Текст книги "The Banshee's walk"

Автор книги: Frank Tuttle

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Her robe had slipped. I was having trouble concentrating on all things good and holy.

“Yes. Be quick about it-we’ve got a few things to do before the dinner bells ring.”

She rose, her expression questioning.

“An old finder’s trick, Miss. Everyone heard Lady Werewilk tell us the last bell sounded five minutes before the meal. Everyone will assume we’ll spend the entire time before that relaxing in our baths and pilfering various small household items. So, instead, we’re going to take our very own tour of the grounds.”

Gertriss grinned. “I got Miss Darla to show me some shoes with rubber soles. Perfect for sneakin’ around big old tile-floored houses.”

I grinned back. “You’ve the makings of a finder,” I said, as she scurried off and shut her door behind her. “Or a first-rate thief.”

“I heard that.”

I laughed. I’d have to work very hard to keep any secrets from Gertriss. Very hard indeed.

Chapter Seven

Sneaking around House Werewilk turned out to be so easy Gertriss need not have bothered with soft-soled shoes.

As I’d hoped, the staff were in or around the kitchen or the dining room preparing a feast fit for a finder. That left only the resident artists underfoot, and the party we’d interrupted when we arrived was back on, musicians and dancers and all, at the very same spot at the foot of the grand old staircase.

I waved off half a dozen offers of beer and two invitations to dance from girls young enough to be my daughters but too good-looking to have ever branched off my family tree. Gertriss even got an offer, which she returned with a look that she probably last used on recalcitrant swine. It certainly sent at least one tipsy young painter backpedaling toward safety.

“I think that lot could use a taste of honest work.” The euphoria left by her first hot bath was quickly fading.

I just nodded. Part of me agreed. Part of me was howling about the injustice of it all-at their age, I’d been slogging it out in the West, fighting Trolls or hunger or the ever-present cold.

But part of me was glad to see kids being kids.

I made a finger to lips motion for silence, and we skirted the hall that led to the dining room, heading the other way.

Mice would’ve made more noise than Gertriss did. Mice wearing mouse-hair slippers. I crunched and squeaked and huffed. Gertriss paid me the courtesy of not commenting upon it.

The hall went straight then hit a room. The doors were open, so we just ambled on in.

Easels. Easels and canvases. And chairs, and couches, and at least a couple of beds, all scattered haphazardly about the room.

Lamps were everywhere, but none were lit. The windows did little more than cast a few weak shadows.

I wandered. Most of the works in progress were covered, but a few were not. I let my eyes adjust, and was still doing so when I heard Gertriss gasp.

She’d lifted the corner of a cloth draped over a canvas. Beneath it, even in the murk, was a work of art.

No swords, upraised or flashing. No banners. No Trolls.

But there was a woman, in flowing robes, clutching a wilted bouquet of roses to her chest. She was on her knees, and she was weeping, and something not in the painting cast a long tall shadow over her.

A wardstone. Her father’s. You could see that plain in her face.

Gertriss let the cloth drop back down.

“That was…”

“Good. Damned good.”

I walked, picked an easel at random, lifted a canvas cloth.

A ring of children at play. Flowers that swayed on a mild summer breeze. In the middle of the ring of children, an old man laughed, his feet caught in mid-jig, his smile wrinkled and weathered, but his eyes caught alight, young again, just for that instant.

Gertriss joined me, wordless.

“I reckon I might have misspoke.”

I let the cloth drop. “No wonder she’s not worried about the galleries. I may buy this one right now.”

Gertriss tore herself away, chose another. More wonders were revealed. I did the same. Another masterwork.

Gertriss gasped. I followed her gaze down to the canvas. A man and a woman danced. They’d left their clothes somewhere but didn’t seem concerned.

The painting was so good you nearly forgot they were naked. The artist had caught them in the midst of a twirl, had caught the fluid motion of their bodies, the look in their eyes. The Regent’s Council of Art would have an apoplexy at the nude bodies, but the painting wasn’t dirty. It just wasn’t.

“Something isn’t right,” I said, quietly. I let the cloth fall back down on the canvas. “They can’t all be prodigies.”

“Prodi-whats?”

“Prodigies. Persons of unusual and rare skill or talent.” I swept my arm across the room. “We ought to find one or two we can’t take our eyes off of. Not every one of them.”

Gertriss frowned. “Maybe this Lady Werewilk has a good eye for painter-folk,” she said.

“Maybe.” I resisted the urge to go methodically about the room, lifting every canvas. “Let’s see what else we can find while we wander lost, looking for the dining room.”

Gertriss giggled. I chose the door set in the far side of the room from the one we’d entered.

And I reluctantly closed it behind me.

The rest of the House wasn’t nearly so artistically inclined. There were storage rooms and rooms full of stored furniture and rooms full of barrels and rooms full of crated art supplies. And then there were the rooms, which housed the artists themselves.

The artists were housed barracks-style, with a half-dozen single-occupant rooms set aside for special stars of either gender. I poked my head in here and there, finding nothing but the clutter and mess you’d expect a gaggle of perpetually drunk teenagers to leave behind. The smell was exactly that I remembered from my army days. I gathered Ella and Emma had long ago abandoned any pretense of maid services in the artist’s wing.

We made it as far as the laundry unchallenged. Inside that room, though, stirring an enormous vat that boiled and smelled of bleach so strongly it made my eyes water were two of Lady Werewilk’s staff.

They gave us the usual stink-eye but neither said a word. Clouds of blinding caustic steam rose up with every slap of their paddles. I rummaged through the list of servants Lady Werewilk had provided and decided those two worthies were Eegis and Gamp.

Neither appeared inclined to speak, much less confess to nefarious deeds, and Gertriss was turning an interesting shade of blue.

“Excellent work,” I offered, as we brushed past them. “Mind that wine stain on my pantaloons.”

And out the door we went.

I blinked. We were outside, though in a shade so deep it might as well have been in the dark heart of the House. But the air was cool and sweet, and we both just stood there and blinked away the bleach for a minute.

Gertriss put her hand on my arm just as I was about to speak.

“…heared nothin’ good about him,” said a gruff man’s voice.

The door we’d stepped out of opened to the side of the House. A rough gravel wagon path wound around to the door, which I gathered was used for deliveries coming in and trash being hauled out. Parked there in the gravel round was a wagon, sans ponies. The wagon was tipped back and away from Gertriss and I, and from the sound of it a couple of layabouts were reclining in the empty wagon bed, taking advantage of the cool evening breeze and the apparent absence of any watchful eyes.

Oh, but there were ears. Four of them.

“Still, I don’t think Weexil had nothin’ to do with no foolishness with crossbows. Them people is from town. You know what happens when town-folk get kilt.”

Silence. I assume someone nodded in grave agreement. I all but shouted for them to keep talking.

“Well, even if he does come back, I reckon Lady Werewilk won’t be havin’ none of him no more. I’m lookin’ to take on his job. Maybe that little split tail of his too.”

Lustful guffaws all around. Gertriss blushed, and she nearly let her nails do to my elbow what they’d done to my face.

“You’re twiced too old to be chasin’ anything that young,” opined one unseen lounger. “You better stick with old widow Henshaw down the road.”

More laughter. And then a graphic exchange of speculation involving the Widow Henshaw that was proving far too earthy for Gertriss’s delicate ears.

I reached behind me, opened the door very quietly and then let it slam shut.

The wagon nearly flipped over as it disgorged a trio of wide-eyed drovers, all of whom hurriedly set about trying to look busy despite their empty hands and equally empty wagon.

“Evening, gents,” I said, greeting each with my famous friendly smile. “My name’s Markhat. Who might you be?”

Sputtering. Exchanges of sideways glances. Three different versions of why it only looked like they’d been idling on the job.

I held up my hands. “Relax,” I said. “I wasn’t hired to supervise the unloading of turnips. Nobody is going to tell tales later on of a few men taking a break after a long day’s work. I only asked your names to be polite.”

“Hell, we don’t work for Lady Werewilk anyhow,” said the boldest of the lot. “My name’s Left. This is Tombs. That there is Polton.” He spat. “Must be havin’ quite a feed in there tonight. This was the second wagon-load of vittles.”

I nodded. “The whole house will be there. Except maybe Weexil. I guess everybody knows about him, though.”

Left nodded. “Took off. Packed up and left before dawn, not a word. Damndest thing.”

I kept my mouth shut and looked hopefully expectant. Sometimes it works.

“Burned all his stuff. Every scrap of it. Least that’s what they say. Old butler found what was left in the oven.”

“Boots too,” I offered, as though I’d already heard that. I was just guessing.

“That’s what we can’t figure,” offered Tombs. “Who the hell burns a good pair of boots?”

Sometimes I’m good at guessing.

“We need to get the ponies,” said the third man. Maybe he was smarter than his companions, or maybe he just needed a privy, but he’d had enough gabbing with the people from town, friendly smiles or not. “Need to get back on the road.”

And they went.

Gertriss and I watched them go.

I shrugged as soon as they were out of sight.

“Do you reckon-do you think that this Weexil told someone we were due here today, Mr. Markhat?” asked Gertriss. “Maybe he didn’t want to be around when word got out we’d been murdered on the road.”

I nodded. “The thought crossed my mind,” I said. Weexil, what had been his last name? Weexil Treegar. Bought all the art supplies for the painters. I tried to remember when the Lady had hired Weexil, decided he’d been there since the first batch of artists had taken up residence-well before the first surveyor’s stake was ever found.

I motioned in the direction the drovers had taken. “We might as well see the grounds in the daylight,” I said.

Gertriss walked, frowning. “But why did he burn everything?”

“He didn’t burn it,” I said. Gertriss sets a good pace. I had to move faster than my customary amble to keep up.

She turned her face toward mine.

“If he didn’t, who did?”

“His lady love, of course. Look. She either wakes to find him gone, or maybe he leaves behind a note of some kind. Either way, she’s not happy. So what does she do?”

“She finds anything he left behind and she stuffs it in the only fire still burning early in the morning. The cook stove fire.”

“Which makes me think he left a note,” I said. “Something sappy and overdone. I’d bet you two new horseshoes he even asked her to burn his note in the note. That’s probably what gave her the idea to toss in his boots as well.”

Gertriss nodded. “Reckon the worthless lying bastard had that coming.” She practically dripped venom when she spoke, and for the first time I wondered if perhaps Gertriss had left her quaint country village for reasons that might surprise even Mama Hog.

“What matters to us is finding out who he left behind. She’s the only one who might tell us what he was doing, and who he was doing it for.”

“So you reckon he did set them bandits on us?”

“Set those, not them. And yes. I think friend Weexil may have been someone’s eyes and ears here at House Werewilk, and I think someone didn’t want us to arrive on time and breathing.”

Gertriss just nodded, and kicked at a pinecone.

We tramped about, not talking, just looking. House Werewilk covered a lot of ground, as did the other structures that filled the woods behind it.

Arranged in a ragged half-circle a bowshot from the main house were two barns, overflowing with loose hay, a huge old slate-roofed stable, three two-storey houses much newer than anything else that looked to be servant’s quarters, a smithy, a lumber-mill, a fenced vegetable garden sporting thirty rows of tall green corn, a well-house, and a row of privy-houses that must have made Gertriss long for the plain country comforts of home.

Cows mooed and dogs barked and chickens clucked, but Lady Werewilk’s command that all should dine in the House was obviously being obeyed by one and all.

“Remember where things are in relation to each other,” I said to Gertriss. “And let’s make it a rule now. If we should get separated, never mind the reason, let’s try to meet back at the far barn. Yes, that one, with the bad roof.”

“Good place to hide.”

I looked around. Huge old blood oaks surrounded us, their boughs tangled overhead, all but blotting out the sky.

A shiver ran right the Hell up and down my spine.

Gertriss saw.

The dinner bell clanged.

“I don’t like it either, Mr. Markhat. I tell you plain, someone is watching us, right now.”

I’d left Toadsticker upstairs. I wasn’t even wearing my armored dinner jacket. The tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck began a desperate attempt to crawl to safety.

Way up above the blood-oak limbs, a cloud raced across the late afternoon sun. Midnight’s ghost swallowed us suddenly up.

“I need to know, Gertriss. How good is your Sight?”

“It’s good, Mr. Markhat. Very good.”

“As good as Mama’s?”

“Better.” She crossed her arms, but that didn’t stop me from seeing her shiver.

“So we’re really being watched. By someone with eyes.”

She nodded, took a deep breath, closed her eyes.

I’ve seen Mama do the same thing over and over. But when Gertriss did it, the wind suddenly bore whispers, and the shadows around us began to dart and scurry.

The huldra. Back again, risen from its hiding place.

“There,” said Gertriss, pointing, but my eyes were already fixed on the spot.

Ahead of us. Two hundred feet, maybe. Call it thirty feet off the ground. My eyes told me there was nothing there but the same shadows that enveloped us, but the remnant of the huldra saw something else.

“What is it?”

“It watches,” replied Gertriss. Her eyes were still shut. Her hands were outstretched, moving, as though performing some intricate unraveling of the empty air before her.

I shook my head, willing the huldra’s dry crackling voice to be silent.

“Does it have a crossbow?”

Gertriss opened one eye.

“You are not going to just go stomping up to it, are you?”

“Not if it has a crossbow. Is it an it or a he or a she? Or a them?”

Gertriss started moaning.

I whirled. Her eyes had rolled up, so that only the whites showed. Her hands twitched and groped. She took a step forward, and I caught her by her elbows.

She tried to keep walking. Her moaning rose and rose, becoming a shriek.

A shriek to match the one now sounding through the blood-oaks.

I felt it too, now. Eyes, eyes upon me. The huldra’s ghost gibbered and screamed, telling me words I didn’t know, urging me to hurl magics I no longer commanded.

“Sorry,” I said.

And then I grabbed the back of Gertriss’ hair and yanked.

She erupted into a whirlwind of claws and knees, but her howl died and her eyes rolled back down, wide and angry and hurt.

The shriek in the trees died with hers, choked off just as suddenly.

Gertriss stopped struggling, grabbed my hand and charged for the House, dragging me along after.

I didn’t resist. Much. One-man charges against unknown foes may be the stuff of legend, but then so are gruesome deaths and shallow graves.

We hoofed it back to our side door and didn’t stop until it was securely closed behind us.

We leaned on the walls and panted. Gertriss wrapped her arms tight around her chest and fought back a serious case of the shivers. I patted her shoulder in a fatherly there, there fashion and tried not to shake myself.

“I begin to see why the staff doesn’t line up to patrol the grounds.”

Gertriss nodded.

“Any idea at all what that was?”

She shook her head.

I gave up trying to coax words out of her just yet. But of course there was only one word on both our minds anyway.

Banshee.

What else lurks about, ready to issue its trademarked plaintive howl upon being spotted? The howl, together with Gertriss’ earlier sighting of a near-naked woman, certainly suggested it.

But even Mama had scorned the idea of a real banshee. Mama, who routinely trafficked with everything from haints to clover-fairies.

But something had been in the trees. Something had howled. Something had nearly drawn Gertriss into a trance that would have sent her stumbling blindly into the woods.

A Banshee. Or some sort of sorcery.

“Take your pick,” I muttered.

“Pick of what?”

“Bad or worse. You all right? What happened out there?”

“I saw something, Mr. Markhat. So I looked closer, and then it saw me.”

She shivered again. I urged her down the hall, away from the door. Just in case.

“Male or female? Armed, unarmed?”

“It was the same woman I saw on the way here,” said Gertriss. She set a brisk pace and impressed me by lowering her arms to her sides and forcing a deep breath. “Unarmed. Watching. No, more than just watching. I think…I think she’s looking for something.”

We were back in the painting room. There was no sound from the hall, so I hoped our arboreal howling witch had decided to remain outdoors.

“Any idea what?”

Gertriss shook her head in an emphatic no. “As soon as she knew I saw her, she just…took over.” The second dinner bell rang out, and I heard footfalls and voices throughout the House.

I stopped, faced Gertriss.

“All right. We’ve got something in the forest. Something strange, something that may be dangerous. Neither of us goes out there alone. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Now it’s time for dinner. And questions. So I need you to forget about what just happened, until we have time to think about it later. Can you do that?”

She nodded, managed a weak grin.

“Good girl.”

We followed the hall and the noise. The dining room wasn’t hard to find.

The big oak double-doors, which were worked with carved dragons, were open. The aromas of fresh hot bread and roasting beef poured from between them, along with a blast of noon-day heat.

The dining room at Werewilk probably seated sixty with room to spare. As it was, maybe a dozen seats were empty, and they were the ones closest to the monstrous fire roaring in the cavernous fireplace that dominated the north end of the room.

I was mopping sweat before I’d taken a dozen steps.

Chapter Eight

“Welcome to House Werewilk, Mr. Markhat, Miss Gertriss,” said Lady Werewilk. She was again wearing black-black trousers, black waistcoat, black gloves-but tonight’s ensemble was more mannish than provocative. At her words, the entire assemblage stood, and a more miserable lot of sweaty-faced dinner guests I have never seen.

I recognized a few faces, of course. Marlo and Gefner, Scatter and Lank. Emma and Ella, looking wilted from the heat. I assumed the grizzled, stooped old man next to Lady Werewilk was Singh, and the vacant-eyed man who had to be prodded into standing by a poke in his ribs was Milton, Lady Werewilk’s War-broken brother.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” I said. Lady Werewilk made a small nod, and the gathered sank into their seats. I watched Singh lower Milton into his chair with gentle pressure on both his shoulders. Only when he was seated did Lady Werewilk take her own seat.

The enormous table was laden with a feast. Meats sizzled and smoked. Bowls of fresh-cooked vegetables simmered and steamed. Flagons of lovely golden beer sparkled in the candlelight. Markhats sweated profusely and sought out empty chairs.

We’d been placed at the head of the table opposite Lady Werewilk. That put the raging inferno close at her back, though she remained miraculously unfazed by the heat it poured forth. Napkins started mopping at faces, though, as we lesser beings began to slowly succumb to the heat. I had to bite back the helpful observation that food was customarily cooked in various ovens before the meal was served, not atop the table as people ate.

I took in the faces, the expressions, the postures. Most exchanged what-the-hell looks and mopped sweat. A few looked down or away. Milton’s gaze fell on his empty plate and remained there, unmoving.

“This is Mr. Markhat,” said Lady Werewilk, above the crackle and roar of the fire. “The finder from town. You will answer, honestly and without regard to my presence, any question he puts to any of you. Failure to answer, or to answer truthfully, will see you removed at once from my House. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “Yes ma’ams” sounded in reply.

Lady Werewilk nodded. “Good. I would be remiss if I failed to remind you all of the curse laid upon this hearth by my great-great-great grandfather Lint, which describes a variety of unpleasant demises that will pursue anyone who speaks a lie while basking in the warmth of his fire.” She smiled. “And as I see you are basking, we may begin. You may dine as we speak.”

Forty-five forks clattered on forty-five plates. Mine was not among them.

“We’ll start by going around the room,” I said, over the din. “Say your name, how long you’ve been here and what you do here. I’ll start. Markhat. I’m a finder. Been here three hours.”

I nodded at Gertriss. She introduced herself, and then the fun began.

I won’t bore you with the repetitions of forty-five names, except to say that Skin the beekeeper spoke in such low tones his every word had to be repeated aloud by Marlo, and Milton Werewilk would only speak his own name when prompted by Singh the butler in the same coaxing tones one might use with a shy child.

The rundown revealed the same names and times that Lady Werewilk had provided back in Rannit. I wasn’t expecting anything different. I just wanted to put names to faces. And to pick up any oddities the speakers might present.

I got a couple of those before I speared my first slice of crisp red apple.

The second of the artists to speak was a buxom, dark-haired beauty named Serris Eaves. Serris was maybe seventeen. She managed to state that she was a painter of the school of Wiltic impressionism, and that she’d been at Werewilk for a year. Then she choked up and had to fight off a bout of crying. Her unhappiness would have been obvious even if her voice hadn’t betrayed her. She’d made efforts to conceal her distress, but her eye-liner was running and her nose was red. She kept making both worse by dabbing at her eyes and nose with her dinner napkin.

Gertriss shot me a look. Weexil’s lady love?

I nodded in response. We’d see.

Milton Werewilk was the other oddity. He was a small man. Pale. Well-groomed and well dressed, unlike the Broken you can find collapsed in any ditch in Rannit. But what he shared with those men were the eyes.

Vacant. Oh, his eyes were fixed on something-a bowl of mashed potatoes, a bottle of wine-but he wasn’t really seeing it. His eyes just happened to be fixed there, while his mind was somewhere else.

I wondered where. I saw swords upraised. The huldra let me smell smoke, and I decided I probably knew.

He had Lady Werewilk’s dark hair and delicate features, but none of her animation. Singh fed him with a spoon. He chewed, but only as long as Singh mumbled to him.

I turned away.

“All right,” I said, as the last artist pronounced his name around a mouthful of green beans. “We all know each other. You all know why I’m here. So here’s my first question-where is Weexil Treegar?”

Serris Eaves broke out bawling. The pair of male artists flanking her laid hands on each shoulder and glared at each other while making soothing noises at Serris. I chuckled at the folly of youth.

Heads shook. Faces fell down, fixed on their plates.

I sighed.

“I know Weexil left early this morning,” I said. “I know his belongings were rather carelessly left in a cook stove fire. What I don’t know is who this Weexil was or what might have caused him to suddenly leave such lovely company and strike out for parts unknown. So someone tell me. Who was Weexil?”

The eager young painter seated on Serris’s right was the first to chime in, earning him a glare from the young man on her left.

“Weexil Treegar was a poser,” he said. “A poser and a cad.”

Serris burst into full-on hysterics.

“So he wasn’t an artist.”

My eager young man, who had introduced himself as Nordred Vasom, had a lot to learn about women.

“Weexil was a tradesman.” He sneered. “He fetched us things from town. Paints, canvases, brushes.”

Serris whirled on him, eyes flashing.

“He’s more than that,” she said, her voice ragged and quavering. “He has the soul of an artist. His songs…”

“His songs were stolen,” said the would-be suitor on her left. I glanced at Gertriss, who mouthed his name “Calprit Homes”.

“Stolen?”

The young man rolled his eyes. “Everyone knew it, Serris. He just took old ballads and made your name fit.”

Serris shrieked, flung a full beer into his face and fled the room. I made to signal Gertriss to follow, but she was already halfway out of her chair.

Laughter rose, quickly silenced with a sweeping, icy stare from Lady Werewilk.

“Continue, Mr. Markhat.”

I nodded. Calprit Homes mopped beer and blushed and glared at Nordred Vasom. I wanted to tell them they’d both better give Serris a wide berth for a long time or they’d get worse than beer in the face, if her expression as she fled was any indication of her fury. But some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

I put my fingertips together and assumed my All-Knowing Finder expression.

“Weexil’s departure makes me wonder,” I said. “It makes me wonder what else he did here, beside fetching you brushes and paints and canvases.”

“He did Serris,” muttered a painter, from behind his napkin. Nervous titters sounded, but quickly died.

“Which was apparently common knowledge,” I said. “So let’s talk about other happenings that were also common knowledge.” I leaned forward. “Let’s talk about the woman in the woods.”

Someone dropped a fork. Someone else coughed and choked. And not a single man-jack nor lady lovely in the entire blazing room would so much as meet my eyes.

Except, of course, Lady Werewilk.

“Those are mere legends,” she said, after a moment. Her tone made it clear my subject for dinner conversation failed to please her. “They were born before Rannit was walled. Perpetuated by a hundred generations of fearful peasants all eager to embrace any excuse to get them home and inebriated before dark.”

Marlo made a wordless gruffing sound. Lady Werewilk did not turn to fix him in her glare, and I gathered that was because she knew it was a contest she’d probably lose.

“Them what lives in the Wardmoor been seein’ that there woman for twenty-five, thirty years,” he said. “Them what lives here say she comes around when Death is a fixin’ to visit.”

“She ever been known to give Death a helping hand?” I put the question to Marlo, while keeping my eyes on Lady Werewilk. She still wasn’t happy, but she kept her lips tight together.

“Not that I know of. Reckon she just knows when to be, and where.”

I nodded, not committing to anything, hoping Marlo would go on.

Instead, he shrugged and filled his mouth with an enormous chunk of Lady Werewilk’s finest roast beef.

I watched Skin for a moment. The man was just pushing perfectly good food around on his plate. He hadn’t taken a bite since sitting. He was gaunt, tall and thin as a stick, and I suppose now I knew why.

“All right,” I said, beginning to wonder where Gertriss was. “Let’s talk about the surveyor’s markers.”

More sidelong glances and sweat mopping. Half of them would have darted, had not Lady Werewilk been perched at the head of the monstrous old table.

“Starting with Skin, I want to know who found them, and where.”

I pulled out my notepad and a brand new pencil as I spoke.

Marlo managed to choke down a good portion of a cow’s hindquarters and answered for Skin. Others piped up grudgingly, and after a lot of back and forth and arguing over days and times I finally established something like a timeline, and a map.

If Lady Werewilk noticed the discrepancy between the dates she’d been given and the dates I was getting now she showed no signs of it. I did catch Marlo giving a few hard glares, and I decided he was a close second to being in charge. Interesting, I thought. It’s usually the butler who runs the show, but Singh showed no interest at all in anything but Milton Werewilk.

I chewed a mouthful of sweet potatoes and studied the map I’d made.

My hand-drawn map of the Werewilk grounds was hardly to scale, but the marks I’d drawn didn’t suggest even a hint of a pattern. If someone was trying to define a property line, they needed fancy eyeglasses. It appeared the stakes were being placed with all the methodical precision of a child’s game of Kick the Wagon.

I swallowed.

“Now I’m going to ask a question none of you probably want to answer. If you’d rather catch me alone later, that’s fine. I won’t name names, and you have my word on that.”

Lady Werewilk lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word.

“It’s possible some of you may have been approached by whomever is putting out these stakes. Maybe they wanted information. Maybe they wanted a blind eye turned here or there. Maybe they even offered payment. Maybe you even took it. But I’m telling you now that if someone grabs this House you’ll all likely be turned out. So unless they paid you enough to set you up for life, you’d be better off coming to me. Like I said, I won’t name any names.”

Lady Werewilk stabbed a fork into something so hard people started. I grinned.

“Anyone have anything to say?”

Silence all around.

I shrugged. I hadn’t been expected anything. At least not right under the Lady’s nose.

“Fine. I thank you for your time and your cooperation. My partner and I are going to poke around for a time. If anyone wants to talk, I won’t be hard to find.”