IV: A Widow's Wail
Kenny
"Well, would ya look at that."
It seemed as though every nobleman was frothing to get a larger-than-life portrait of himself. It was a bit ironic, considering that more than half of them resembled clay figures fashioned by blind men with no thumbs.
In his portrait, Joachim von Rohr was clad in full ceremonial dress—standing at the crest of a ridge while viewed slightly from below, like the painter had intended that he tower over the observer. Loose brushwork suggested a backdrop of rolling hills, with a distant treeline seeming to buckle beneath the weight of gaudy white clouds. Von Rohr held one gloved hand to his brow, either captured mid-salute or attempting to shadow his eyes. Wild strokes and erratic smudges of paint, which resembled nothing but a jumbled mess up close, somehow achieved the strange effect of looking like a face when viewed from afar.
Nestled in the trove of abundant luxury, with polished mahogany flooring, carved wooden fixtures, heavy curtains and elaborate furnishings, the portrait and its massive gilt frame dominated the greater part of the wall; a silent observer of the carnage below.
At the centre of the room was a large, dark stain, cracking and flaking in the light of the sun. A fine spray of dark blood stippled the wall on the right side of the room, staining the heavy drapes. Papers lay scattered across the parquetry around the heavy writing desk, and a toppled chair rested beside it like a fallen soldier. Kenny saw traces of white powder on the floor beside the large dark bloodstain, just at the foot of the bed.
"Must've been sittin' at his desk when someone entered. He fought back but they were too strong. Dragged him across the floor here, and that's where they held him down."
The doc stood at the centre of the room, his throat bobbing up and down.
"And that is where he died," he said, eyes staring fixedly at the very spot. He put a trembling hand to his mouth and drew deep breaths through his nose. Perhaps doc was a spewer after all.
"Do me a favour and aim for the paintin' if you're gonna do a gusher," said Kenny, and clapped the doc on the shoulder so hard his glasses almost slid off his nose.
"N-no I better not. That painting's probably worth more than… well, me," said the doc, and rearranged his spectacles while a hint of pink crept up from his collar. "This is awfully unprofessional of me. I'm so sorry. It is just that it suddenly became so… real."
"First crime scene?"
Laurens nodded. "I examine dead bodies and offer my professional opinion. It is clinical, and this might sound awful, but I cannot recall ever having thought of my subjects as, well, actual people."
"Good thing ya got me then." Kenny flicked the brim of his hat and peeled his lips back from his teeth in a wide grin. "Ya might say I'm an expert with crime scenes, seein' as I've made so many of them."
"Yes," the doc squeaked. "How very fortunate." He tugged at his cravat like he'd realised it was tied too tight for comfort. "Well, we better start looking for it then."
Laurens visibly composed himself, and then let his eyes wander around the room. A tall cabinet by the door was first to fall victim to his search, its figurative bowels crudely exposed as the doc threw open the double doors. Inside hung a plethora of jackets, several of them bulging with gold braid, shoulder pads and indulgently broad lapels. When pushed aside they revealed a dark rectangle of wooden backing. Evidently thinking that appearances can be deceiving, the doc rapped his knuckles against it in several places, which only achieved the effect of producing a dull clanking sound. When the "it" Laurens had mentioned they search for, whatever it was, failed to come tumbling from a hidden compartment, he pulled out the bottom drawers one by one, and rooted through their contents.
"Think I missed the point where ya told me what we're lookin' for," said Kenny.
He watched the doc stride towards the bed. There he lifted one of the pillows and peered into the space beneath it. When this accomplished nothing apart from launching little dust particles into the air, Laurens grabbed hold of the blankets and pulled them from the bed. Then he stood there, frowning at the pristine sheets.
"The object used in the forcible penetration, of course. Hypothetically speaking, the perpetrators could conceal the blade used to cut the victim's throat within a jacket or a coat, but the long object used to sodomize the victim would not be so easy to hide. Considering the state of the victim it should be covered in gore, and not something you'd want to be seen carrying around. I have theorised that it might have been a weapon of opportunity, and if indeed it was, there's always the chance they left it behind," said he, and lifted the mattress to peer underneath it.
"Ah, that. Say doc, ya don't have much in the way of 'criminal sophistication', do ya?"
The mattress flopped back down, upsetting the previously so tightly tucked sheets.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Ya'd tuck a bloody 'something' into a bed with some of the whitest fuckin' sheets I've ever seen? Or into the man's damn closet? How old are ya, five?"
"Of course not, I'll have you know that I-"
"It was a rhetorical question. Point is, criminals are like addicts, cunning when they need to be. They squirrel things away in places ya couldn't even dream of." Kenny gave the doc a critical look. "Well, maybe ya could. Point is, ya gotta look for shit in places where no one in their right mind would hide things."
He looked around the room. There were obvious places, like the ones the doc had gone for, but he needed someplace else. Something more… creative. His eyes searched higher.
Like that ugly frame-thing over the window. Call it a 'cornice', don't they? Too high to reach from here, but if I had something to stand on-
That toppled chair by the desk should serve as a footstool. Perhaps the reason why it was lying down as opposed to standing up was that someone had already used it to stand on. He got it in hand and dragged it across that fine polished floor. Step, scrape, step, scrape, screeching like nails on a chalkboard. He placed it by one of the windows and stepped onto the seat, reaching for the gilded cornice.
He felt dust against the tips of his fingers, big fuzzy balls that rolled away at his touch. Whoever cleaned this place wasn't working themselves too hard. The old grime had taken on a nature akin to felt or sheep's wool, matted together by age and condensation. He pushed a shallow trench through the dirt, searching for disturbances.
That's when he felt it.
Something cool and solid lay deeply entrenched in the thick layer of grime. A smooth, round barrel, or shaft of some sort, its diameter roughly two fingers wide.
"We got ourselves a winner." He pulled the object from the narrow space and held it up for Laurens to see.
"Splendid, Mr. Ackerman, just splendid! Give it here," said the doc, eyes bulging triumphantly.
It was a sleek wooden walking stick, its polished surface so dark as to be almost black, its shaft free of knots and imperfections. Judging by its length it'd been made for a man; the scratches on its brass encased tip indicated that it had seen some use. The top formed an ornate, solid gold orb, inlaid with small, clear gemstones. If not for the blood crusting on those fine sparkling gems, and the clumps of gore clotted around the base of the gold orb, it would have looked like a cane fit for a king.
"Nice to see ya ain't just talkin' out of your hat doc, but I don't see how this is gonna help us."
Laurens turned the cane in his hands.
"Well, it won't."
Seeing the expression on Kenny's face, he hurried to continue.
"But it provides us with an important clue to this riddle; the owner is surely someone of considerable means."
Great, that sure meant I haven't been wastin' my time.
Kenny motioned for the cane. "Give it."
Laurens frowned like he'd rather not let go of it, but held it out anyway. Being careful not to touch the gore, Kenny snatched it from his hands, turned around, and stomped towards the door. He threw it open, hearing a satisfying bang as it bounced back against the wall.
"Where's von Rohr?" he called over his shoulder, marching down the hall at a brisk pace.
"W-what? We just saw him," stammered the doc, still inside.
"Not that one, the wife."
"Oh, turn left at the end of the hall. She will be in the parlour." And then, almost as an afterthought, he cried, "Hold on a moment, what are you-"
But Kenny had already turned the corner.
Wait around for permission and ya get nothin' done.
There were identical doors on both sides of the long hallway, but the one he searched for was made evident by its wide, crowned lintel. The massive door beneath stood ajar, daylight sifting through the gap. A soft swish-swishing could be heard from inside.
Kenny pushed hard against the door and sprang into the room. "Ey yo!"
The woman inside had been gazing out the window by the looks of it. She jumped and then whipped around in a cloud of skirts and frills. The little hat perched atop her big hair fell dead to the floor, rolling slightly as it hit the carpet. While at first, she looked like she might let out a shriek, her mouth quickly closed. Then it hardened, setting in a grim line.
"You." Judging from her tone she meant it as an insult.
Kenny moved forwards, the heels of his boots clicking against the floor, and then thudding softly against the forest green carpet. Traute von Rohr turned her nose up, trying very hard to set him on fire with her eyes.
Closer and closer he came; an arm's length turned into a distance of a foot or less until the toes of his boots touched the hem of her skirts. There he stopped, looming over her.
"I got questions for ya, missy."
"That's Lady von Rohr to you, cur. Step back or I will have you arrested."
He leaned into her, speaking softly.
"Now why would ya do that, got somethin' to hide?" He peeled his lips back, flashing her a full set of his teeth.
Traute von Rohr stepped back. Her bustle, which welled out over her rear end, bumped against one of the lavish chairs and she side-stepped it, retreating further.
"Funny, how ya didn't hear the fightin', stuff falling over, him screamin' as he died."
Lady Traute's eyes clipped to the side. She wet her lips, but no response came out.
"Downright suspicious if ya ask me," he purred.
Her back touched against the mantlepiece of the fireplace. Tears sprang into her eyes, which up until now had been decidedly dry.
"You wretch, what do you want me to say? Do you think we would all have continued sipping our tea and discussing plot points if we had? That I would simply sit by while he-" Her throat bobbed up and down. "Perhaps someone would have heard, had I not been entertaining, but you must understand, Joachim is—oh, by Sina … he was a very private man. He spent most days at his desk, working. It displeased him to be disturbed. Even I left him to his business."
"That so? Ya know, ya don't want me to find out ya lied to me later on."
"Upon my honour, it is the truth."
He horked up a ball of phlegm and spat it onto the floor.
"That's for 'honour'. The way ya harp on about it, you'd think it could stop the rain from fallin'. But fine, I'm a reasonable man. Say ya didn't hear a peep. Your darlin' husband's still dead though, so the question is, who'd he piss off?"
"No one!" she cried, actually stomping her foot for added emphasis. "You judge him by your lowly standards, but you forget yourself. My Joachim was a man, something the likes of you could never aspire to be. He was an honourable, soft-spoken scholar, nothing else. He had a wicked nose for good business, but it was to the benefit of all and people loved him for it. Look around you once you skitter back onto the streets like the vermin you are, and you'll see him everywhere, adorning the citizenry of Sina. His garments are of unmatched craftsmanship, simply sublime—not that you would know the difference."
Ah, nobility. He almost felt a bit tender listening to this earnest, heartwarming blather. If gentle, dress-making scholars couldn't also be gambling, wife beating, murderous heaps of human garbage, then he'd be out of a job already.
"Fine fine, he was the Karl Fritz of dress-makin', got it. Must've gotten all the attention from the ladies, amirite? Maybe ya didn't like that much."
"Meaning what?"
"Did ya have him killed?" he asked, and in response she stared at him, open mouthed.
He felt a small tingle of excitement. Oh, the anticipation. Would her cold demeanour soften, those hard chips of ice melting into pools of bright blue, her eyes never leaving his as she earnestly professed her innocence? Perhaps there would be a tear or two, rolling beautifully like glittering, sumptuous beads down her smooth cheeks, begging to be dashed away.
The fingers of his right hand curled into a fist of anticipation, ready for a lie, hoping for one maybe, when Traute von Rohr did something unexpected.
She surprised him.
"Titan's rotting teeth—why would I have Joachim, the best man I've ever met, killed while you still draw breath? They should have hoisted you onto a gibbet, not a seat of office. To call you a dog is to say that gold is brown and smells of shit. Humanity would have been better off if your mother had smothered you while you still lay in your cradle!" She spat on the floor between them. "Take your question and shove it someplace the sun won't shine."
Traute von Rohr's face had turned an unhealthy shade of scarlet, every hair on her body standing, every muscle he could see clenching.
Ah well, was a long shot anyway.
He raised the walking stick so she got a good look at it. Sunlight caught on the dark lumps of congealed blood and… whatever else that stuff on it was. "Recognize this?"
"Of course I do, that's Joachim's walking stick. Why is it in your hand? It's not yours, you cannot take it. Give it to—but what is that? It's filthy, what have you done with it? It almost looks like…" Her hand flew up to her mouth as if to attempt to hold back a scream. "W-wh-what i-i-s-" she stammered.
He held it to her face, so she could get a closer look.
That's when she started screaming.
Man did she have a set of lungs on her. She screamed so loud they must have heard her all the way to the royal palace. Dogs set to howling outside the house, a whole pack of them judging by the sound of it. Inside, something crashed to the floor with the sound of breaking glass. He clapped a hand over one ear and waited because she had to run out of air sometime… Right?
The little doc burst into the room, his hair on-end, too-tight frock coat burst open with every button gone.
"What have you done?" he cried and seeing what Kenny still clutched in one hand, he winced. "Oh no."
"Needed to know who this belonged to, didn't we? How was I supposed to know she'd crack."
Well, he hadn't known, but perhaps there'd been a little part of him that had hoped she would. Just a little part though, minuscule really.
"A hundred apologies on behalf of my associate!" Laurens screamed, because she hadn't run out of air yet. "We did not mean to upset you in your grief! I am so sorry for your loss!"
There was no telling whether the Lady von Rohr heard him. Her voice had cracked, and now she keened in a pitch so high it was almost beyond human hearing. The doc motioned for them to leave, and given the situation, it might be sound advice.
"So very sorry!" Laurens bellowed, and then he followed Kenny out the door.
Not a word was spoken until they stood upon the cobbled street outside, the front door having slammed firmly shut behind them.
"That, um... could have gone better. I appear to have lost a few buttons," Laurens said, thumbing the thread ends that had once held the aforementioned buttons.
Kenny shrugged. "We can always come back tomorrow and question the rest of the staff. Turns out this belonged to our dead guy. The wife claimed she and a gaggle of her friends didn't hear a thing."
"The husband and wife had their apartments on opposite sides of the house, according to the information I was initially given. An odd choice, but it's not unheard of. It would make sense if the gentleman had tastes which required some eh, discretion on his part. Did the wife say what she and her friends were doing? Drinking tea, perchance?"
"Ya listen in on us?"
"It was a regular occurrence. Bit of a spectacle from what I hear, which is why our victim's side of the house would be virtually unoccupied."
"Whoever did it must've watched them for some time then, learned of their habits," said Kenny.
"Which points to… what, exactly?"
"Muscle for hire. Wife claimed she had nothin' to do with it."
"And you believe her?"
"Maybe. Say she didn't —what other theories have we got?"
Laurens appeared to think it over. "You suggested our gentleman may have had an interest in other gentlemen. It may be worth investigating."
"Sure, but it might not be too easy findin' anything out. Had a lot to lose, which means he would've been careful."
"Indeed, and if we do not tread lightly it might cause a scandal. Now, this is just pure speculation, but if I was conducting an extramarital affair, I would want to keep it far from home. Less risk of anyone of my acquaintance finding out."
"Sounds about right."
"So then…" the doc said and didn't seem sure how to continue. His mouth shaped sounds that didn't make it all the way out as if he was hoping Kenny would read his lips and spare him from uttering them.
"What?" Kenny asked.
"Is there um, perhaps some sort of… establishment for men whose tastes are of such a nature?"
"You're kiddin', right? If ya can dream it, there's at least one place in the Underground where ya can buy it."
"Well then," Laurens said. "Do you know where any of these establishments might be?"
"Nope."
How long's it been now, just over a year? Brat would've forgotten all about it now, right Kuchel? 'Cause I ain't worth rememberin'.
"That is certainly a problem," Laurens said, sounding troubled. "I've heard it's dangerous, and definitely not someplace you want to wander around willy-nilly. Besides, stress gives me such terrible indigestion." He patted his chest like he could feel a bout of it coming already.
"I know someone," Kenny said. Against his better judgement, one might say, but then—when had he ever cared about anyone's needs but his own? This is why it was no good to make promises because you never knew when you'd have to go back on them.