It was a grim looking place. Boarding houses usually were, particularly those the city supported with a never-ending stream of business. They ranged from uber-respectable to shambling and so dilapidated that the term 'house' became a questionable one.
There was a light on in an upstairs window. Angua was willing to bet she knew whose it was.
It had been her idea to question the young watchman. He had a chance of remembering the smallest details; the ones long dissipated by the time the actual investigation began.
Carrot knocked on the door. A woman in flannel nightclothes answered.
"Oh, Captain Carrot, its you. What do you want so late at night?"
"Hello Mrs. Collins." Carrot smiled broadly. "Sorry to trouble you."
That was Carrot, knowing everyone. The landlady smiled back. "Oh, it isn't a bother."
"We were wondering if we could speak to Henry Willington." Angua said.
"Of course." Mrs. Collins opened the door wide. "Come right in."
They climbed the rickety stairs to the appropriate room. Angua had been right. It was the one with the light on.
Henry was sitting on the bed, sketching something. He put it down and stood up when they came in.
"Am I missing a shift?" his forehead creased in puzzlement.
"No – " Carrot started.
"Am I fired?" Henry seemed to brighten up at the prospect.
"No. We wanted to ask you a few questions about … "Angua paused. " … what happened a few days ago."
"Oh." He looked at the ground. "What did you want to know?"
Angua looked around while Carrot questioned. The room had an almost standard appearance, bland sheets, a plain rug, and no curtains.
One thing set it apart. There were groups of paintings stacked against the walls. Their diversity was amazing. Imaginative landscapes, bright still- life's, even the occasional portrait. Several of these portraits had the same subject, a red-haired girl with a wide smile.
"That's all." Henry said, sounding defeated. "That's what I remember."
"Did you do these?" Angua asked, curiosity taking hold.
"What?" he looked at the artwork. "Oh. Yes, those are mine."
"Who's this?" Angua held up one of the girl, done in soft colors.
"Azzie." Said the boy almost wistfully. "A friend from back home."
"Friend?"
His defensive response was ruined slightly by the sudden coloring. "Yes, friend."
"Thank you for talking with us." Carrot said, standing up. "I'm sure it will help with the investigation."
"I hope so."
The door closed behind them with a click. "So?" Angua asked as soon as they were out of hearing range. "Anything new?"
"I'm sure he's really a very honest person – " Carrot began.
" – But there's something he isn't telling." Angua finished.
The first thing Azzie noticed was the smell. Granted, the countryside sometimes had its own peculiar odor of manure and unclean farms, but it was tolerable. This was just plain terrible.
She slung her broom over her shoulder and made sure her hat was on straight. Then she reflected upon her complete lack of a plan.
Henry was somewhere in the city. Azzie supposed she could hunt him down and see if she could share his room for a few days. Just until –
Until what?
What exactly was she going to do? Search for the killer? And then what?
She tried to clear her head. It didn't work.
At first she thought it was just her busied thoughts, and slight headache causing the sound. It wasn't.
Time stopped.
Her broom dropped to the stones beneath her feet with a clatter, but she did not hear it. She was staring at something no one else could see.
The man squatted on his haunches, already well into his routine. There was a satisfaction radiating from him that Azzie found disgusting. White gloves covered his hands; impossibly clean for what he was doing.
Then his victim moved.
Her mouth moved soundlessly. A neat red line showed were her throat had been cut.
The fear vanished instantly, replaced by boiling anger. Azzie screamed obscenities she had rarely heard and never used, things her mother would have fainted at the mentioning of.
She blinked as the picture snapped out of focus. Her words bounced off the brick buildings, echoing and fading away.
There was electricity to the air, a tingling thickness.
And she knew.
Azzie picked up her broom and ran.
Sergeant Fred Colon was in the midst of discussing which pub offered the best free pint with Nobby Nobbs when screamed curses cut through the relative quiet.
"What'd you suppose that was, Fred?" Nobby asked.
"Dunno. We'd best go look."
They moved towards the sound in that special run that moves cautiously, preparing to go twice as fast in the other direction if there was a need. Like to avoid getting stabbed, possibly.
One thing was for sure. Someone was in a rage.
Azzie reached the woman just in time to see her choke on her last breath. One minute alive; one minute not.
The killer was gone. Probably scared away by her own idiotic yelling, Azzie told herself. She knelt beside the body, fighting the compulsion to apologize.
She was sitting in blood, but didn't care. She touched the woman's face gently, as though to prompt her to respond, to disprove her own death. The skin was as warm as anyone living.
Footsteps, and rapid ones at that, approached from the distance. Azzie was on her feet in seconds.
So he was coming back. He was going to regret that.
Azzie swung her broomstick wildly and furiously at the shape that lunged at her from the darkness. There was a squawk as she felt it connect.
She took a step back to strike again. The heel of her boot slid out from underneath her. The broom flew from her hand as her head hit the pavement. Gods, it hurt. Suddenly everything else was forgotten in wake of the pain.
The world faded to black.