embassy Sorcerer, but there was nothing to
be done.” Marston glanced at Owen’s electrum cane and his face stiffened as he
thought better of his last words. Some Sorcerers were very touchy about their
powers, and only too happy to prove them.

Owen gave his most charming
smile to the man. It was clear that the Doctor was one of those who distrusted Sorcerers,
despite their having been part of British culture for centuries. Some people
naturally distrusted what they could not have themselves. Owen didn’t blame the
man. He distrusted Sorcerers as well, only for very different reasons.

“Yes, well,” Owen drawled. “I’m
sure you did everything you could. Whole thing would have been a bit above me,
being only an apprentice Fire caller.” He hefted the cane carelessly. “Still,
it’s a bit of tradition on our side of the family, you see; must keep up appearances.” 

Owen watched the Doctor’s face
relax. Fire callers were a penny a dozen, as most could barely light a lamp,
and thus were unlikely to either take offense, or be a serious threat.

“The Secretary here tells me
that the body is to be shipped home tonight,” Owen continued, “so this may be
Mi-Ling’s only chance to say good-bye.” Owen managed to look both sincere and
bothered at the same time. Clearly he was only attempting to do the family
duty, and wanted to be done with it as soon as possible.

“Please,” Jinhao stood by the
table, her eyes fixed on the sheet. “Please, may I see him?”

The Doctor stirred himself,
coming over to the table, and then took a firm grasp of the sheet covering the
body.   

“Of course,” he said quietly.
“Please be brave.” He pulled back the sheet, and Jinhao gave a great keening cry,
collapsing on the dead man’s chest with intense bouts of sobbing.

Owen had to marvel again at her
acting ability. He wondered, not for the first time, what Jinhao had been
before that fateful meeting of theirs on the border with China proper. The
other two men in the room looked away, embarrassed at her display.

“Please, gentlemen,” Owen asked
gently, gently patting Jinhao’s shoulder as if in comfort. “Might we have a
moment of privacy?”

The doctor and the Secretary
were only too glad to leave the room to the wailing lover and the younger
relative. As the door clicked shut, Jinhao stopped crying.

“Good job,” Owen said, squeezing
her shoulder. “You almost had me believing you there for a moment. Help me get
this sheet off, I need to see the whole body.” 

Jinhao smiled at him.

“Western men are so hopelessly
romantic about a woman’s tears,” she said happily. They wrestled the heavy
sheet to the floor.

Owen’s original plan had been to
present himself at the Embassy as a distant relative on a Grand Tour. That was
not unreasonable, as many younger nobles made a journey around the world,
pestering their relatives as they went.

He only needed a few minutes
alone to examine the body. While he could simply have presented his
carte
blanche
and demanded to see the body, gossip about a highly-credentialed Sorcerer
snooping about would have spread through the colony like the plague, alerting
the assassin, if there was one.

To that end, he had dressed in a
rather modern suit in the Connolly house colors of emerald green and gold. He
had been pleasantly surprised when Jinhao presented herself in an almost-matching
Western afternoon dress, fashionably knee length, complete with the appropriate
hat, gloves and shoes.

Arriving at the Embassy, they
had been given over to the officious care of Phineas Horton, Third Secretary.
Secretary Horton had droned on and on, showing no signs of ever letting them
out of his office.

That was when Jinhao had broken
down in tears and, with Owen following her cues, they had ‘confessed all’ about
the secret romance between Sir Brandon and Mi-Ling. Horton had moved
surprisingly quickly after that, finally leaving them alone with the body. It
had been a very satisfying ruse.

Owen quickly passed his cane
over the remains, the blue stone in the handle glowing softly, while the body
shimmered different colors as if in response. One by one, he silently called on
the marks of the five elements bound on his body, seeking to learn the cause of
death. Finally, he lowered the cane, leaning on it with a frown.

“Well, Partridge was right,” he
mused, “there is no sign of Magia, no residue of poisons, and nothing else
amiss, except his death. There is also no sign of heart congestion, or trauma,
though the heart has, of course, stopped beating. In fact, I will be damned if
I can find any reason for him to be dead at all.”

“Then we must examine the body
itself,” Jinhao stated. She began at the feet, running her hands over the skin
as she peered closely at it. “There are many ways a man might die, or be caused
to die.”

Owen glanced at the door. “Yes,
well, you’d best be quick about it. I doubt that our stalwart gentlemen’s
‘romanticism’ will extend to them finding you fondling his naked corpse.”

Moving swiftly and neatly,
Jinhao examined the limbs, the torso, and finally reached the head. There, she
rolled back the eyelids, then opened the mouth and sniffed.

“Ah,” she looked up at Owen.
“Smell this.” She held the mouth open.

Owen gingerly leaned over and
sniffed.

“He smells rather like musty
almonds,” he remarked. “Surely not something he ate?”

Jinhao shook her head.

“There is a poison that leaves
only the faint odor of almonds, and then only for a short while.” Her brow
creased. “But it would take too much of the poison to be eaten and not to be
noticed. Usually, it is only found on blades or needles. There must be a
wound.”

Now Owen began searching the
body as well. After examining the hands and arms, he started at the neck and
moved down. He pointed at a tiny red spot on the chest.

“Hallo, what’s this?”

Jinhao bent close enough her
nose almost touched the body.

“I do not know. If it is a
wound, it is very small.” She looked at Owen. “If it is a weapon, I cannot
think what would leave such a tiny mark.”

“Clothes,” Owen said quickly. He
glanced around to see a neatly folded stack sitting on a cabinet shelf. “Come
on,” he said. “Let’s get him covered.”

They poured over the clothing,
holding up each piece to the Magia light in the ceiling, “Got it!” Owen
exclaimed. He held up the shirt for Jinhao to see a very small hole, barely a
parting of the thread.

“Yes,” she hissed, holding up
the brocaded vest next to the shirt. A small point of light shone through both
items of clothing. At that moment, the door opened, and they turned to find a
frowning Secretary Horton and Doctor Marston regarding them.

“Ah, yes,” Owen said glibly.
“Dear old Uncle Brandon did wear only the best, did he not? He folded the shirt
and placed it back on the pile. “You can’t find quality like this anymore, I
dare say.” He patted the pile of clothing while smiling. 

“I think that you should both go
now,” said a reproachful Doctor Marston. They were accompanied to the front
gates by a silent Horton, who was doubtless happy to see them go.

Owen paused once Horton had
returned to the building.

“Well, we can now say with some
certainty that Sir Brandon Connelly was likely murdered.” He said dryly and
raised an eyebrow at Jinhao. “How rare is this poison you suspect?”

Jinhao glared at a drunken
Persian sea man in a purple tunic, who careened too close to them. The man
promptly careened the other way, knocking over the chicken cages on an old
Chinese man’s back. She turned back to Owen, both of them ignoring the furor of
loose chickens and shouting, the chaos quickly carried away on the tide of
humanity moving along Main Street.

“Not rare, but not common,” she
replied. “It is made from the roots of a plant. Most Alchemists will have the
means to make it.” She frowned. “There are better poisons; usually it is used
on a blade to cause the target’s muscles to slow for a short time, which makes
it a favorite of dishonorable fighters. Its main advantage is that it leaves no
trace, other than the smell. The liquid has a most bitter taste. It would take
a very noticeable dose to kill by food or drink.” Her frown deepened. “This is
not right, somehow.”