Mr Andrew Donovan and the Case of Corindale -- Continued

 CHAPTER TWO

A dream.

Smoke curling in the air. Cheap cigars, dusty ashtrays. A familiar bar.

A few bills on the table. Door swings open. Outside, streetlamps flicker. Streetlight looks like butter on the wet streets. Stale cold dusk, the pitter patter of rain and footfalls.

“Mr. Donovan?”

Wetly walking. Ducking into an alleyway. Stale cold night. Wind rustling, shadows flickering across cement walls. The taste of copper and smoke. A familiar taste.

“Mr. Donovan?”

Andrew jerks awake, blinking rapidly.

The lights of the Vestera Metropolitan Police Station are searingly bright. He’s in the filing room, and Ms. Meurer, the receptionist, is standing over him with a concerned expression on her face.

“Mr. Donovan?” she asks again for the third time.

“Sorry, yes, I’m – I was just – ” Andrew looks around, almost desperately. He’s fallen asleep next to a stack of papers. In his lap is the manila folder for the Ingles case; it’s opened to a photo of a cow carcass.

Ms. Meurer seems to take pity on him, and saves him from further embarrassment by saying, “A letter came in for you. No return address, but it has the Nortehale emblem on it.” She hands him a sturdy off-white envelope.

“Thank you,” Andrew says, sitting up. “Do I need – Does this need to be kept for evidence later?”

Ms. Meurer gives him an inquiring look. “Only if there’s incriminating evidence within the letter,” she settles for.

“What time is it?” Andrew asks, weighing the envelope in his hand.

“A few hours after sunset. Better head home, Donovan.” With a nod, she leaves the filing room. Andrew is left alone.

As per Ms. Meurer’s recommendation, Andrew cleans up the files and heads out. He salutes Ms. Meurer on his way out of the office.

The walk home is uneventful, but cold. Andrew reaches his apartment building and takes the stairs two at a time. He unlocks the door and greets Gnocchi.

It isn’t until he’s finished his dinner – reheated beans, no bread – that Andrew pulls out his letter.

Carefully, Andrew pulls off the wax seal and sets it aside to examine later. The letter smells faintly of perfume when he pulls it out.

Andrew Donovan,

I hope that this letter finds you well. I do realize that we met only yesterday (it is yesterday, for me, as I am writing this letter on the 17^th of December, 1913); forgive my haste, but the visitors we receive at Corindale are few and far in between.

I’m reaching out to invite you back to the Nortehale mansion three days from now, on the 20^th of this month. I believe there are a few questions left unanswered between us. This time, unlike the visit you paid to Corindale previously, I will be the one receiving you – not my mother. Mrs. Nortehale, unfortunately, will be indisposed: she has business to attend to in Telurgia ad will not return until next week.

As such, one of our footmen will greet you and bring in you, should you choose to accept this invitation. Do let me know if you will be able to visit.

Sincerely,

L. Nortehale

Andrew reads the letter twice, then checks the back of the paper, and the envelope. Finding nothing, Andrew searches his apartment for something to write on. Finding nothing again, he sighs and makes a mental note to reply to Ms. Nortehale the next morning.

“Why me,” Andrew wonders, scratching Gnocchi absently behind her ears as he muses. It’s a question that bounces in his head for some time, even after he finishes washing his tin can and feeding Gnocchi.

As the sun sets, Andrew lights a kerosene lantern.

Andrew’s reading the letter once more, to check for anything he might’ve missed, when he hears it: a blood-curdling shriek and the slamming of a door.

He’s out of the chair, out of this room, and down the stairs in an instant, kerosene light in hand. As he’s climbing down the stairs, he hears yelling, the slamming of doors.

“What happened?” a neighbor sticks his head out of an apartment.

“Going to find out,” Andrew answers over his shoulder, continuing downstairs.

Andrew reaches the first floor a minute later.

One of Andrew’s neighbors is pressed against the front door of the apartment, her palms pressed flat against the door and her face white as paper.

“Sylvia? What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, and puts her finger over her mouth.

Andrew steps forward cautiously. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says, quieter. “Did someone – ”

Sylvia steps forward and urgently puts her hand over Andrew’s mouth. She shakes her head furiously, and ushers him back into the open door behind him, into Sylvia’s apartment.

Inside, three children and their grandfather – Sylvia’s father – wait silently in the farthest corner from the door, huddled together, eyes wide. The apartment door shuts with a click behind them, and only then does Sylvia speak.

“I saw it – I saw it again, Andrew,” she says, half-whispering. “I saw – ”

Andrew frowns, searching his memory for an incident like this, anything like –

“Do you remember?” Sylvia continues, looking past him now, at her children, “A month ago, I heard the same noise, and the rags we left outside were ripped.”

“What noise?” Andrew asks, and when she doesn’t reply immediately, he repeats, more urgently, “Sylvia, what noise? I need you to tell me?”

“The howling,” she says, finally, with a shudder. “The same howling – I thought it was a coyote, but it was fast – ”

“Did you see it?”

“I saw a shadow, just the shadows moving – ”

Andrew nods. “Stay here.”

He stands and strides out of the room, opening first the door to Sylvia’s apartment, then the door to the building, stepping out onto the cobblestone road.

The darkness is almost overwhelming at first, but then the light from his kerosene lantern bleeds through the fog, and Andrew can make out the building across the street. He looks left and right, then ducks into the alleyway to the left of the tenement building.

A tendril of fear laces around Andrew’s chest. The alleyway is dark and shrouded with fog. With trembling fingers, Andrew holds up his kerosene lantern. His other hand, in his coat pocket, tights around his ward ring.

The empty alleyway stares back at him, nothing amiss save for black stains against the crumbling walls. Andrew licks his lips nervously.

He steps closer to examine the black stains, when his shoe catches on something soft. Andrew ducks down to see torn rags. He takes one and stuffs it in his coat pocket before returning to examine the alley’s walls again.

On closer inspection, the black stains aren’t liquid, or blood, like Andrew had expected. In the crumbling brick, thick gauges in the material leaves dark shadows that look like blood, deep scratch marks in the unmistakable shape of claws.

Andrew shudders and pulls away. He returns to Sylvia to assure her that there is nothing there, but that he’ll continue investigating. The words fall out of his mouth automatically, and he only half-hears himself speaking.

He returns to his one-room apartment to get some much-needed rest. Though it wastes oil, Andrew leaves the kerosene light burning the whole night.

The next morning when he wakes, the lantern has burned itself out. He puts the lantern aside and makes note to purchase more kerosene at the next opportunity.

After finishing the last bit of a loaf of bread for breakfast, Andrew heads to the station to write a letter in response to Ms. Nortehale.

He walks to the station, enters and tips his hat at Ms. Meurer like always; it feels as though he’s going through the motions. He enters the filing room – which has become an office of sorts for him – and picks out a clean sheet of off-white paper. He sketches out a quick response methodically:

Ms. Lullaby Nortehale,

I would be pleased to visit Corindale two days from now, on the 20^th of this month. I will arrive no later than midday.

A. Donovan

He proofreads it once before sealing the note in an envelope and writing out Lullaby’s name on the back. He hands it to Ms. Meurer with verbal instructions before returning to Inspector McCormick’s office.

“Mr. Donovan,” McCormick looks up from her notebook after Andrew knocks, “Please, come in.”

“Detective Inspector,” greets Andrew, “I have a few updates on our case.”

“You mean the Ingles case?”

“Right,” Andrew nods. “The first is that Ms. Nortehale invited me to Corindale two days from now.”

“Corindale?”

“It’s an old name for the Nortehale house.”

McCormick makes a noise of understanding. “Ms. Meurer told me of your correspondence with Ms. Nortehale.”

“Well, there wasn’t anything suspicious in the letters, but I’ll be wary during my visit to see her nonetheless.”

“As you should be. Did she mention the reason for your visitation?”

Andrew hesitates. “I began to ask her a few questions when we met during her mother’s interview. She said that she’d like to continue our conversation.”

“Interesting,” muses McCormick. “You may divulge information regarding our case if necessary, but I trust you will do so with discretion. We don’t need all of Vestera to know the details of our investigation.”

“Of course. And the second thing…”

“Yes?”

“Well, a month ago, a few of the people living in my – my complex noted that they heard some strange noises. Animal noises. The clothes they’d left outside were ripped to shreds. At first they thought it was a cat, or a stray coyote.”

McCormick prompts, “But?”

“Last night, my neighbor Sylvia reported the same noise. She said she saw shadows. I went out to investigate, and I found this.” Andrew pulls out the tattered rag from his jacket. Unfolding the cloth reveals three long gauges in the cloth.

“Claw marks.”

Andrew nods in agreement. “And I took a lantern out to look at the alley walls. The same markings were on the brick.”

“This clawed through brick?”

“It’s old, and crumbling. It holds its structure but I could rip out chunks of the brick from where it’s molded over.”

McCormick taps her chin. “Interesting. We’ll have to relay this information to Bruce.”

“And the Chief?”

“Not yet. But keep an eye out. Do you know why none of your neighbors reported these incidents?”

Andrew wipes his palms on his pants. “I don’t live in the best part of the city. They most likely didn’t think that the police would care about an animal knocking around the tenement alleys.”

McCormick gives him an understanding look. “I’ll take this rag, give it to Doctor Price and see what he has to say. We’ll find if they match the prints we found at the Ingles’ farmhouse. You find Nomous, give him a run-down. I’ll send for you when we get word from Price. Keep checking in at the station.”

“Understood.”

“Good work, Mr. Donovan.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

With that dismissal, Andrew heads out in search of Nomous. Nomous is in the break room, nursing a warm cup of coffee. He looks up when Andrew steps in.

Andrew relays the information quickly, and Nomous is surprisingly noncritical.

“Fine,” he says, not unkindly. He stirs more cream into his coffee.

Finished, Andrew heads home to drop off a few papers. His rent has been helped significantly because of the pay from his job as a consulting, but there’s only so much evidence that can be processed in a day. Because of this, he heads to the factory after, for a shift there.

The next two days pass by slowly: Andrew works half shifts at the station, then returns to the heart of the city to cover a few shifts at the factory.

The 20^th of December finally comes, and Andrew wakes that morning, grateful for a change from the monotony of the factory.

He walks to the Northwestern most edge of town. As he walks, he thinks that it will snow soon.

Andrew reaches Corindale much sooner than midday, but a footman is already waiting by the iron-wrought gate that blocks off the mansion from the cobblestone streets. “Good morning, sir,” the footman greets. Andrew waves in response.

The footman unlocks and drags open the metal gate for Andrew to enter. After closing the gate, Andrew is escorted down the gravel driveway, towards the open double doors. “Where to?” Andrew asks the footman. The footman doesn’t reply; instead, Arthur the butler emerges from within the Nortehale mansion.

“Good morning, Mr. Donovan.”

“Good morning, Arthur. Where are we headed to?”

Andrew follows Arthur into the mansion, and the silent footman closes the double doors behind them. “Today, Ms. Nortehale will receive you in the dining room. She is just beginning her luncheon.”

Andrew follows Arthur into a large dining room. The single mahogany table stretches down the length of the room, flanked on either side by elegant chairs. Purple carpets stretch out underfoot, and a single metal chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

“Andrew,” Lullaby calls, from where she sits at the head of the table. She sounds delighted. “You’ve arrived just in time for a quick luncheon. Please, have a seat.” She gestures towards the seat to her immediate right.

Arthur strides ahead to pull out the chair for Andrew. “May I take your coat, sir.” Arthur slips off Andrew’s wool coat expertly and leaves the room. Just as he leaves, a maid walks in carrying two silver platters laden with food.

“Luncheon, for Ms. Nortehale and her guest,” the maid announces.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Lullaby says. Nancy transfers plates of small sandwiches, fruit, and pastries onto the table.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Andrew echoes, blinking down at the food before him, slightly taken aback by Ms. Nortehale’s hospitality.

“Please, help yourself,” Lullaby smiles. “I had the cook prepare twice as much just in case you came early to eat.”

“I – thank you.”

“Of course.” Lullaby continues smiling faintly even as she places a few sandwiches onto her plate. “Tea? I could have Nancy bring in some juice.”

“Just tea is fine.”

“Nancy, be a dear and bring us some juice, would you?”

Nancy curtsies before heading back into the kitchen.

“Mm,” Andrew says, “This is fantastic. Thank you again.”                                                                                       

“Of course.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this length, you know, I assumed – I was under the impression that we’d just have a conversation.”

“Oh, we will have a conversation, Andrew. Hospitality simply dictates that we never have guests in Corindale with empty stomachs.”

Andrew chuckles at this. A few minutes are then dedicated to their meal: Lullaby picks apart her sandwiches and Andrew polishes off a croissant. Nancy returns with juice and when Lullaby waves her hand, Nancy curtsies once more, then exits the room.

“Your mother is away?” Andrew asks conversationally, looking up from his tea.

“She often travels to Telurgia.”

“It’s quite a distance.”

Lullaby shrugs. “She manages. When she returns, she’ll be bringing one of my close friends, Sofia, home to Corindale.”

“How often do you leave Corindale?”

“Have you seen our garden?” Lullaby asks.

“I saw the lawns on the way in. I was only wondering how often because I’ve never seen you nor Mrs. Nortehale out in the city – ”

“Let’s take a walk in the garden,” Lullaby says.

They finish their lunch. Nancy sweeps in to clear their plates while Lullaby and Andrew head to the gardens.

“Your amulet,” Andrew says, attempting a different vein of conversation, “Is it a ward gem?”

Their shoes crunch on the gravel of the garden behind Corindale. Ahead of them, the rose beds – white, pink, yellow, and red – stretch out. Andrew spies a gazebo and stone fountain a little further away.

“How do you know?” Lullaby’s voice trembles very slightly, almost undetectably.

Andrew holds out his right hand. In the pale sunlight, his emerald ring glints. “Ward gems.” Andrew says, turning his fingers to better examine the gold band around his finger. “Centuries old in most cases, but sometimes considered superstitious. Meant to protect against misfortune.”

“Misfortune, among other things.”

“Like what?”

“Such as devils, evil spirits,” Lullaby shrugs, “The like.”

“And has yours done its job?”

“Has yours?” Lullaby counters. “Tell me, Mr. Donovan, if such ward gems are heirlooms sometimes centuries old, how does a common man such as yourself happen across one?”

Andrew opts for honesty. “My mother gave it to me before she passed away. She received it from her sister, who married into old money.”

“Here, in Vestera?”

“No,” Andrew frowns slightly, “As it is, my aunt was married in Telurgia.”

“Into ‘old money,’ you say.”

“Is there another term you’d prefer?”

“If this is true, then how can her nephew, you, be living in such poverty?”

“How do you suppose I’m living in poverty?”

Andrew looks at Lullaby. She flushes. “I apologize,” she says, “I didn’t – ”

“My aunt passed on before I was born. Her husband never cared much for my mother, and as such, hardly knew me at all.” He shrugs. “It was easier for him to forget that his wife had a sister, I suppose.”

Lullaby inhales to speak, but Andrew is quicker.

“Do you have a gardener that lives on the property? These flowers are beautiful.”

If Lullaby is grateful for the change of subject, she doesn’t show it.

“No,” she says, “I often tend to these myself. And if I’m not – if I am indisposed, then a footman will take over.”

“Indisposed,” Andrew echoes, in the manner of a question.

“I often get – that is to say, I’m rather susceptible to illness.”

“Is that why you don’t leave Corindale?”

“I – well, essentially… yes.”

“What kind of illness do you contract?”

“What kind of manner of speech are you used to?” Lullaby counters, her eyebrows creasing, “It is very rude to intrude, you know.”

“I was invited here to ask questions, wasn’t I?” Andrew tilts his head in question.

Lullaby blinks. “Ask another.”

“The Ingles’ farm – have you ever been to it?”

“You mean to ask if I know anything about the case.”

“Do you?”

Lullaby runs her hand over a white rose than they pass, caressing a petal with her thumb. “No, I’ve never been to the Ingles’ farm. I’ve never spoken to the family either.”

“Who did, your mother?”

“When it was necessary, Mrs. Nortehale spoke to the farmers, which I assume you know.”

“I did. Mrs. Nortehale told us in her interview a few days ago.”

“Doubting her word?”

“Verifying the truth,” Andrew protests, “You can never rely on human memory.”

They turn a corner and walk towards the stone fountain. A frozen cherub plays a stone harp; water sprouts from his instrument.

“Have you always been with the police?”

“No,” Andrew says, “Before this case, I worked in the factories. I still do, when I’m off from the station.”

“The factory? You must live in the heart of the city then.”

“I do.”

“Have you no family to share your home with?”

“I live by myself,” Andrew says. At that, Lullaby looks at him. “Do you feel lonely?” she asks finally.

He also waits a few moments before replying. “Sometimes.” After they loop around the fountain, Andrew adds, “I do, however, live with my cat.”

“Your cat?” Lullaby smiles, delighted.

“Her name is Gnocchi,” Andrew says.

“Do tell.”

They continue talking for a while longer, looping around the garden, the fountain, and the gazebo twice more before the clock tower rings out across the city.

“Dear me,” Lullaby looks up from their conversation, squinting at where the sun has begun to set. “I’ve kept you for far too long.”

“No worries,” Andrew says, though they both turn to head back towards the mansion.

“You’ll have to come back sometime soon,” Lullaby says, as Andrew collects his coat. Arthur helps him slide the wool over his shoulders.

Andrew offers Lullaby a faint smile.

“Shall I send for you the same time next week?”

“If your schedule permits.”

Lullaby claps her hands together. “Lovely. I will see you then.”

Arthur the butler escorts Andrew to the front doors, where Andrew is then received by the footman. The footman escorts Andrew to the front gate, where the iron gate opens with a shudder and a groan.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the footman says, tucking his arm against his chest and bowing slightly.

Andrew tips his hat. “Good afternoon.”

Instead of returning to the factory for another shift, Andrew heads to the city library.

It’s raining outside, and the lights from the streetlamps look like butter on the wet streets. Andrew’s mind flickers back to his dream. As the wind picks up, Andrew turns up his collar instinctively. He fights the urge to look behind him, but paranoia seeps in anyway. Andrew thinks of Sylvia. He thinks of the Ingles and he thinks of the deep purple color of Lullaby’s ward gem.

Andrew steps into the library, dripping rainwater onto the rug by the entrance. He drags his feet against the carpet. He grimaces.

Andrew finds the right section quick enough. After wiping his damp palms on his pants, Andrew pulls out a thick book on ward gems.

He reads quickly.

His nose is so cold it feels warm.

“Ward gems,” Andrew reads, holding the book in one hand, and cupping his breath in his other to keep the warmth. “Typically a symbol of status and prominence in many families – can be any gemstone, though some jewels have more affinity toward magic and casting than others. For example, emeralds and rubies are very common ward gems. Rarer selections include diamonds and amethyst, both for their scarcity as well as their finnicky nature.

“Ward gems are typically set into jewelry: gold and silver are metals most susceptible to magics, and therefore, ward amulets or ward rings are often made with gold or silver, or a combination of both. Metals such as copper and aluminum are considered less precious, less conducive.”

Andrew pauses. He wonders: the Nortehale are undoubtedly the richest family in the county of Vestera; why would such a well-endowed family use a less precious metal in their jewelry?

He reads on.

“Though ward gems are typically worn prominently, as to best display a family’s wealth, some consider ward gems a sign of superstition. This is because ward gems are also used to mitigate the effects of curses and magical spells.”

Andrew reads on, absorbed until someone shakes him out of his reverie.

“Young man?”

Andrew jerks his head out of his book to come face to face with the librarian.

“Sorry, I was – ” Andrew looks down at the book and finishes lamely, “Reading.”

“You can read at home. Check the book out, but we’re closing soon.”

Andrew nods his thanks, and the library pushes his cart further along, to reshelve his books.

Andrew’s picked up his book and fished his library slip from within his coat, heading down the aisle when something in the librarian’s cart catches his eye.

“Satyricon?” Andrew reads aloud.

The librarian looks up. “This is the English translation. Originally, it was written in Latin by Petronius.”

“I’ll take it.”

Books in hand, Andrew leaves the library after checking out.