Ghosts in the Snow Page 4

  Many Faldorrahn men smoked and most people were right-handed. Both clues were inconclusive and ruled out few possibilities. He stood and peeked through a gap near the edge of the kegs. The door was easy to see, even in the dim light.

  He scratched another note, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. The ghosts flickered then appeared again, forever screaming, forever silent. He wondered if this morning would ever end.

  He left the hiding spot and knelt before the dead girl one last time. He lifted the back collar of her uniform. A name was written there in shaking print, the handwriting like a child's, and he added her name to his notebook. The second victim, as the castle would call her despite her being the first to die, was named Fytte. He could not remember ever meeting her. What a waste, he thought, closing her eyes. They were hazel, he noted in his book.

  * * *

  While the castle folk fell into hearsay and rabid speculation, Dubric carried Fytte to the physician's. Lars, guarding the door, frowned as Dubric approached. Down the hall, a crowd clamored and grumbled, but they would be dealt with soon enough.

  "Another one?" Lars asked as he opened the door for Dubric. "I wondered where you were."

  Dubric carried her into the clove-scented air of the physician's domain. Lars followed, grimacing at the smell. Cloves and death were not a pleasant mix, but better than death alone. A soft, plump physician in a bloodstained white tunic and wood-framed spectacles looked up from Elli's corpse. Surprised, he pointed to an empty table and washed his hands.

  Dubric laid her on the table. "Has Dien returned from visiting his in-laws yet?"

  Lars stood straighter as he answered. "No, sir. The baby's only four days old. You told him to take a whole phase."

  Only four days? It seemed like a whole summer just this morning. "He can take the rest some other time. Send someone to fetch him. We are going to need the extra set of hands."

  "I can send Otlee or Trumble. Both ride well."

  "Send Trumble. I want Otlee to help with witnesses."

  "Yes, sir." Lars turned to go.

  The physician hurried to them, drying his hands on a towel. "Twice in one morning, Dubric. Business like yours I don't need."

  Dubric did not need the business, either. "No mud on this one, Halld."

  Halld pulled back the blanket. "Thank the Goddess for that." He looked her over and nodded once. "Can you give me a couple of bells or so? Maybe early afternoon?"

  Dubric agreed and left, closing the door behind him. He wished the ghosts would stay with the dead, but they never did. He sighed and straightened his shoulders. His office was three doors down the hall and a line of witnesses waited, their eyes full of worry.

  * * *

  Dubric leaned back in his chair and watched the fifth witness, a vapid milkmaid named Charli. He had met weevils more intelligent, let alone helpful. She slumped in her chair, face blotchy from crying, and clutched a ratty kerchief in her fist. Both ghosts ignored her, preferring as always to stare at Dubric and drip spectral blood on his floor. At the table beside her, Otlee tapped his quill pen on Charli's deposition paper and tilted his head, his bright hair gleaming like fire in the lamplight.

  "What do you have so far?" Dubric asked him. Never in all his summers had he found anyone who took better notes than Otlee. An amazing boy. Especially for the son of an uneducated baker.

  The milkmaid sniffled as Otlee reviewed the notes.

  "Charli Mottle, seventeen summers, milkmaid. Identity confirmed and initialed by the witness. Stated, 'We opened the door, outta the west wing, right at dawn, just like always. Elli lay there an' I guess I screamed. I think I did, anyway. We ran to her, me an' Olita. She… she were all muddy, m'lord. Muddy an' covered in blood. We called fer help, an' a couple other girls came runnin' from the door. Meliss and Ingi, I think.'"

  Charli sniffled again and dabbed her eyes as she nodded. "That's what I said, all right."

  Otlee scratched his pen across the paper, and Dubric smiled. The boy never missed a single word.

  Otlee continued, "Castellan Dubric asked, 'Did you see anyone, any man, in the area?' Witness replied, 'Nay, sir, just Elli. She were dead, sir. I ain't never seen a dead person before, don't wanna see one again.'" Otlee looked up. "Witness cried for several minutes."

  "Nothin' wrong wit cryin'," Charli sniffed. "She got blood all over me. Did I tell ye that?"

  Otlee added her comments, the pen tip little more than a blur. "Three times now. Want me to keep going, sir?"

  Dubric looked up. Lars's voice barked and grumbled, muffled and blurred through the door. The witnesses must be getting restless. "No, I think that is enough. Unless you have anything to add, Miss Charli?"

  She shook her head and glanced at Otlee as he made more marks. "Nay, m'lord. Told ye all I knew. But I would like to know who's gonna get all this blood offa my uniform? Scares the cows, it does."

  Dubric wrote a few notes of his own on a square scrap of parchment. He handed the note to her. "Give this to the laundry. They will remove the blood and not charge you."

  Charli tucked the note in her pocket. "Thank ye, m'lord. So yer done wit me?"

  Otlee dipped his pen in an inkwell and added to his notes.

  Dubric said, "If you think of anything else, tell a page you need another meeting. All right?"

  She nodded and opened the door. Otlee sighed, signed the bottom of the page, and added it to a pile on the shelf behind him. As he shifted, his feet nudged a pair of books and Dubric smiled. Ever since Otlee had been approved for a library token, he always had a book or two tucked away somewhere.

  The token allowed him to borrow up to two books at a time, a privilege Otlee had grasped with great relish. Clintte, the librarian, had balked at loaning such valuable treasures to a commoner—the printing presses in Waterford were far away and their recent volumes quite expensive—but Dubric had insisted moons ago Otlee be allowed to peruse at will. He would not discourage or limit a natural reader, regardless of Clintte's obsessions.

  The outer office was crowded with people, and most waved their hands before their hot, red faces. Outside of Dubric's line of sight one said, "Dammit, Lars! We've been waitin' fer bells! How come the tramp gets to go first? She just got 'ere!"

  Wearing his mud-spattered uniform as if his mere presence should assure compliance, Lars said, "I told you once to shut your foolish yap. I decide who goes in and when."

  A comely linen maid stood beside the door, watching Lars with wide dark eyes. She held folded cloth in her hands and she looked smaller than her already tiny stature. "I can wait," she said. "I still have half a bell of lunch left."

  "Spend it wit yer lover an' get outta here," another angry voice snarled from somewhere in the crowd.

  The linen maid's lower lip curled in for a moment, but she made no other sign she had noticed the insult. She wore her pressed and starched uniform like a badge of honor, and she took a deep breath and raised her pert chin a little higher, like a queen among the rabble.

  Dubric smiled at her even as Lars barked at another complainer. "Come on in, Miss Nella. Never mind them."

  Relief shone in her eyes before it, too, was hidden behind her ever present pride. She nodded and said, "I don't want to be a bother, milord. Really. But you said to come."

  "Today, during lunch. I know." He looked at Lars and nodded, ushering her inside—between the pair of ghosts, how he wished they would wander off for a while—and closed the door. The curses and complaints of the crowd were muffled. "Miss Nella, this is Otlee, one of my pages. Otlee, this is Miss Nella. She does my mending."

  Otlee stood and bowed before her, gesturing politely with his thin, ink-stained hands. "Nice to meet you, Miss Nella."

  She dropped into a quick curtsy. "Thank you. Nice to meet you, as well."

  Otlee blushed and blustered in reply.

  Away from the angry comments of the crowd, her face brightened and she smiled. Dubric leaned a hip against his desk and accepted the pair of shirts. "How much do I owe you?" he as
ked.

  "You might want to check the collar of this one first. It was tricky, but I think I hid the repair."

  He pulled the collar of the white shirt open. A drunk had ripped the collar half off and he had feared the shirt was ruined. Made of silk, it had cost him forty-seven crown to purchase the last time he was in Waterford. He loved that shirt. He smiled as he saw her handiwork. Her stitches were tiny, precise, and almost invisible. Better than the original tailor's.

  "The collar's fine, Miss Nella. How much?" He knew before she spoke it would not be enough. It never was.

  She smiled and shifted her feet as if she was embarrassed to be paid. "Crown and a quarter for the collar. Three pence for the buttons. I was lucky. I found perfect matches."

  He shook his head and reached into a pocket. "You need to raise your prices." Any tailor would charge five times the amount and do half as good a job. He counted money into his palm and smiled at her.

  "Wouldn't be right," she replied.

  He dropped the coins in her hand, all pence and scepters, and she looked at him and shook her head. She counted change almost as fast as Otlee took notes. "Overpaid me again," she said, laughing. She pulled two scepters and seven pence from her palm and set them on his desk.

  "You should take it, Miss Nella. Please. It is merely a quarter crown or so." She had done his mending for seven phases and had never taken a single penny extra. It still amazed him.

  She shook her head and pocketed the payment. "I can't do that. Any other mending this phase?"

  He shook his head. "Sadly, no."

  She nodded and the hope in her eyes faded a notch. "That's all right. Thank you, and keep me in mind for next time?"

  "I will."

  She smiled at him, nodded good-bye to Otlee, and took a breath before she opened the door. Her back straight, her head held high, she strode into the angry crowd and closed the door behind her.

  "That's Nella Brickerman?" Otlee asked, shaking his head.

  Dubric scooped up his change and slipped behind his desk, ignoring the vacant stares of his ghosts. "Not like you expected?"

  Otlee sat and pulled a clean sheet of paper from the pile. "Nothing. The way folks talk about her and Lord Risley…" he shrugged. "I expected, I dunno… Not that, I guess. She seemed nice." He smoothed the paper and readied his quill with ink.

  "She is nice." And one amazing seamstress.

  Otlee tilted his head and his brow wrinkled. "But I heard she was Lord Risley's commoner whore. That she's only after his money."

  Dubric hoped his eyes were kind even if his voice was stern. "I have had the displeasure of hearing that sentiment, and I have never believed it. Remember, Otlee, the opinion of the masses is usually wrong. Use your own judgment." He looked to the door and rubbed his eyes. Only fifty-two witnesses to go.

  CHAPTER 3

  Having delegated the afternoon witnesses to Lars, Dubric arrived at the physicians' offices at precisely two bell. Elli lay covered on one table with nothing more than the top of her head visible from beneath the blanket. Fytte lay uncovered and naked on another.

  Halld probed a gash on Fytte's back with a shaking finger. He glanced up at Dubric's approach and smiled. "I've found something."

  Praise the King! A clue! Dubric hurried to the exam table and nodded a greeting.

  "There are similarities between them, milord," Halld said. "Do you suppose they've been killed by the same man?"

  "What sort of similarities?" Dubric asked, opening his notebook.

  Halld's hands seemed unable to remain still. He tugged at his white tunic, tapped the exam table, and laced his fingers together. "He took something. Look!"

  Dubric leaned closer. Besides the lack of clothing, Fytte was little different than he remembered her. Her skin was blue and cool, a greenish bruise graced her hip, and her soles were calloused as if she seldom wore shoes. The slashes on her back were straight and clean.

  Halld looked at him with anticipation. "What is it?" Dubric asked. He hated guessing games.

  Halld straightened his back, his soft brown eyes sparkling. "First of all, I noticed it in the milkmaid, what was her name?"

  "Elli," Dubric said, his voice bland.

  "Elli, yes. I noticed it in her first, but didn't think much of it. Half her back is gone, probably out there in the mud somewhere…"

  Or stolen as a souvenir by a gawker, Dubric thought.

  "… but this other one…" Halld turned and looked at her.

  "Fytte," Dubric said, shifting his weight and narrowing his eyes. "Her name was Fytte."

  Halld shook his head, clearing the thrill of discovery from his eyes. "Fytte. What an unusual name."

  Dubric tried to remain patient despite the excitement of the physician. "What did you find? How are they connected?"

  Halld smiled. "I noticed it while probing the wounds on her back. With your permission, I'd like to expand one of them, to see how he did what he did."

  If it is a man at all.

  "What exactly did he do?"

  Somehow, despite his trembling, Halld stayed rooted to the ground. "He took her kidneys. Both of them. Or, perhaps I should say, all four of them. The milkma—er, Elli's kidneys are also missing."

  Dubric stared at Halld a moment as he considered the information and tried to understand what it meant. Both of the girls' backs had been slashed open for a reason, and perhaps, to the killer, taking kidneys made sense or served a purpose. "Why would he want their kidneys?"

  Halld's crestfallen face flushed. "I wish I could tell you, sir, but I have absolutely no idea. Not yet, anyway."

  Dubric returned his gaze to his notebook. "Can you tell me anything about the victims?"

  Halld nodded and flipped through his own notes. "Neither was raped. Both were in adequate health, but the milkmaid had an abscessed tooth and a rash. The other…"he flipped forward a page and said, "she had a bruise, an old one, on her hip. Probably ran into something a phase or so ago."

  Dubric made his notes. "And the wounds?"

  Halld shook his head. "Just the obvious ones. But he killed the girls differently."

  Halld took a deep, shaking breath and flipped to the next page in his notes. "The milkmaid's back was first slashed low, above her hips, and she either fell or was shoved into the mud before he opened her up. He cut out a chunk of her and it's missing. Regardless, she may have tried to scream but couldn't, and either bled to death or suffocated. Maybe a combination of the two." He looked at Dubric, tucked his notes under his arm, took off his spectacles and wiped the lenses clean. His shaking hands calmed as he wiped.

  Dubric almost dropped his notebook in his surprise. For King's sake, half of her hack is gone! "She was still alive?"

  Halld nodded. "Not for very long. Not with that rate of blood loss." He shrugged. "She clawed the mud. It's crammed into her nails, breathed into her nose and throat. There are small, round bruises along the side of her head, perhaps from the pressure of his fingers. I think he held her head down, maybe to quiet her screams." He returned his spectacles to his nose. "The attack against the milkmaid was much more brutal than the one against the scullery maid. The slashes were rougher, the damage greater. Maybe he was angry. Or in a hurry."

  "Did he leave anything behind?"

  Halld shook his head. "Sorry, sir. He ripped out what he wanted and left her there. Anything he might have left on her was lost in the mud." He moved on to Fytte while Dubric continued his notes.

  Fytte was different, a cleaner, more precise kill, and Dubric noticed Halld tracing his fingertip along a gash on her back. "He killed this one, waiting for her to die before taking the kidneys. The back wounds were very clean, but her throat was a mess."

  Dubric scratched more notes while the ghosts seemed to contemplate their own corpses. "Can you tell me anything about the knife?"

  "Some. With luck I can tell you more after I open her up. I do know the knife was small. A dirk, maybe, smaller than a dagger. None of the wounds are deeper than, say, the width of
four, maybe five fingers."

  Dubric's head tilted as he continued his notes. "But why would he make the cuts on Fytte's back so small? Surely he would need more room."

  Halld shook his head. "They're big enough, if the weapon was very small. Look." He pushed his hand into the narrow wound and her cold flesh welcomed the intrusion, molding close to Halld's hand. "Once past the muscles of the back, the internal organs are flexible enough to make room." Halld turned his hand over, inside her back, and pulled it out again. The sound his movement made was little different than the sound of a baker kneading bread.

  Halld wiped his hands on a towel. "But we can't tell how he cut it or if he damaged anything else, not unless we open her up. What did he sever? What did he tear?"

  "Will you be able to tell me more about the weapon?"

  "I think so. If he damaged other tissue in the area, we should be able to see exactly how big the blade was. Or if he took anything else."

  Dubric looked at the dead girl and nodded. "I guess we had better have a look."

  Beside him, Halld reached for a surgical knife.

  * * *

  Blustery afternoon gave way to sleety evening and Nella huddled with Dari in the pay line at the servants' wing door. The chaos of other castle workers hurt her ears and she wished she could grab her money and run away. She shivered, goose bumps flecking her arms even though the wide hall was hot and packed with scores of people. She clenched her rattling teeth and stared at Plien's back, refusing to look at anyone else. To her left, milkmaids compared notes about the first murder, each claiming some glory in the discovery of the body. Nella found them gruesome but tolerable. To her right, a pair of privy maids commented and speculated on Nella's supposed love life. They were far worse than the glory seekers to her left. But Nella held her ground and her tongue, and focused on Plien's back.