Murder in Cormyr (9 page)

“He finishes paying me, then without another look at Dovo, leads his horse out. It’s a magnificent beast all right, and maybe Dovo did yank its bridle too hard, but that was quite a clout. Still, some men love their horses better than women.” Durn eyed my cup. “More tea?”

I declined, thanked him for the information, and left him for the happier cups of the Bold Bard. I hoped I wouldn’t have seaweed on my breath. There were a lot of people I wanted to talk to.

And they all seemed to be at the tavern that evening. Nothing fills a drinking establishment quite as handily as a tragedy. People want to talk about it, and also want to feel alive and grateful that they were not the one to die. How people can feel more alive in a hot, smoky, reeking tavern than outside in the fresh air on a hilltop gazing up at the evening sky is puzzling, but human nature has always been so.

The first person I noticed in the press of people there was Mayor Tobald. A huge, half-eaten pork pie was on the table in front of him, and he was digging into what was left with his customary ardor for victuals—his way of feeling alive, I suppose.

Since I was acting under his authority, I felt that put us on an equal footing in the democracy of the tavern, so I sat across from him and bade him a good evening. “Ah, Jasper,” he responded, “and how goes your work?”

I didn’t wish to spill too many beans before I had a chance

to talk to Benelaius. “Not too well, Mayor. But I’ll persevere.”

“Good man,” Tobald said, wrapping his mouth around another forkful.

“Yes, I asked Grodoveth if he was aware of any brigands who might have been responsible for Dovo’s slaying, but he knew of no such parties.”

“Hmm, yes, well, if anyone would know, you’d think it*d be him. I mean to say, riding around all the time as he does, eh?”

“Indeed, sir. I was just wondering, sir, how did you come to know him?” “He was my student at the university.” “University?”

‘Yes, the University of Suzail. I taught there, you know, before my retirement. The academic life held too many pressures. A small, unhurried town like Ghars was much more appealing to me—just like the feelings of your master Benelaius—and more conducive to my scholarship. I’m writing a history of Cormyr, you know.” I knew. Everyone in the village knew.

“When Grodoveth was assigned as envoy to our district,” he went on, “I invited him to lodge at my house when he came through Ghars. He accepted, and I learned that he plays as fine a game of chess as any man in the village. That alone would be enough for me to put up with his… well, I mean to say, I’ve enjoyed his company immensely.”

There was something that Tobald wasn’t saying, but I didn’t quite know how to tactfully draw it out. “So he stays with you whenever he’s in town?” Tobald chewed and nodded. “And how often is that?”

“Oh, every few weeks or so. It’s only for a night or two, and I’ve got the room, not having a missus. Let that be a lesson to you, Jasper. Marry now. Don’t put it off like I did, or you’ll wind up a lonely old man like me.” He wrinkled up his face as a twinge of pain went through him. “And a gouty old man. Do me a favor, Jasper, and ask your master to mix up another batch of those gout pills he made for me. I didn’t want to say anything earlier today in front of Doctor Braum.” He sighed. ‘That man couldn’t cure a nosebleed with a wagon load of cotton.” “Certainly, sir.”

“And perhaps he could give me an examination sometime. I’ve not been feeling well, not well at all, and Braum can’t find anything wrong except for my gout. You know what he tells me? Eat less. Well, I mean to say, eat less? This is the advice of a trained physician?”

“I’m sure my master will be happy to do what he can, and I’ll tell him about the pills.”

“Thank you, Jasper. No man could have a better prize than a good and faithful servant.”

It wasn’t any of Tobald’s business, but I was going to be good and faithful for only three more days. Then it was the high road for me, and a life, perhaps, of criminal investigation, depending on how this particular case came out. Now it was time to investigate further. “Have you seen Barthelm Meadowbrock today?”

“Oh, yes,” said Tobald. “I was helping him prepare for the arrival of our merchant dignitaries. So little time and so much to do. Barthelm seems nearly exhausted, and we have only two more days until the great event.”

“Exhausted, say you?”

The mayor nodded. “Poor man, his eyes are as weary as death. He told me he was up all night worrying when he was not working.”

Up all night, I thought. Worrying and working? Or getting

revenge on a man who insulted his daughter? “The incident with his daughter can hardly have helped him sleep any better,” I said.

“With Mayella?” I thought Tobald’s voice softened somewhat. Our mayor was not yet that old, it seemed. “It is true,” he said, “young men do seem to make fools of themselves in her presence.” And, I could have added, a few older ones as well, remembering Tobald’s encounter with Mayella’s yapping little dog. “But I suppose that’s something that any father of a beautiful daughter must deal with. Even my friend Grodoveth was not immune to her charms. Ah, here he comes now!”

I turned and saw Grodoveth coming in the front door. He looked none too happy to see me talking with Tobald, so I begged my leave of the mayor and retreated to the bar, with Grodoveth’s glower following me as I went.

Shortshanks brought me a Golden Sands and I sipped it gratefully. It had been a long day, what with retrieving Lindavar, finding Dovo’s body, and making Benelaius’s required investigations, and the cold brew tasted wonderful. I ordered a pork pie, since Tobald’s had looked so tempting, and wondered if Camber Fosrick felt as weary at the end of a day of sleuthing.

By the time I was finished with my flaky treat, the tavern had fallen into that comfortable state where everyone had started a new glass and no one, not even Sunfirth, was scurrying to take or bring orders. Even Shortshanks looked relaxed, so I tried to engage him in conversation, recalling how Camber Fosrick would gain invaluable clues from barkeeps.

“Heard about Dovo?” I asked him. He nodded but didn’t speak. You really had to touch a chord within Shortshanks to open him up. The dwarf took

pride in his memory, so I decided to try that tack.

“I was trying to remember,” I went on, “when the so-called ghost first started appearing. You recall?”

“Mirtul.”

At least it was a word. “End of Mirtul? Or the beginning?” “End.”

I had to be careful—the words were getting shorter. “Benelaius and I just couldn’t remember who said they saw it… and when. I don’t suppose you’d remember.”

Yes, it was heavy-handed, but it worked. At the suggestion of a slight against his attic of a brain, Shortshanks turned and gave me the evil eye. “Of course I’d remember. Ye think I’d forget a short little list like that? What else was everyone in here talkin’ about at those times but this phony ghost and the fools who’d seen it?

“T’was at the beginnin’ of spring. Dovo was the first, though he lied about it. The twenty-seventh of Mirtul it was. That merchant from Arabel espied it on the twelfth of Kythorn. Mayor Tobald seen it the night after the flower festival—that was the twenty-first of Kythorn. Kythorn the twenty-seventh ‘T’was Diccon Picard. Then on the eighth of Flamerule Loony Liz spotted it; Flamerule”—he paused for a moment, ticking through the days in his head—”twenty-first it was when Lukas Spoondrift seen it. Then nobody seen it again until Farmer Bortas and his wife on the sixteenth of Eleasias! And the last was Bryn Goldtooth, the halfling, on… ah, yes, the twenty-eighth of last month!” Shortshanks cried triumphantly. Then he gave a dwarven smirk. “Comin’ back from the Swamp Rat he was. Swore he’d never go on that road after dark again.”

I shook my head admiringly. ‘Your memory, Shortshanks, is as impressive as the brews you serve. I take it that, uh, your trade has increased since the late Dovo’s little pranks began?”

“Best thing that could’ve happened to the Bold Bard,” he said. “Got to where folks didn’t like travelin’ the swamp road after dark, and that was just fine by me.” Then he sighed. “A course, now that the ghost’s a phony, more folks’ll probably be goin’ to the Swamp Rat again.”

“I wonder,” I mused. ‘There may not be a ghost out there now, but there is a murderer.”

He didn’t smile, but his mouth didn’t curve down as much as usual. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Seems there’s a bright side after all, then.”

Though Shortshanks’s information was given at lightning speed, still, like all great sleuths, I was able to retain it. How? Simply by writing frantically with a charcoal pencil on a piece of paper under the bar, while watching the dwarf as he spoke.

I feared, however, that I might not be able to decipher my blind scribbling later, so while the names and dates were fresh in my memory, I wanted to polish my scrawl so that I wouldn’t wonder later if some number was an eight or a nine.

I walked to the back of the common room and went through a battered door into an enclosed walkway that led to the necessary room of the tavern. In the privacy of the small, unpleasant chamber, a guttering lantern provided enough light to see what I had written. A few characters and numbers were barely legible, but I corrected them and emended the list so that it now read:

Mirtul27—(Dovo ‘Kythorn 12—Arabetmerch, ‘Kythorn 21—Tobald Kythorn 27—’Diccon Ticard 7la.me.mk 8—Liz Clawthorn Jtamerute 21—Lukas Spoondrift T.kasias 16—farmer (Bortas wife Tleasias28—’Bryn QoCdtooth Tleint 16—Jasper

Well, that was a start. Toward what and for what purpose, I wasn’t sure, but at least it would show Benelaius I had been on the job.

I tucked the piece of paper in a pocket over my heart, but the pencil slipped out of my hands and rolled under the door to a small closet that I assumed held cleaning materials. I opened the door and saw a bucket on a rope, a broom, and a pile of rags. The pencil had rolled under the rags, so I reached under and felt around for it. I found the pencil, but I found some other things, too.

And what I found first was moving.

It was soft and furry, and when I felt it pour over my hand I leapt back with a yelp, nearly falling onto the necessary seat. But it was only a nest of young mice, old enough to run but too frightened to leave their first home. I sighed in relief and resumed the search for my pencil. And that’s when I found what really got my attention.

Beneath the rags was a hat and a cloak, not new but not ready for the rag pile either. The cloak was far too large for me, as was the hat. They were rather nondescript garments save for one thing—there was an ornament on the hat made from a feather and a sigil of the smith’s guild, and I had seen Dovo wear it many times.

If this wasn’t a clue, I wouldn’t have recognized one if it bit me in my buttocks. I rolled up the cloak and hat and put them under my own cloak. It made a lump, but I thought that I could get through the dimly lit Bold Bard easily enough without someone yelling, “Hey, what’s that you got under your cloak?”

And so it transpired. I was afraid that Shortshanks would accuse me of leaving without paying, but I slipped out when his back was turned, thanks to my stealthy halfling blood, put the garments in my saddlebag, and came back into the inn, where I ordered a second drink.

I thought about what else I might do to gather more evidence, and it seemed it would be a good idea to try and determine who on my list of suspects was right-handed, and who was left, since it had been concluded that the killer struck with his right hand. First I observed the tables.

There was Grodoveth, who was looking fishier and fishier as the day had worn on. But he clasped his mug with his left hand, and put it down only to dig into a large venison steak with a fork, frequently bumping the constantly moving right hand of Tobald across the table. Grodoveth was a left-hander then, but I still didn’t trust him.

As luck would have it, Barthelm came in several minutes later. He nodded at Tobald and coldly ignored Grodoveth. Nor did he acknowledge Rolf, who had come in when I was in the necessary. The old merchant went up to the service area at the end of the bar nearest the door and bade Shortshanks to infuse him a small pot of coffee, that black beverage brewed from crushed, charred beans from far Durpar. I’ve heard it refreshes the mind, but it’s too rich for my poor purse.

As I watched Barthelm from the corner of my eye, I saw that everything he did, from paying the dwarf to pouring cream into his cup and lifting it, he did with his right hand. Barthelm drank two cups of the evil-smelling brew and left. Back to work, no doubt, getting ready for the bigwigs.

I watched Rolf then, and he seemed to be his old cantankerous self. Sour faced, he sat with both big hands wrapped around his mug, favoring neither one hand nor the other but drinking with both.

Then I remembered a trick Camber Fosrick had played in The Adventure of the Battledale Billhook to discover which hand a suspect favored. He had suddenly thrown a ball at the man, who had caught it with his left hand (a hand that, supposedly, he could not even use), proving him to be a killer. So I ordered from Shortshanks a small round nut cheese and waited until Rolf’s attention was distracted.

He was sitting at the short end of the bar, several stools away from me. I called out, “Rolf!” and tossed the cheese toward him. His drinking must have slowed his reaction time, for although he looked up, he made no attempt to catch the cheese, which hit him squarely in the forehead and then fell into his mug, splashing him with ale.

Dead silence fell upon the Bold Bard, as all eyes went to the ale-sodden Rolf, who looked first at the cheese in his mug and then at me with a basilisk glare. The look demanded, if not my blood, at least an explanation.

“I, uh… I thought you might like some cheese,” I said.

That apparently was not the explanation he was looking for. He stood up, came over to me, and showed me in no uncertain terms that he was indeed right-handed.

After I picked myself up off the floor, rubbing my aching jaw and checking with my tongue to see how many of my teeth had been loosened, he took another swipe at me, but the blow only grazed me, for Shortshanks had vaulted over the bar with his mallet in hand. The dwarf grabbed the