Consultant - Victorian Detective 3 Chapter 3 - Cold Fire

The night had already thickened to black-ink colour when The Commissar finally decided that was enough for today. Policemen with portraits of the victims combed Blackwhit with a frequent crest for the third day, and forty-six victims who fit the description of a faceless dead man were hardly tracked out of the missing list. Brennon ordered to policemen get around relatives and friends of all forty-six missing persons, while Kennedy and Longsdale fiddled with face restoration.

It remained to question the beggars at the cathedral and the inhabitants of the surrounding houses. But The Commissar outlined the following point - the number of cops is not unlimited, and other criminals were not sitting idle either; one knife fights would have been enough for a couple of newspaper columns in small print. However, The Commissar was most concerned about the fact that, on the eve of the festivities, the mayor strictly forbade "spreading frightening rumors among honest citizens!" As if the unknown murderer would confine himself to dishonest ones ...

"They weren't even robbed," Brennon thought. Over the years, he has seen all sorts of killers - and lunatics, and maniacs, and s.a.d.i.s.ts - but not one of them could have killed the victim this way, even if he wanted to.

Nathan said goodbye to the attendants and went out on a crystal cold night. It was calm, clear and moonless. A scattering of stars flickered sparkly in the sky. Having lifted his head, The Commissar stood still, sighed, wraped his scarf denser and moved to the house.

Rocksville Street is empty. The flag on the town hall hung sadly, the crosses on the cathedral dimly gleamed, the park darkened on the left, and the light in the windows flickered on the right. Near house number eighty-six, Brennon slowed down. The lights in the house did not burn, and he was as dark and silent as before. The mansion was more like a crypt than the abode of the living, half-forgotten village superst.i.tions arose and in Nathan's memory - about nightly blood-sucking creatures and the h.e.l.l hounds. But since The Commissar could not recall anything about these criminal ent.i.ties (thirty years have pa.s.sed, d.a.m.n it!), he turned away from house and walked along Rocksville Street, ironically, towards the lake.

As luck would have it, there were no cabs nearby, and the frost was getting worse. Brennon raised his coat collar and wrapped his scarf around his ears. His fingers were plucked even with warm gloves. In the clear, frosty air, the light of the lanterns seemed cold, as if breaking through thin ice. There was such silence that a crunch of snow underfoot spread throughout the street. Nathan walked with his head bowed thoughtfully; he liked to walk, but now regretted that he did not wait or look for a cab. Well, at least there is no wind - otherwise it would have whistled all over Rocksville Street, making its way to the bones. Fortunately, the snow was densely trampled, and there was no need to wander, drowning in viscous porridge.

Brennon put his hands deeper into his pockets, looked around the street again for a cab, but he didn't notice a single one. He bowed his head, hiding his nose in a scarf, and stared at the snow. Near the foundation of the fences, the snow was quietly rustling - with a thin veil it glided along the stones, leaving a white mark on them. Brennon stupidly followed drifting snow until he realized that around completely windless.

The Commissar stopped and thoughtlessly looked at the snow haze curling along the ground. It was drawn north to the lake. Brennon woke up, automatically squeezed a revolver in his pocket and, almost crying out, drew back his hand - the metal burned him with cold even through his glove. And who to shoot at? The Commissar looked around - at the opposite side of the street it was chalky the same way. A snowy veil rolled along the fences in waves. The light of the lanterns became pale gold and transparent, and from that the darkness seemed even more impenetrable.

There was something bewitching in that soundless glide. Crystal b.a.l.l.s of golden light soared above the street, swaying slightly on lampposts like flowers. Brennon blinked and shook his head. He went to the fence, bent over and plunged his fingers into the waves of snow. At first he felt a faint warmth, then a cold tingling, and then, as soon as an ice wave slid up his arm, something dark, hot and heavy crashed into Brennon.

The Commissar rolled head over heels on the ground. Something snorted in his ear and resolved into the darkness of the alley. Nathan watched him with a stunned look, lowered his eyes, feeling discomfort - and shuddered. The sleeve and glove were covered with a thin but thick snow film.

"What the h.e.l.l..."

Blowing snow still flowed along the street, but a little further already curled a foot above the ground. The Commissar cursed and somehow scrubbed off the sidewalk. The hand was a little numb, but he dispersed the blood with energetic rubbing and glanced carnivorous at the street. It was still deserted, and Brennon resolutely moved forward - to the lush puffs of snow, like white smoke. The Commissar did not feel fear - something was hot, which means it was completely alive, made of flesh and blood, and if so ...

A few minutes later, The Commissar caught the echo of footsteps in silence. Brennon went slower and distinctly heard someone nearby lost their rhythm - other people's steps subsided a second after his own. Nathan cautiously touched the revolver - it still looked like a piece of ice.

"Okay..."

The Commissar rushed into the alley from which footsteps came, gritted his teeth, and pulled a gun from his pocket.

"Stand!!"

He didn't have to overstrain so hard - the lane was empty. Brennon quickly circled the walls of the houses, the roof, the porch, with the barrel of the Morvein. n.o.body. Exhaling frantically through his teeth, Nathan dropped the revolver and began to rub his hand, which was numb from the cold. Footsteps were heard on Rocksville Street.

It was a man. Definitely. Brennon reached into his second pocket and squeezed the folding knife. He, too, became colder, but not as much as Morvein. The Commissar snapped a knife. Brennon pressed himself against the wall and gasped choked - it was piercingly icy. The man on the street coughed softly. The Commissar emerged from the alley and caught only a black silhouette, melted in the night between the two houses. Ahead, flush with the roofs, snow swirled.

It was very cold. The breath turned into vapor and immediately settled on the face and beard with ice crystals. Brennon walked slowly toward the swirling snow. Dark lampposts could hardly be guessed in it, and above them pale golden luminous b.a.l.l.s floated. It was almost painful to breathe from the cold. The Commissar pulled the scarf higher.

Here, residential buildings were interrupted by shops - expensive, with large, icy s.h.i.+ny windows. Brennon, trying to breathe less and shallowly, entered the snow suspension. A veil of tiny spiny snowflakes hung in the air and fluttered slightly. Looking around, The Commissar moved to the windows. On one of them the snow lay in a strange, long tracery - a little diagonally, stretched by the interweaving of white threads. Nathan followed the tracery and saw the continuation in the next window. And on one, and another, and further ... He moved after the tracery until he stopped in front of a shop window covered with a dense layer of snow. Here the air almost rang from the frost. Brennon squinted, stepped toward the window, and suddenly a palmprint appeared on it through the snow.

"What the h.e.l.l!"

The Commissar staggered back. Snow shot up at his feet and wrapped around his ankles. Brennon cried out in surprise, and, as if in reply, a ball of fire broke through the snowy veil with a hiss. It slammed into the window, splashed over it and painted everything in pale scarlet. The snow boiled and scalded Brennon with hot steam. Nathan jumped up, covering his face, and crashed into someone. This someone cried out fiercely and unprintable, threw The Commissar as a rag doll, and threw another ball over his head. It cut through a blanket of snow and exploded somewhere at the north end of Rocksville Street; the traceries in the shop windows flowed down.

Nathan unfastened himself from the cold wet mud into which the snow had turned, and mad looked around. The h.e.l.lish cold disappeared, even there was none; the snowdrop disappeared along with the snowflakes swirling in the air. Traceries spread in puddles under the windows.

"What the heck?!"

The Commissar found the revolver in the alley. Morvein was frozen into a perfect ice ball.

14th November

Brennon carefully laid the ball on the chef's table. Broyd looked at the Morvein so piercingly, as if he wanted to glance break the ice.

"And now, sir, I have only one question. How competent is your consultant?"

"I see, you pretty much lost in skepticism, but gained in faith," - Broyd poked a feather into a ball. Over night, the ice did not think to melt.

"I believe what I see," Brennon said calmly, "And what I saw at night is beyond the power of any of the people. If someone didn't throw fire, I would now be standing in our backyard, packed in a layer of ice."

"Do you think that the flame thrower and the killer are two different human beings?"

The Commissar thought for a moment.

"I would not want," he said reluctantly, "so that not only gangs, but also crazy warlocks will begin to divide the streets. But still it seems obvious to me that the thug with fire and the thug with ice are two different per... thugs.

"d.a.m.n it all," Broyd muttered, "The bishop incites the mayor. He again wants to allow festivities on the lake. And this cross..."

"Longsdale said he would find a way to melt the ice. Where is he, by the way?"

"Longsdale? I don't know, I haven't seen he in the morning. If he is still breathing, I allow you to stir up him."

Brennon grinned.

"Plowed by the sweat of his brow?"

"Well," strict said Broyd, "yesterday he and Kennedy were busy with reconstruction until late at night."

"And what?"

The chef handed him a drawing.

"Well, at least it looks like a human face," Brennon admitted, "I hand the guys over, let them search."

"In total, we have an autopsy of the first unknown victim, the ident.i.ty of the fourth victim and two unidentified persons in the ice. Go, Brennon, get down to business. Get me something else besides the icy lungs and heart. And do not forget about the cross!"

Easy to say, The Commissar thought. Apparently, the internal organs did not impress the mayor as much as they would like.

However, in the morning so many things fell upon Brennon that he came to his senses only by lunchtime. The townspeople wanted justice and certainly from him. By two o'clock, Nathan managed to grab a piece of bread with ham and a cup of tea; then he remembered about Longsdale. Wrapping the revolver in a handkerchief, Brennon got dressed, warned the attendant and headed for the consultant's house.

The door was not immediately opened. Nathan even thought that he was mistaken at home, or that the consultant gets the h.e.l.l to hand out visits (or what secular fops were doing there), but then the door opened and a butler appeared on the threshold.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Maybe it's still a valet," The Commissar thought (he was too young for the butler) and said:

"Commissioner Brennon, to Mister Longsdale."

"Mister Longsdale is sleeping, sir."

"Sleeping?! At two in the afternoon?!"

"Yes, sir."

"So wake him up! Investigation is not waiting!"

"I cannot, sir," the butler answered coldly, showing with all his appearance that the problems of the police department did not concern him.

"Still as you can," snapped Brennon. "There aren't spillikins, we have four corpses. Quickly, quickly!"

"Sir!" Butler was indignant. He did not have time to slam the door - The Commissar put a cane between the cas.e.m.e.nt and the jamb and resolutely pressed the door, using the cane as a lever. At the same time, he marveled at how hard it was to overcome the resistance of such a thin guy. If it weren't in the cane of a hidden blade, it would have broken ...

"You have no right!"

"I have, I have," Brennon squeezed inside, "Where's the bedroom?"

Lights were already lit in the black eyes of the young man, when suddenly a dog appeared on the scene. The hound stood on the landing, measured The Commissar with a long, appraising look, and said aloud:

- WOOF.

The floor under Nathan's feet shuddered, the gla.s.s in the windows tinkled, the dishes in the cupboard answered them with a plaintive rattle. Brennon's hair stirred under his hat, and he almost flew out of the house, spurred by panic fear. Such horror had never rolled upon him, even when he had run on the attack first time. Hegained consciousness, The Commissar realized that he had pressed his back against the door and grabbed the sword from the cane. The dog looked at him with curiosity and some surprise, bowing his head to one side.

"Please follow me, sir," said the butler. Brennon turned sharply and managed to notice a sarcastic grin on his face.

"Please remove the weapon, sir."

"Yeah," The Commissar answered grimly and glared at this calmly insolent phiz. It was narrow and swarthy, with a thin straight nose, high cheekbones and black eyebrows. The left eyebrow was cut in half. But as soon as the butler turned his back, his face instantly evaporated from Nathan's memory.

"What the h.e.l.l?!"

The butler climbed the stairs. Following the dog, he leaded Brennon to the bedroom, opened the door and announced:

"Commissioner Brennon, sir."

The answer was silence. Blackout curtains were drawn, the bed canopy were lowered. The Commissar coughed, but the butler did not move. Nathan sighed and drew back the canopy.

"Soldier get up!!!" The former company Sergeant barked at full strength. The consultant soared above the bed, as if thrown up by a spring.

"W-w-why are you here like that?.." he squeezed, barely landing. – W-w-who do you do?! …"

Brennon pulled a ball from his pocket, pulled a handkerchief from it and twirled in front of the aquiline nose of consultant upstart. Longsdale rubbed his eyes and crawled onto the pillows above to half-sit. He took an ice ball; The Commissar froze in antic.i.p.ation. And he was not deceived - Longsdale thoughtfully licked the ball and said:

"However."

"Is that your expert opinion?" Nathan inquired.

"There, on the mantelpiece."

On the shelf, Brennon saw four gla.s.ses. In one there was water, in the rest - pieces of ice, in some places - melted.

"I have no samples from the first victim, because it has already thawed. However, a range of samples from the rest suggest that the ice on the first deceased was closest to normal."

The Commissar turned around interestedly.

"And what, the rest are unusual?"

"Take a look at the first gla.s.s. There were those pieces that I broke from the ice on the lake. They, as you see, have melted. You can't say anything about the other pieces," the consultant handed the ball to the dog, and the hound thoroughly sniffed it. "Raiden, my tea."

"Sorry, sir," the butler answered and evaporated. The Commissar took the gla.s.ses (they had labels with numbers) and examined the ice. They did not differ in appearance.

"The difference is invisible," Longsdale went on. "Moreover, the ice from the last deceased melted by a third, but your ball, as you may have noticed, does not melt in your hands."

"And what does it mean?"

The consultant's eyes flashed blue.

- It's improving.

Brennon flinched. Longsdale looked at him point blank, not blinking, from underneath, and the wings of his nose swelled predatoryly, like a beast. The Commissar would not have recognized him if he had run into him on the street. The corners of Longsdale's lips lifted in a smile, twisted to the left. Nathan involuntarily squeezed the handle of a cane.

"Your tea, sir," the butler announced, thickening out of thin air. The consultant blinked.

"Tea? Ah, tea! O, sure..."

He clung to the cup, and Brennon slowly wiped the sweat from his forehead. This gets worse and worse. The dog was looking at him carefully; eyes glittered like coals from beneath overhanging eyelids. The Commissar suddenly thought that he was face to face with two people about whom he knew nothing at all, plus a hound that was clearly trained to kill those unwanted.

"All of this," the consultant spoke up as if nothing had happened, "allows us to a.s.sume that the ice covering the victims is completely different nature than ordinary. Moreover, this ent.i.ty from time to time is becoming more skillful and stronger."

"That is?.." muttered Nathan; the ent.i.ty he had just seen occupied him much more. What the h.e.l.l is this c.r.a.p?!

"That is, you will not succeed in melting ice in the usual way. But I can melt it."

"And when will you do this?"

"Tonight."

"Why not in the afternoon?"

Longsdale sighed quietly.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to explain in a nutsh.e.l.l the essence of the process."

"Then get up and do something useful. We have the things of the first slain. You look at them on the subject of any ... hmm ... rubbish. In addition, something happened on your part tonight."

"As soon as I have breakfast ..."

"Do you eat with your ears? Have breakfast and listen. Time is running out."

The consultant dutifully sent the butler for scrambled eggs and bacon. Brennon took the chair and proceeded to the story. The dog lay between him and Longsdale and lowered his muzzle to his paws, not taking his eyes off the commissioner.

Longsdale was not impressed by the story about the thug, spitting fire. The Commissar managed to squeeze out of him only the cool "Hmmm ..." and a lingering promise to look for the firespiter. At this, Brennon left the house to wait for a consultant on the street. He joined The Commissar a few minutes later and strode to the department with the dog, carrying a small bag. Nathan followed and felt like an escort.

"Will you show where you were attacked?" Longsdale asked.

"There, down the street."

The Commissar always wondered how different the city looked at night and day. In the darkness, Rocksville Street looked like an endless cold tunnel of a necropolis, in which breezes were made to the bones; and in the afternoon - nothing at all, decent and respectable. Together with the consultant, Brennon again investigated the site of the attack, but they only managed to amuse the pa.s.sers-by - no trace was left by then.

"What was the handprint?" asked Longsdale, when The Commissar was found with difficulty the right window.

"To the human."

"Are you sure?"

"I didn't see it," admitted Nathan, "Although the size seems to be smaller than mine."

"Male or female?"

"I do not know. Let's go to the shop? Here they sell groceries."

"Not worth it," the consultant shook his head, "The owners have nothing to do with this. Unless ..." he frowned, "Find out where they get water from."

"From the lake," The Commissar answered a little in surprise, "Everyone takes water from the lake. And what? What's the matter? Do you have a suspect?"

"Not yet. But I have the place. Remember the green slime that covers the ice of Weer from the inside?"

"Yes."

"These are seaweed whipped in puree. Something or, in our case, someone whipped them like cream, with such force that they rose to the surface, and there they stuck to the ice."

Brennon puzzled at his beard.

"Well, what do you suggest? Break all the ice on Weer? The opposite is not visible from our sh.o.r.e! It has an area of twenty-five square miles. How do you imagine that?"

Longsdale was silently frowning. Below, at the edge of the display case, a piece of the frosty pattern survived. The consultant took out a magnifying gla.s.s and leaned towards him. Behind Brennon there was a clatter of hooves and a rustle of wheels in the snow. The Commissar turned around: a carriage stopped at the bench, from which an elegant girl in a gray skirt and gray coat, with a basket in her hands, got out. The girl went to the shop and began thoughtfully recounting the bundles in the basket, as if she was not sure of their quant.i.ty. Nathan hesitated, coughed loudly and called:

"Peggy!"

The girl raised her head, holding the edge of the hat so that the sun would not s.h.i.+ne in her eyes.

"Uncle!" she squealed joyfully, dropped the basket into the snow and rushed to the commissioner's neck with a run. He bravely withstood the blow and carefully hugged her waist.

It remained a mystery to Nathan why such a child was born to his sister and her husband, who was outwardly unremarkable persons. The face of her mother, Mrs. Sheridan, looked like a horse, her father resembled a bricks, the production of which made a fortune; their daughter looked like a fairy. Slightly above average height, thin, white-skinned, with lush brown curls and huge eyes the color of black amber, Margaret was the envy of her peers. By the age of seventeen, she became the owner of an graceful oval face, a thin nose, a cherry-mouth and so many admirers that their list could pa.s.s for a census of the male population aged twenty to forty.

"What are you doing here?" asked Miss Sheridan.

"I work. And you?"

"Buying presents for Independence Day."

"Already?"

The girl looked disapprovingly at the commissioner:

"I have a lot of cousins and cousins. And you too have to think about it!"

Brennon grunted embarra.s.sedly. He had a total of eight married brothers and married sisters, and therefore the number of nephews could not be reasonably counted.

"Well, when I'm a little free..."

Margaret leaned behind the basket and whined.

"Doggie! Uncle, is that your doggie?"

Brennon looked around for a doggie, but found only a huge red hound nearby, which was staring at Margaret, like a piece of tenderloin.

"It's not a dog, Peggy. This is Mister Longsdale's dog. Mr. Longsdale, Police Department Advisor. Miss Sheridan, my niece."

The consultant raised his eyes for a moment from the bottom edge of the display case, which he studied while squatting, and returned to the subject of the study. Margaret flushed indignantly - she was used to a different reaction to her appearance.

"Good afternoon, sir," she muttered through gritted teeth. The dog took upon himself the duty of courtesy - he came up, waved his tail twice and sniffed the edge of her crinoline.

"What a big and beautiful one!" Margaret admired. "Can I pet him?"

"No!" The Commissar howled, instantly imagining that a hefty hacked dog would leave from his niece.

"But why? Sir, can I pet your dog?"

The consultant stared silently at the girl, as if she had just woken him. The dog sat in front of Margaret and extended her paw.

"h.e.l.lo, Mister Hound," Miss Sheridan said gravely, respectfully, and ceremoniously shook his mighty paw; it barely fit in her two palms. The dog sniffed the girl's hands and carefully licked. "What is your name, mister?"

"What is your dog's name?" The Commissar translated Longsdale.

"Name? Named?.. No named," he muttered.

"So you are nameless, mate," Brennon said thoughtfully; Margaret delightly scratched the beast's scruff and back, the beast blew. Longsdale tugged at Nathan's floor coat.

" In what direction was the tracery going?"

The Commissar waved his hand.

"From there to here."

Longsdale stood up and looked into the distance.

"To the lake," Brennon added.
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"I will take the ice from the tracery to the laboratory. Breaking ice on the Weer is a dangerous undertaking. Something that try to get out of it outward, most likely, achieves this. The question is, what is it?"

"Sir! Sir!"

Brennon turned around. The young attendant rushed towards him at full speed.

"Sir, we have a sameness! The first victim was identified!"