The Duskshire Incident Read online

  After the incident at Pickens' Farm, Mr. Hennings showed me where his brother, or, at least, we assume it was his brother, had uncovered a cylindrical object. I then sent some of my men, armed, to the blighted farms in the area. Using the same method observed at Pickens' place, presumably invented by the late Caspar Hennings, they calculated the center of the black patches of soil and dug there. They did, indeed, find metal canisters underground. They were punctured with holes so as to leak their poison, but some thick, black residue remained in them.

  Now those canisters are in Dr. Fleetwood's laboratory. Hopefully, John will provide me some answers soon. I am relieved, if only slightly, to have some answers in all of this. But who would go to such lengths to attack the modest farmers of this town? My first thought was an anarchist, but those people usually attack public places and people, not pumpkins and apples. A madman, then? It would be a fairly sophisticated and intelligent madman. Speculation is pointless, but, at the moment, it's all I have.

  The Diary of Dr. John Penn

  Nov. 1, 18__

  I will put here what I would never put in my lab notes, for my colleagues back in Northton might find them someday and think that I am the worst chemist who ever lived. The residue found in the canisters that Reg brought me defy reason. It will not be suspended in any liquid, even under application of heat. I've introduced it to many chemicals, including strong acids and bases, but could not effect it. The only observable reaction was to flame, which it takes to very readily producing a green flame. Then there is the effect it had on the land of those poor farmers: to cause fruit and vegetable to rot and then stain the ground. I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint my cousin. Everyone is looking to him to provide a solution on par with the conclusion of a detective novel, but I fear many questions will be left unsatisfied.

  Memo: Talk to Reg about Sam. How am I supposed to do anything if he keeps bothering me?

  The Diary of Samuel Hennings

  Nov. 3, 18__

  I have been to see Dr. Penn again, much to his annoyance. I think he is more frustrated about not being able to provide the community with answers than he is with me. Anyway, there is nothing new from him or the inspector, whom I've learned is the doctor's cousin. There is a point of bitter irony here which pounds in my head over and over. It is that if I could pick one person that I'd have with me to solve this mystery, even given a choice of anyone in the world, I would pick Caspar.

  Nov. 4, 18__

  I went to the inn today to get lunch. I've made a habit of going there to get the latest news and gossip. Usually, it's a lot of speculation and stories, but today I finally got a lead. Everyone's tongues were wagging about an incident at King's Garden. Another large wolf has been seen there, but was driven off somehow. Inspector Penn has already set out. He's already quite annoyed at me. He's going by road, though. If I can go up to the river and catch a steamer, I might get there before him. Then I can do some investigating of my own. I've only stopped long enough to write this, and then I'll be on my way.

  Nov. 5, 18__

  King's Garden

  I am at the inspector's mercy now. I underestimated his speed and overestimated my own. I was slow getting up to the dock, and the ship was late; but, obviously, it is my fault. I'm not a policeman, and coming here was as good as accusing them of laziness and uncaring. I will relate what happened. Hopefully, I won't need these recollections for court.

  I arrived in the late afternoon having had, as I mentioned above, a terrible run of luck getting here. I noticed some of the constables from Duskshire, I've gotten to know their faces, and assumed that the inspector had already arrived. But King's Garden is a tourist destination, albeit a macabre one, so I thought that even if he did see me, I could play it off as wanting to see tombs and graves.

  I had barely set foot in the lobby of the hotel when he stomped up to me. He instructed me to go home, and I'm sure that by “home” he didn't mean my rented room in Duskshire. I told him that I wouldn't be able to leave until the morning, even if I wanted to go. I also told him that if I wanted to King's Garden, I could. He muttered a warning to be careful, that I sorely wish I would have heeded, and walked off.

  I deposited my bag in my room, and went immediately out. King's Garden was quite close to the small tourist town that had sprung up near the river landing, so I decided to take a walk among the tombstones. It is a large as people say, with tombs and headstones stretching beyond sight. It was as good a place as any to think about what to do next. It was bitterly cold, even for November. I pulled the collar of my coat up, but as the wind began to blow and the sun began to set I soon found that I was freezing. I started hurrying back to the warmth of my hotel. As I was going back, a passed a large, wooden shed.

  A pipe chimney, like the kind that comes from an iron stove, protruded from the top with smoke gently issuing from it. I was sure the caretakers wouldn't mind if I spent just a moment in their work space, especially since the door was open. There was no one around to mind anyway. Going inside was the biggest mistake of my life. On the back wall, pinned there like a butterfly, was a middle-aged woman. A pitchfork was driven through her chest and into the wall behind.

  I just stared at her. I was stunned; paralyzed. I heard someone call my name, but I could take my eyes of the horrible sight. The young constable, Mary is her name, stepped in and said my name again. When she realized the horror that was in the room, she said firmly, as one would say to a misbehaving child, “Come out of there.” She pulled me by the arm until I was out of the shed. My legs didn't stop moving until I fell onto a bench nearby.

  Mary blew her whistle, and it wasn't long until she was joined by her comrades and the people who work here. I couldn't answer the inspector's questions, or speak at all. I finally shook my head and he was kind enough to leave it at that. I was escorted back to my room, where I am now, and ordered to stay there. I wonder if Mary put in a word for me, because I don't think I'm officially under arrest. Hopefully, that won't change.

  Nov. 6, 18__

  “You don't belong here.” That's what the inspector said after he got done reminding me how much trouble I could have been in if Mary hadn't seen me go into the shack only seconds before she saw the body. I haven't made arrangements to leave, but I have decided to lay low.

  Later

  The murder is all anyone can talk about downstairs, whether in the bar, the restaurant, or the lobby. I was having my lunch while keeping a keen ear to everyone around me. I found out that the lady who was killed was a school teacher. She had come to King's Garden to make rubbings of the graves and to bring back a flower that is only know to grow inside the enormous graveyard. She was planning on trying to cultivate the flower back where she lived. Only two days ago, she had been reprimanded by one of the groundskeepers for digging up a soil sample to bring back home for analysis. She was a scientist, like Caspar. Finally, a pattern is emerging.

  I'm going out tonight. I'll leave after dark so no one will see. I'm afraid if the inspector catches me in my investigations again, he'll be forced to take action or else get in trouble himself for being too forgiving of my interference. I will put down here, for anyone who may read this, that I do not intend to get him or anyone else in trouble. I don't want anyone to be put in an awkward position. I am doing what I feel must be done.

  Nov. 7, 18__

  I write this before the sun has even risen. I am exhausted, but must put this down.

  After having a nap to prepare myself for the long night, I had a late supper in the restaurant and bought a sturdy bull's-eye lantern from a nearby store. When it was dark, crept downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back. I then skirted around the edge of the town until I got to the low, stone wall of the cemetery. At this point I had to light my lamp, but I only opened the door of it so that a slim line of line shone in front of me. Taking only the small, dirt paths, I made my way toward the shack where the teacher was killed.

  After making sure no one was around, I steppe
d in. I closed the door so I could fully open my lantern, and locked it so I would not be disturbed. I set my lantern on a workbench against the wall so the light would shine over the whole room. The blood had already been washed away, and holes from the pitchfork already plugged. I searched throughout the room, even checking inside the toolboxes, until I finally gave it up. If there was anything to find, the inspector had certainly already found it.

  I was just about to pick up the lantern, when the door handle was turned and someone tried to enter the shack. The lock made a metallic clunk as it held the door fast. Again the door was tried, and again. Finally, the person outside gave it up.

  I waited for one, breathless moment before I slid the lock and opened the door. In the distance, I could see firelight illuminating the grave stones as someone moved among them. I closed the door of my lantern, as now that I was in the open, treeless graveyard, the moon was just sufficient enough for me to make out the paths and graves. I followed the other person's light as it moved. We went quite a distance down long, winding paths. The graves and statues became more and more ancient, and the paths, more uneven. After some time, I found myself at the edge of the cemetery looking into a dark forest. Far ahead, I could see someone open and close a door of a small house.

  I pushed on, not letting my fear get the best of me. I was determined to find some answer in this stranger. Without hesitating, I marched up to the door and flung it open. The man inside seemed not the least bit surprised. He sat in a wooden chair in between a table and a small stove. I stepped in. The interior of the one-room house was rank. Every bad odor that a house or person could have was there.

  Long, dirty hair covered the man's face. He was as ragged as any man I'd ever seen. Even the beggars of Northton are in better shape. When he turned to look at me, he moved with a fragility. His breaths were long and wheezing.

  I demanded who he was. Instead of answering, or even giving the slightest sign he'd heard me, he picked a small, leather-bound book up off the table and handed it to me. He offered it carefully with both hands, as if it were an presious relic. I turned it over in my hands. The book had been through as much as the man, it seemed. The leather was gouged, stained, and water-damaged. As I was examining the book, a gunshot boomed through the room.

  I jumped so badly that I hit the wall behind me. I fountain of blood had covered the wall, and the man slumped over the table dead. A gun fell from his hand. I ran out into the night and back into the graveyard.

  It took me over an hour to find my way back. By the time I did, I was exhausted; not just physically, but emotionally as well. I found two of the inspector's men outside the hotel and told them what had happened; or, rather, most of what had happened. After doing the best I could to provide them with directions to the house, I was sent up to bed.

  The book that the man gave me is a diary. I've decided to transcribe it before handing it over to the inspector. But for now: sleep.

  Chapter Two

  The Diary of Simon Cadmore

  April 2, 18__

  I am starting this journal to document my journey to Srideis. I never thought I'd travel to so far or so foreign a place (I can hardly stand getting out into the countryside normally), but I've received an amazing opportunity. Or should I say a well payed opportunity? Mr. Vossen has already sent ahead a purse containing what for me is three months of pay in order to cover travel expenses. It seems I'll be traveling very well indeed, or at least as well as that less developed part of the world will permit.

  I can't say I'm particularly looking forward to the job I am to do once I arrive, though. Mr. Vossen had engaged me to catalog his library and papers, some of which are hundreds of years old, and put together a small archive with the intention of proving that he is the rightful claimant to the Dukedom of Chunigary. It's quite an extraordinary claim, obviously. The current holder of that title, and the immense wealth that comes with it, is a member of the royal house. As far as my research has indicated, Duke Edward has a solid claim dating back centuries. So I am afraid my visit, and all the money Mr. Vossen is spending, will be a waste. Even if he could prove that a relative of his should have inherited the title hundred of years ago, would it really matter? Would the King force his cousin to abandon the Dukedom and surrender it to Mr. Vossen? I highly doubt it. We don't really live in that type of world anymore. But I will do my job to the best of my abilities. What else can I do?

  April 4, 18__

  I am writing this in the back of a fly that is speeding down to the docks. Ash Harbor has seen naval fleets, explorers, and conquerors on their way to glory for centuries. Now I will go on my own small adventure. I'm sure none of those people I just mentioned would thank me for proving that a foreigner was the rightful Duke of Chunigary. Though, as I've written above, I doubt it will come to that.

  April 5, 18__

  I am sitting on the largest ship I've ever seen. It has three masts and more sails than I could count (an exaggeration, but counting them would take away from the grandeur). It seems we are going straight to Jakora. This is the nearest major city to my destination. I should consider myself lucky that I've found a galleon that is going as close as, I suppose, any ship of our country goes to Vossen Manor. It's a pity, though, that we will pass so many fantastic, fabled places without visiting them. This is not a pleasure cruise, of course, and I'm traveling on a cargo ship, but I still can't help but dream of the places we will be passing.

  April 12, 18__

  I write now simply out of boredom. I was amusing myself by sitting on deck and watching the quaint villages of my country go by. Now, though, we are on the open ocean, and there is nothing to see but water. There is nothing to smell but the sweat of the sailors, and nothing to eat but their putrid food. I can't even go on deck to sit in the sea breeze, as I am sun-burnt and peeling. When I get to Vossen Manor, I will take the longest bath and eat the largest dinner of any man in history.

  May 2, 18__

  After a month at sea, I am finally on land. I sit in a hotel room in Jakora. On my first opportunity for real food, I sat down to a meal of meat (I know not what kind) that was so spicy I could eat only a few bites. I had to buy a small loaf of bread at the market and bring it back to my room in order to satisfy my hunger. What was it that made me long for adventure? I cannot remember. It wasn't just the money. Mr. Yates is always talking about his time in the army; his campaigns in Peiyirea. He forgot to mention the boredom and the food. Of the two types of old men, I think I will be the one who cares only for his own country; not the type that boasts of his adventures.

  May 3, 18__

  I write this from a carriage as the driver is watering the horses. I say “carriage”, but it bears no resemblance to anything we have back home. The ride is jarring, sometimes knocking the passengers against the walls. They don't seem to mind. They are all from this region, and are probably used to the rough roads.

  I'm sitting outside now. There is a large stone by the road, and off in the distance I can see the ruins of some ancient building. What lost empire built it there, and what was it for? We have some ruins of our own, but mostly from the Middle Ages. If the ruins I'm looking at were back home, I'm sure they would be a protected landmark, or at least have a park built around them. Here they are taken for granted; a nuisance, even, as they are everywhere.

  May 4, 18__

  We spent most of the day traveling through the hot, flat coastal area, but now are beginning to travel up into the mountains. I'm only two days from my destination. I am sitting on the terrace of a restaurant which is attached to the hotel I'm staying in. I don't care if the other passengers think I'm being snobby by refusing to stay in the roadside inn that we arrived at. I need some comfort after traveling in that roasting, stinking box they call a carriage.

  This city is a little more cosmopolitan than the others I've seen. Indeed the town square was very quaint, and almost reminded me of home. The mountains tower over me, gray and pointed. I can see coniferous trees in
the distance, and snow. It is a stark contrast to the almost desert-like valley we'd just been traveling through. Somewhere nearby a band has started playing. I'm going up to my room so I can't hear their bizarre music.

  May 5, 18__

  The carriage is climbing higher and the air is growing cooler. The two traveling companions I have left, two men, one older, one younger, are more pleasant company. They are quietly conversing with each other in their language and not giving me any strange looks as the others did. They also seem to have bathed at our last stop, which is a relief. I wish I spoke their language. Now that we are drawing nearer, I'm getting anxious. What if I couldn't give Mr. Vossen the proof he wanted, which was probable? What if he refused to pay me, and I had to make my way home of my own accord? Ever since I caught the last glimpse of my home's shores, I wished I hadn't started this journey.

  Later

  My luck could not be more horrible. It is a few hours after noon, and I am now sitting by the road next to what is left of our carriage. As we went on up the ancient, mountain road, we fell into a sort of artificial evening created by the shadow of a massive peak. Almost as soon as we did, the carriage lurched and started shaking. The older man and I each picked a window and looked out to see what was going on. It seemed like the horses had gone mad, and were bolting forward. The old man called out to the driver but there was no response. I sat back down as he tried again. The carriage was bouncing and creaking. I could see, judging by how close we were to the trees, that we were moving toward the edge of the road. We were jerked sideways as the wheels fell into a ditch, and then back the other way as they found the road again. When we pulled back up onto the road, I heard a loud snap of wood. We were pushing the carriage to its limit.