~ David ~

“Uh, Lord Constable?” Apparently six times was the most Lieutenant Baxendale would knock on David’s door without reply before she got concerned and forced her way in to check he was still alive. Satisfied that he was, she took a seat at his desk, and poured herself a glass of water from the jug there.

David gave her a look. “Please come in, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Sorry, sir. You asked me to come to you if I found anything? Well, I have.”

Lieutenant Baxendale had been charged with combing through the old Lord Constable’s notes. Captain Mannam had kept meticulous records, partly due to Baxendale’s willingness to do all the writing. She made very liberal use of shorthand, and had a peculiar way of writing certain letters that nobody else could read. Fortunately, reading old notes was a good way to distract her from her melancholy.

She was looking for references to a strange black powder. She’d sworn there’d been something, early on when they’d just arrived on Essegena. The details had been forgotten, and David wanted to know. Needed to know. It was important, for Caroline’s sake.

His interest in such a powder had been precipitated by the Governor’s arrival at the Tower on the day he’d questioned Wrack. Chris had work that needed doing. He had Government Hall to conduct his business, but it seemed he preferred the vibes of the Tower, or the smell of his office there, or some other bullshit. Whatever the reason, he’d usually come to the Tower, hole himself up in his upstairs office, and stay there until the early hours of the morning. Trying to come up with a reason for this had stumped David. For him, an office was an office. As long as he wasn’t disturbed, he could get his work done anywhere that had a desk and a comfortable chair.

David had followed Chris to his office, ignoring Sergeant Marris’ attempts to intimidate him. Marris was the head of Chris’ security retinue. David found him thoroughly unlikeable. Marris was two ranks removed from the entry-level, yet he walked as though he was a king. He skulked around behind Chris and leered at anyone of a superior rank. And his was a horrible wide grin, designed to show off the rotted black teeth in his mouth. Platt, who had once served alongside Marris, swore that it was Marris’ foul breath that had killed old High Commissioner Porlick. That Porlick had vanished into thin air a year before Marris signed up to the Unity, was a wrinkle in this story, but David was inclined to believe it anyway. He didn’t remember Porlick, so he felt no guilt making up his own story for her apparent demise.

Sergeant Marris protested, as always he would, when David walked by. But David told him where he could shove his protest, and Marris’ stubby hand never grabbed at him.

Chris, for what it was worth, didn’t seem surprised to see David. He didn’t even seem annoyed. “I’m glad you’re here, David,” he said. “I did want a word with you.”

“Wrack spoke to you?”

“What?” Chris shook his head, straightening up. He’d been slouched in his chair when David entered, very clearly not doing any work. “No, I’ve not heard a peep from Wrack today. David, I’d like to talk business. In particular, I’d like to talk the business of your Constabulary absorbing my personal security.”

“You know that’ll piss Marris off,” said David.

Chris shrugged. “Let him be pissed off. He’s my head of security because he’s a big bruiser who hates people. I want some fucker who’ll happily lean on anybody who’s causing me danger. What I don’t want is a friend. I’ve got plenty of those.”

“Wrack,” David muttered.

“Oliver Wrack, yes,” Chris nodded. “And you, and Ian, and the rest of the Borrowood lot. Shit, even Petra Manelan was good for a laugh.”

Petra Manelan had moved with her family to Borrowood when she was just turned eighteen, the same age as Armand. By then the glory days of the Borrowood Dynasty were passed. The group had no vacancies. Still, she tried to befriend them. She propositioned David once, and got a bloodied nose for it, and at last she’d taken the hint. She’d never again attempted to insert herself in the gang. And good riddance.

“There’s a reason for this.” David sat himself down.

Chris nodded. “Of course there is. Bradshaw thinks he’s got one over on me. He’s moved you to the Constabulary, and who is it he’s put in your place? One of his cronies, I bet.”

“As far as I know the position hasn’t been filled,” said David. “It’ll probably go to someone senior—Dunleavy or Tastock or someone like that.”

“Whoever it is, I doubt I’ll be able to rely on them if push comes to shove. But here’s the thing: if my security retinue is folded into the Constabulary, the Lord Constable—being yourself—then becomes the commanding officer of my security retinue. And that means I retain the link. It’s funny, really. Bradshaw thinks he’s split the Borrowood Dynasty up before we can consolidate, but what he’s actually done is reinforce my strength. Now, through you, I have the entirety of the Constabulary at my beck and call.”

“It’s not as straightforward as all that,” said David. “There are rules and there are regulations, and process that has to be followed. Just because you aren’t frozen out of the command structure doesn’t mean you have absolute authority. I intend to do my job. If there’s cause, I will investigate you.”

Chris had raised his eyebrows then, in amusement at the prospect. “David, you’re a great friend, but you’re a loyal dog. You won’t investigate me.”

“Tell me about the antidote.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The antidote that was in the bottle you gave me. The thing you needed so badly you sent Wrack up to the lake to find it. Before Caroline was sick.” David leaned over the desk. “Did you poison Caroline?”

Chris denied it, as of course he would. David was even inclined to believe him. There was no way he could be convinced that Chris Ballard would harm his wife. His love for Caroline was something transcendent, bordering on the obsessive. “I don’t know what Wrack’s told you,” he said. “But I would never harm Caro. Never.” He pierced David with a stare. “Do you think so little of me as to believe I would?”

“I just need to do my job,” said David. “That means asking the questions. If you’ll look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t have anything to do with Lord Constable Mannam’s death, I can get back to focusing on my investigations.”

“Well, here’s me looking you in the eye and saying that.” With a single finger, Chris beckoned David to lean in ever closer. “Between you and me, Oliver Wrack was half right. I didn’t poison Caroline. I’d never poison Caroline. But there was an antidote in the bottle I gave you. Don’t ask me why I had an antidote, it was Caro who told me to bring it. You know how she has her dreams... She must have seen something, knew she was going to get ill. Wanted to make sure she survived.”

They never talked about Caroline’s dreams. Her family’s gift was an unspoken secret, and there was an understanding that it would always go unmentioned. It wasn’t her fault she was a Foresleeper, and Chris had been quite plain that he’d not hold with anybody putting her at risk. For years, nobody had dared to bring it up. David had almost forgotten. “She still dreams?”

Chris nodded, sombre. “I didn’t realise it would spread. I don’t think Caro did either. We thought she’d get ill, and then she’d get better. No harm done, and perhaps we’d be able to put out word that she was a survivor ordained by the Gods. People have died. More are likely to follow. It’s only a matter of time before Caro is one of them.” He pinched the skin between his eyebrows. “It’s a black powder—what, I don’t know. It’s defied analysis. Find it, David. Search through Mannam’s records if you have to. Perhaps it’s already been turned in.”

It wasn’t with any expectation that he’d put Lieutenant Baxendale on the case, but more out of respect for Chris. A small part of him would have been... not happy, if Caroline Ballard died, but not upset either. She was no more than an acquaintance. If her own hubris killed her, it wouldn’t be worth mourning. But Chris would be devastated. And if he learned that David hadn’t even tried to retrieve the bottle, he’d excise David from his plans.

And then David would have nobody.

He looked at Lieutenant Baxendale, sat in front of him with a wallet of brown card in her hand and a smile on her face. “What have you found, Lieutenant? Tell me.”

“Several things.” She slipped the wallet across the desk, and opened it to reveal a dozen or so sheets of paper within, each taken from a page of the files. “First off—and this is going way back, mind. The first thing Captain Mannam did was take statements from the Advanced Party, regarding the missing soldiers Bartley, Cailie and Warner. Most of them are irrelevant, but have a look at this.” She pointed at a paragraph halfway down the first sheet. This, according to the heading at the top, was the statement of Sergeant Nathan Malleston.

‘Under Lieutenant Bennett’s instruction, myself and Wilding retrieved the stranger from the site where he’d been found,’ the statement read. ‘Upon our return to the camp, we found that our hands were covered in some black substance, dry like powder.’

“Wilding says the same,” said Lieutenant Baxendale, turning to the next page. “And Rice mentions there being a black residue on the blankets left over when the man was brought to the hospital.”

“So this powder’s been on Essegena all along?”

Lieutenant Baxendale shrugged. “It’s possible. Hard to be sure, though, there’s a lot of things it could be. Captain Mannam never took statements from the hospital staff, and obviously we can’t go traipsing in there now. Even if we did, there’s no saying they’d remember anything so far removed.”

“Obviously,” David agreed. Things would be a lot easier if there wasn’t a damned lockdown.

“There’s a couple of other references to something black, but nothing specific enough that I think it’s linked in any way. When Comestine Argent was brought in—she’s the one who’s suspected of poisoning the Governor’s wife—”

“I know who Comestine Argent is,” David snapped.

Baxendale nodded. “Well, she doesn’t mention any sort of powder—black or not—in her questioning. But have a look at this.” She was pointing at a section of Comestine Argent’s arrest report, filled in presumably by Captain Mannam. The handwriting was thick and blocky. This section was given over to a description of Argent at the time of her arrest, detailing her height and weight and hair colour and all sorts of other things. Including, apparently, traces of black powder on her fingertips. This particular detail had been written in with a different pen, for some reason, a steel grey rather than the black ink used for the rest of the form.

“Now this is curious,” David muttered. On one hand it seemed to tally perfectly. It was too much of a coincidence that the cook who’d tried to kill Caroline was arrested bearing the same substance as had been earmarked as a cure for Caroline’s ails, without there being an explicit connection. Comestine Argent was still imprisoned. On the surface, this was the evidence that would ensure she’d remain imprisoned. But it didn’t sit right. If she’d meant to kill Caroline, why would she bother with an antidote? Presumably she didn’t want Caroline to live, else why put her own position and her own liberty at risk to poison her. “Who filled this out?” he asked. Whoever it was, they hadn’t brought the report to David to sign.

“I couldn’t say, sir,” said Baxendale. “I was taking a leave week at the time.”

“See if you can find out.”

Lieutenant Baxendale rifled through the pages until she came to another, this one bearing a greyscale photograph of a man with a bloodied face. Corporal Bartley hadn’t been made more attractive by the camera.

“This is the autopsy of Robert Bartley,” said Baxendale. “Can I take it you know who Robert Bartley is?”

“Take it that I know who anybody is, unless I tell you otherwise.” He was beginning to tire of Lieutenant Baxendale acting as though it was his first day on the job.

“I’ll try my best, sir,” she said, in a tremulous voice. “The autopsy was Curlie’s doing, nothing special.” Curlie Bonnybrook, so named for his elaborate choice of facial hair—the sort of sweeping moustache that needed an hour or so’s grooming and a jar of wax every day to ensure all the twists held—had emerged as the Constabulary’s de facto pathologist. He’d volunteered to look over Captain Mannam’s body, and stitch Anderson back together as well as he could, citing his experience in the field. This experience, it transpired, was some books he’d read and a talk by a leading pathologist that he’d attended once. Still, that made him better qualified than anybody else here. Naturally Corporal Bartley’s body had ended up on a slab in Curlie’s office.

Not telling Curlie when he arrived for his morning’s work had been a cruel joke, though.

“Let me guess,” said David. “Curlie mentioned some strange black powder?”

“More than that, sir,” said Baxendale. “Corporal Bartley’s blood was full of the stuff, according to Curlie’s notes. Apparently he was able to get a jar full of it sent off to Master Stockton for testing.”

“And did we ever get any results from that testing?”

Lieutenant Baxendale shook her head.

“Well then,” said David, rising. “Can you guess where we’re headed now?”

They actually headed first to Curlie’s office, where he was working his way through a heaping mug of cocoa. “Gracie’s clearly taken a shine to you,” David quipped, prompting Curlie to redden. When David mentioned Corporal Bartley’s autopsy, Curlie reiterated what had been written in the report, but with the added detail that the skin around each of Corporal Bartley’s wounds had been blackened by the same powder.

Once they were done with Curlie, they headed for Master Stockton’s laboratory.

The laboratory was a sepulchre of aquamarine amidst the sea of grey and white walls that was the Eia. The hospital’s lockdown had cut off the quickest route, and in its stead a more winding path had to be taken to reach the lab. It was silent. Deserted. More than the hospital was tainted, in the eyes of Essegena’s people. The whole ship may as well have been given over to the sickness. The guard stood at the head of the entrance ramp, one of Bradshaw’s with a chipped tooth and a shield of amaranth on the breast of his surcoat, gave David an awful side-eye as he made to go past. “This place is sick. You watch you don’t catch your death, Lord Constable,” he said.

“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” said David.

The guard had some choice words for David after that, but he muttered them under his breath and David pretended not to hear.

They didn’t pass anybody else on the way to the laboratory, him and Lieutenant Baxendale. The heavy bulkheads that shut off the hospital were a surreal sight, and he had to resist the urge to reach out and touch them—touch history. But that would be putting himself at risk. They skirted around the hospital, all the way around, and then up a narrow staircase. There, the words ‘Welcome to the Pit’ had been painted haphazardly on the wall. This was Master Stockton’s section alright.

The corridor that led to the laboratory was grubby and smelling faintly of urine, but the laboratory itself couldn’t have been cleaner. The walls with their blue paint seemed to shimmer, and the air seemed to get immediately fresher. A long metal box was laid out on a gurney in the middle of the laboratory, a scarlet cloth draped over it. A body lying in state.

Stockton himself wasn’t here. A handful of youngsters in protective goggles were gathered around some small device in the corner, burning away fiercely. One of them switched the device off when she spotted David. “Can I help you, sir?” She had a touch of Dani Carrigan about her, a shared long face and conical jaw, but the youthful exuberance in her voice was something Dani Carrigan had never possessed. David had sometimes joked that Dani was an old soul in a body too young for her, that she was really already in her sixties when she was born, and she’d be lucky to live to twenty-five. Well, she hadn’t lived to twenty-five. Maybe his jokes hadn’t been off the mark.

“I’d like to speak to Master Stockton, if I may.”

The youngsters whispered among themselves for a bit, and then the one who looked a bit like Dani disappeared through a door at the back of the laboratory. She returned a minute or so later in the company of a jovial man who was losing the battle against grey hairs. Master Stockton held his hand out for David to shake.

“And what might bring the Lord Constable himself to my door? None of my students have been getting up to mischief, I hope?”

David shook his head. “If they have, it’s not been reported to me.”

“You hear that, kids?” Stockton yelled across to the gathered group. “The Lord Constable hasn’t caught you yet. So you can keep doing whatever it is you’ve been doing.”

“Actually, Master Stockton, I’ve come to enquire about the samples we sent your way. Is there any chance you’ve had a chance to look through them?”

Stockton looked blank. “Samples?”

“As I understand it, several samples were sent to your office, taken from the body of Robert Bartley,” said David.

“Black powder,” added Lieutenant Baxendale.

Master Stockton shook his head. “This is the first I’m hearing of it, I’m afraid.” He turned again to bellow at the students. “If anybody’s accepted samples and not told me about it, now’s your chance to come clean. You’ve got amnesty for the count of five.” He raised five fingers, and lowered them in sequence. None of the students said a word. Next, he turned to the girl who looked like Dani, who was still stood beside him. “How about you, Ella? Taken something on as an extra project for yourself?”

Ella shook her head. “I’d have told you first, Master Stockton.”

“Course you would,” said Stockton, mussing her hair.

“You must have received the samples,” said Lieutenant Baxendale. “Curlie swore he sent them.”

Stockton raised his palms. “The Mother bears witness to the fact that I didn’t,” he said. “I’d be happy to help the Constabulary out, but I can honestly say that we’ve received no samples—not a thing. I’m sorry.”

“So Curlie lied?” Baxendale’s voice had risen to a shout.

“Lieutenant Baxendale,” David cautioned.

“Who the fuck is Curlie?” Stockton shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. All I can tell you is what I’ve already told you: we received no samples here, not in many months.”

Baxendale shook her head. “This is ridiculous,” she yelled, moving towards Stockton. “What are you hiding?”

David pulled at her collar, before she could get close enough to strike Stockton. “Step off, Lieutenant. The sample isn’t here. Let’s leave it at that, eh?”

David sent Lieutenant Baxendale home to rest for the day, and returned to Curlie’s office to ask him if he was sure the sample had been sent to Master Stockton. Curlie seemed irritated to have been disturbed twice in a single day, but he assured David that the sample had indeed left the office. “I had Onslow deliver it,” he said. “She even signed the form to confirm it.” He rummaged in the ring-binder on his desk, and pulled out a piece of paper bearing Katy Onslow’s signature.

So why hadn’t she delivered the sample?

“I did,” Onslow insisted, when David put the question to her. “I left it on one of the worktops in the middle of Master Stockton’s laboratory. There was a bloke there. Short, brown hair.” A helpfully vague description.

David left her to it, and returned to his office. If Onslow had delivered the sample, but Master Stockton hadn’t received it, then it was lost. There was nothing to be done to that end. He’d just have to go up to the lake and rummage around in those trees until he found Chris’ bottle—and hope it hadn’t smashed when he threw it.

He was halfway through a frothing cup of Master Ellavon’s special brew to steel himself for a lengthy search when Corporal Rawlinson knocked on his door. He knew it was Corporal Rawlinson from the way the door buckled with each knock. “Enter.”

“I understand you’re having issues getting one of our own to talk,” said Rawlinson, no beating around the bush. “Sir, I can get Onslow to open up to you.”

David set his brew aside, before it spilled. “Need I ask how you found out that I’d been talking to Onslow?”

Rawlinson smiled broadly, showing off his reddened teeth. “You can ask, sir. But my sources are confidential.”

“Well, you can thank your sources for feeding you accurate information, but it’s out of date. I’ve spoken to Onslow. She answered my questions. The matter’s done.”

Rawlinson’s lip twitched. “With respect, sir, if Onslow was sober she probably wasn’t telling the truth.”

David frowned. “None of my soldiers are liars, Corporal, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Rawlinson. “Onslow can be a joker and a loudmouth, but she’s guarded. Oh, but you must have seen that yourself, sir? She’s the first to talk shit about someone, but she won’t say a word about herself. Not when she’s sober. The moment she switches to tipsy it’s like a whole different person comes out. Drunk Onslow’s ridiculously honest, and she doesn’t hold back, either.”

“I’m only going to say this once, Corporal, so be sure to listen: you are never to get any Constabulary soldier drunk on these premises.”

“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” said Rawlinson. “Do you give me no credit at all? No, I’ll invite her to the Tavern this evening. Trust me, sir. Whatever you want to know, you’ll find it out at the Tavern.”

Which was why a dubious David found himself stepping out of the cool evening’s rain and into the warmth of the Tavern. A blazing hearth had superheated the air, and all around men and women were getting raucously drunk and having a great time of it. As promised, Corporal Rawlinson was already there, in a booth with Onslow. Both had changed out of their uniforms, Rawlinson into a plain jacket and trousers and Onslow into a pair of overalls that looked designed to withstand vomit. She was well-dressed to go hard tonight.

As planned, David passed them by to head to the bar. He ordered a drink from the waitress—a soft-spoken blonde who seemed to have difficulty understanding that he wanted his coffee without any alcoholic additives, because he didn’t like the taste—then moved away, ostensibly in search of a table.

“Lord Constable!” That was Onslow. Just as Rawlinson had said she would, she’d noticed David and called him over. “Sit with us, sir. We won’t mind.”

“If you’re sure.” David feigned reluctance, and gave Rawlinson a knowing glance.

Rawlinson had put a lot of effort into getting Onslow drunk already; the pair of them had huge steins of cider before them, the real strong scrumpy. David could smell it before he sat down. Both steins were more than half empty. “Mine was only half-filled to begin with,” Rawlinson whispered, “but Katy’s was to the brim.” So she must be at least a little tipsy already.

“I’ve never seen you in here before, sir,” said Onslow.

“I’ve not been often,” David replied. “I hope you didn’t feel like I was browbeating you earlier, Onslow. I don’t like it when I need to question one of my own, but it had to be done.”

She gave him a verecund smile. “It didn’t offend me, sir.”

“That’s good to hear. I was actually at Master Stockton’s laboratory today myself—my first time there. It’s a stunning place, isn’t it?”

Onslow nodded. “It’s magnificent.”

“Yes, I was impressed by the colours. Marigold, for a laboratory. It’s a natural choice, isn’t it?”

“I don’t like marigold myself,” said Onslow, “but it really worked.”

At once, David dropped the smiling act. “Master Stockton’s laboratory is painted blue,” he said. “Marigold’s a shade of yellow. Onslow, I don’t like being lied to. You’ve never been to Stockton’s laboratory. You didn’t deliver the sample for Curlie. Why not?”

Onslow shirked back. “This is a trap,” she said. She looked hurt, betrayed.

But then, she’d betrayed David by lying.

“Why did you hide the sample? Onslow, this is a serious matter. I’m wondering if I need to have you relieved of your duties. Maybe count you as a suspect in the attempt on Doctor Ballard’s life.”

She paled. “No, sir, please. I didn’t do anything.”

He spoke firmly. “Then why didn’t you deliver the sample?”

“It’s a simple question, Katy,” added Rawlinson.

Onslow hesitated for a second, then sighed, then stifled a sob. “I lost it,” she said.

David blinked. “You... lost it?”

She nodded.

“How could you lose a sample?”

“I stopped to talk to Redlips before I went—we’d arranged to walk to the Plaza together after our shift, and it was going to be up by the time I’d got to the Eia, so I wanted to tell her to just meet me there. I put the sample on the side before I found her, and afterwards I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere, sir. I had all the cushions up on all the chairs, just in case. Someone must have taken it.”

“Why didn’t you report it?” asked David.

Onslow was cowering from him, he could see. Her neck seemed to have receded into her body a little. “I didn’t want to get into trouble,” she said. “I thought if I just said I’d delivered it, nobody would notice.”

David sighed. “You must be honest,” he told her. “You won’t get into trouble for being honest. Mistakes happen. But when you cover things up, when you hide your mistakes, you just make things harder for everyone. You’ll take the rest of the week off, Onslow—unpaid. And next week we’ll start again. And you’ll be honest with me. Okay?”

Onslow nodded. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I won’t do it again.” She looked on the brink of tears.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be upset,” he said. “It’s done now. Enjoy your drink.” She recoiled.

“What’ll you do now, sir?” asked Rawlinson.

“Bartley’s body’s still kicking about,” said David. “Tomorrow we’ll have to dig it up and hope Curlie didn’t take all the powder off for the first sample. There might well be enough left on his body for Master Stockton to work with.”