Michael

Goodman wasn't certain that Harold had never known Drew Potter, though given the closeness of their shipping warehouse and the mines he said it might be possible that they at least knew one another. Still, he put emphasis on the idea that Harold had been without friends and even many casual acquaintances leading up to his death, putting an end to the theory that he and the latest victim might have known one another any more than in passing.

I returned the favor by convincing him that the miner's death meant his servants were likely not in danger and he could call them back. Our killer seemed not to be interested in any particular man's employees or even targeting anyone of a similar social status, which was unnerving to consider. If our killer took lives wantonly, could make a victim of anyone, then we might have to catch him in the act. With no pattern to the deaths, there was no trail to follow that I could see.

Goodman offered to let his other servants speak with me on the subject, but it seemed to me that Aaron would know just as well, for as much as Harold had apparently interact with his coworkers or, more accurately, failed to interact. Aaron would also be more willing to work with me than a stranger who only knew me as an unredeemed murder suspect.

In the end I learned nothing new that we could use, but had at least alleviated some of Goodman's fears, and so I left feeling that I had done some small good. Fisk was waiting for me when I returned to the inn, and he'd had better luck, having obtained the addresses of several family members of the victims. 'Twas late by then, and I would have been happy to wait until morning to pay them a visit, but Fisk argued that the killer had shown a tendency to strike at night, and felt that grieving families would make for as good an alibi, if not better, than Aaron had. 'Twas not the most comforting thought no matter which part of it I focused on.

In the spirit of finding a good alibi, Fisk decided we could see the sheriff's cousin first. He wouldn't tell me how he had gotten the address, only that it had been given at a steep price. I spent the walk to Richard Portman's house reminding myself that my squire was no longer a conman.

-o-

Richard Portman lived near the heart of town, which was only a few minutes' walk from The Chestnut. Fisk and I argued most of the way over what we should say, given that we were about to speak to a man who had just lost his sister. The possibility the we visit Harold's mother first did come up, as she had been granted slightly more time to grieve, but we reached our destination before we could agree to change courses.

Fisk had me stand by the side of the house and went to knock. Being the sheriff's wife, Richard seemed likely to know about any suspicions the sheriff's office might have of me. Seeing as I had nearly been arrested that morning, I had a good idea what those suspicions might be.

Richard opened the door with more promptness than I'd expected of a grieving man, and didn't look startled when he saw Fisk, so he must not have heard any descriptions of my squire from the rumors being passed around. When I saw him I realized I had never heard Mary's appearance described, but either way I thought it fortunate that marriage was her only relation to the man. Sherriff Portman was the sort of average that was unique in how unremarkable it was, but his cousin was notably less than average. Mismatched features, none quite the right size for any of the others, made him startlingly distinctive. Yet whatever other faults it might have had, his face seemed kind, so I focused on that.

He observed his guest a moment, smiling pleasantly when Fisk spoke. "Sorry to intrude. I was hoping to speak with you about your sister."

Now Richard shut his eyes and took a deep breath, suppressing a look of pain that the words had drawn to the surface. When he opened them again he inspected Fisk more thoroughly, then glanced around and spotted me.

"Sevenson and Fisk," he said. "Howard told me I might hear from you two." He looked to Fisk, the kindness in his expression now replaced with hard determination that, unfortunately, made him look more sinister than his tone suggested he felt. "I hope you understand. Your friend is the one man I can't suspect took Mary, but I won't have an unredeemed man in my house."

Fisk shrugged and gestured for me to come closer. "We can talk right here."

Had this not been my first time talking at a person's doorstep in a city where my status was known and I was suspected of a great crime—something that it irked me to experience more than once—I might have felt more hurt by his grimace at that declaration. As it was, it only stung a little.

Richard Portman looked like he would sooner eat a plate of hay than speak with us where his neighbors could see, but he swallowed and forced up a smile before saying, "Ask away."

"Did Mary know either of the other victims?" Fisk asked. This surprised me, for I thought he knew she did, but I had decided that it might be best if I made my presence less obvious, and didn't comment.

Richard nodded. "She was good friends with Potter. I thought… perhaps if someone was aiming for him while she was…" He broke off and looked away, then took a deep breath to gather himself before looking back at Fisk. "But that's silly. She was working at the time. The only one who might have had business going to Mistress Wilson's house was—"

"Michael," Fisk cut in. "Well, her Michael. This one was in jail at the time."

For no reason I could think of other than spite, Fisk patted me on the shoulder.

"It's nice to meet you, Michael," Richard said to me in a tone that left no uncertainty nice to meet me at all. "He's been in a foul mood since her death, but if you heard of Godwin, perhaps you could direct your questions to him instead."

I hadn't the slightest idea who that was, and might have said so now that attention had been drawn to me, but Fisk began volleying questions before I had the chance.

"Did Mary ever have business with Harold Carter?"

"She never mentioned anyone in the boy's family to me."

"Not even when he died?" Fisk pressed. "I can't imagine anyone not talking about the first murder in so many years." Especially when we knew she had heard of his murder.

"I didn't see her between his death and hers." Richard paused at this, and amended his claim. "Well, I saw her the morning after, but news of the murder hadn't made the rounds yet. I heard about it when I went out for lunch, and she…"

"Never came back," Fisk finished.

Richard nodded.

Fisk waited to see if Richard might need time to collect himself again, and when he did he went on without any need of prompt. "She had no children, and with our parents gone, her things went to me—but if you think that's a motive, she didn't have much. Some savings from work and what she won from playing cards with those miners, but not enough to kill a girl over."

Fisk cast me a look, and I recalled that he had been cynical before on what small things a man might kill for. I shook my head, for Richard didn't strike me as the type, and his grief for Mary felt genuine.

"Did you know any of the miners Mary spent her time with?" Fisk asked. "Did she ever talk about Drew Potter?"

"I didn't know anyone she befriended in the past few years. I couldn't tell you anything about them, other than that Potter was found dead, which you seem to know, and that she was good friends with Godwin, which you also know."

"Surely there must be something—"

Richard held up a hand to silence me, and said, "I'm happy to help anyone looking to fine the man who killed my sister, but she hasn't lived with me for some time and I'm just not suited to answer all of your questions."

"Do you know anyone who can?" Fisk asked. "I'd hate to speak to Potter's wife the same day he died."

Richard cringed. "That would be unwise. I haven't touched it yet, but I was meaning to go through Mary's diary for Howard. IF I find anything, I can tell you too."

"Thank you." Fisk's smile was too broad and polite to be sincere. "I just have on last thing."

"Yes?"

"You're cousin was a better judge of character than you."

With that Fisk turned and walked away, leaving both me and Richard gaping. My immediate instinct was to follow, but common courtesy urged that I apologize on his behalf first. However, when I looked to Richard to give some excuse for my squire's behavior, he had already shut the door.

It stared stupidly at the door for a moment before realizing that if he didn't want me around, then standing outside his house might not be the best idea. Particularly when the sheriff was his cousin. I ran after Fisk, and once I caught up to him said, "He isn't going to help us now."

"Yes he is. He wants the killer caught more than we do. Besides, the sheriff is his cousin. He's sure to tell him about this, and Portman—Howard Portman—will tell him what he thinks of us. There's no reason for you to put up with that from a man we're helping." Fisk declared, ignoring that we regularly put up with worse from people we attempted to help. I stopped and opened my mouth to mention as much, but Fisk grabbed my arm and pulled me along, saying, "Hurry up. We might still be in time for supper."

-o-

Belmont had returned by the time we reached The Chestnut, which was only to be expected given the lateness of the hour. Aaron seemed to have turned in early, so Belmont was taking care of the bar on his own.

I would have gone straight to bed, but Belmont assured Fisk that he could prepare a small meal while also pouring bears, and my squire ordered food for us. While we waited, I went out to check on the horses. I would have taken them out for exercise if Fisk had left me alone earlier, but Cranbor's streets were far from ideal for horse riding, and I didn't want to know how far from town I could take them before the sheriff would assume I was trying to run away.

I was brushing Chant when Belmont spoke up from behind me. "Lad, you family is Gifted, right? You sound noble, and most noblemen are."

I hadn't hear him come up, so he made me jump and drop the brush. This allowed me to use retrieving the brush as an excuse to calm myself before responding. "Yes. We all inherited Gifts from my mother, and my father is Gifted as well."

"I suppose you've all got a strong… ah… Gift, then. Aaron told me he sensed your…" He didn't finish his sentence, but rather let it trail off with an awkward gesture that left me with the unsettling feeling that he knew the exact word he wanted, and was hoping I might confess it.

Fisk says my acting is nothing short of terrible, but I tried to keep my voice even as I responded. "Aaron told me he knew nothing of magic." Also, 'twas impossible to see Gifts in a person, let alone feel them. Unless his powers worked differently from mine.

"Ah, well… a mute Gifted…" Belmont paused, then went on as though I hadn't said anything. :So do you have any abilities past finding magica?"

"I have a Gift for animal handling." 'Twas true. I had a few other Gifts, but none were as reliable. My magic might count as other abilities too, but if I only assumed he meant Gifts, then it wasn't a lie.

I didn't think he only meant Gifts.

He went on. "Magica sure is something, isn't it? Have you ever seen what magica soap can do?"

"I wasn't aware that there was such a thing. Surely the sacrifice for using a magica animal is high enough that it can be put to better uses than making soap." But if Aaron's magic did work like mine, I might not be surprised to hear that he had tested it. The idea of someone using magic so casually, just to see what it did or to take shortcuts in their daily life, made the hairs on the back of my neck prick.

"Well…" Belmont shifted his weight back and forth between his feet for a moment, then mumbled something about needing to go back and wipe a table. I allowed myself time to finish brushing Chant before returning to Fisk.

When he saw me come towards him, Fisk gave me a put upon grin and asked, "Did he give you a pep talk too? He talked my ear off about how he was so grateful that we were trying to help catch that killer, then made me stand here and keep patrons from sneaking beer so he could talk to you."

I could see that Fisk wanted to complain about this quite a bit more, but I wasn't in the mood to oblige him.

Leaning over, I said as quietly as I could without my voice being lost under that laughted of several nearby patrons, "Belmont asked about my magic."

"Well, he could have waited until morning to…" Fisk froze, the realization of what I'd said cutting down his urge to complain. "What?"

"My magic, Fisk. He knows."

"How did he…" Fisk stopped himself, glancing at the other patrons. They looked plenty drunk, especially given that the night had begun not too long ago, but my squire has never been fond of taking chances. "In our room. Now."

I followed Fisk to our room, where I explained how Belmont had tried to get me to admit to having powers beyond that of a normal Gift. Fisk takes my strange powers far too lihtly for my liking, and I'd feared he might think I was jumping to conclusions, but when I finished he nodded his agreement and told me, "I wouldn't be surprised if Aaron can see you magic—you can see his after all. From what I've seen and heard he and Belmonst seem to be very close, and aside from Harold, who he told us he wasn't friends with for some time, he hasn't mentioned anyone. It's likely that Belmont knows about Aaron's magic, and Aaron mentioned yours to him."

"But why would he do that?" Indignation rippled through me. My magic, my freakish secret, was none of Belmont's business. Aaron had no right to tell others about it.

To me it was clearly an affront, but Fisk only shrugged at it and said, "Maybe he's never seen another intelligent magic user before and had to share the news with someone. Wasn't that why you told me about his magic?"

My cheeks flushed. I hadn't thought of it like that, but sill! "We're a pair of strangers stuck in town. Strangers who are suspected of murder. And the people here know him. If I were to go around telling everyone he could use magic—and I wouldn't, don't give me that look—I might be harmed, but they may believe him if he accused me."

"Then count your blessings that Belmont is the only one he's told. He probably can't tell anyone else anyway, if Belmont has to translate his gestures for others."

I still didn't like it, which must have been apparent, because Fisk patted me on the shoulder and said, "Relax. So long as we don't go around blabbing about his magic, I don't think Belmont will do anything."

-x-

STA: So this ended up being about 1k words longer than the previous chapter 12. I tried actually writing them moving somewhere rather than skipping the transition and fleshing out the conversation with Richard Portman. (I also got a bit confused on what to call him, but hopefully it doesn't look too out of place? They use last names in the books, but I tend to default to first names, and in this case there was already someone else with that last name, so...)

I also tweeked the ending a bit. I like this one much more.