the good news is that I have been a bit more active, and a noticeable amount less pain. The bad news is I have been taking advantage of this to do stuff about the house rather than writing for you all. I should say sorry, but I'm not really that sorry. anyway, here it is, the third Quester story, I'm still writing it, but I have a good few chapters in hand.
Chapter 1
Quester regarded the Jurisprudentor with displeasure.
“You have eight girls from patrician families who are dead, or missing, and you can’t find a single fact which connects them?”
The gangling young man who was on the receiving end of his displeasure had a prominent adam’s apple which bobbed nervously as he swallowed.
“Well, apart from them all being between about fourteen and twenty-one, no,” he said. “Sex criminals usually have a type... I beg your pardon?”
“They are all the victims of sex crimes?” asked Quester.
“Well, yes; the ones we have found have all been violated and strangled,” said the Jurisprudentor.
“Mr. Villnew,” said Quester, reading off the label on the paper-pusher, “You tell me there are no points of similarity, yet you have given me three already. All nubile, violated, and killed by strangulation. And would that be manual strangulation, or using some form of ligature?”
Villnew goggled and his adam’s apple bobbed up and down as if it wanted to escape the confining throat.
“I... I don’t know,” said Villnew. “...My lord,” he added belatedly as Burdock glared and Quester raised an eyebrow.
“And they got an idiot with delusions of moronity to brief me why?” demanded Quester. “Which Lictor is in charge of this? Why did he not report to me?”
The adam’s apple bobbed widely.
“Uh... Lictor Cayban did not have time....” he tailed off nervously and twisted his fingers together.
“I won’t shoot the messenger if he was less than courteous, you know,” said Quester.
Villnew shuffled.
“He said that he didn’t need some poncy Justiciar doing his job for him and that if he couldn’t solve it, you hadn’t a chance, and he was damned if he gave you any consideration or time, and advised us to be unhelpful. I was given the job of briefing you this morning and I haven’t been able to go through it all yet, my lord,” he said.
“That puts a different complexion on things, lad,” said Quester. “I take back the remark about your intellect. I won’t apologise for it, though, because you parroted what you were told to say, instead of doing your duty and telling me how it is. Do you have all the records? Is all the evidence recorded?”
“Uh....” said Villnew.
“Hunter,” said Quester, to his new junior, “Go with Burdock into the evidence locker and pull everything on these girls... you have a list, Mr. Villnew?”
“Oh, yes, here,” said Villnew.
Quester read it through as the two assistants headed deep into the local Judiciary building.
“Hortensia Wilburga Sagittaria; Jacintha Willema Farfaxa; Rosa Jema Basvilla; Selandina Riketa Warrena; Erica Peytona Randoffa; Zenobia Willema Avia; Yolanda Thossa Jeffra; and Iolantha Ankakia Lea. I can see another link just by looking at the list.”
“Some of them are flowers,” said Kiliana, leaning over his arm.
“All of them are flowers,” said Quester. “Hydrangea, Hyacinth, Rose, Buttercup, Heather, Honeycup – a native of the Jinnya Isles – Violet, and Violet. Now tell me there’s no connection.”
Villnew gulped convulsively, and Killiana shuddered, worried that his voice box was going to break free and burst out of his neck.
“I... I don’t want to be fired,” he said. “I... I failed the Justiciar training, and... and went in for Jurisprudence instead. But you have to do a lot of politicking to stay still, never mind rise, and... well, Lictor Cayban was appointed to the case by the Judiciary, and I’m a very small cog and he’s a very big wheel.”
“If you do well by me, Villnew, you will find I am so much bigger a wheel than he can possibly imagine. His actions are close to heresy, and I am tempted to have him arrested in order to find out whether he’s blocking me because he, or a friend of his, has been plucking these flowers. Copy your file once each for my assistant and me, oh, and a third time for Sub-Justiciar Hunter. Killiana, you can let Purity look over your notes.”
Killiana nodded; that was an instruction to brief Purity, who had admitted to being poor at reading, being more interested in the physical side of her training. Quester suspected that many Highbred had questionable literary skills; most of them had good to eidetic memories, which obviated the need to look up what they could memorise. Chaplains and Psions kept records so presumably had higher attainments of literacy, but as their records were secret, he could not ascertain the truth of this. He strongly suspected his friend, Chaplain Eusebius, of speaking his records into his datatab. Many people did. And Purity had hoped to be a Sister Nightingale, one of the female Highbred units who were battlefield medics. She had failed her tests by the narrowest of margins, but had received some training, as well as a second heart, from Eusebius and his Winged Hussars. At something over seven feet tall, she was short next to the Highbred, but a nice size for Burdock, the Ogroid, whose girlfriend she was. Ogroids had grown out of the original experiments in breeding Highbred, and were usually dim-witted and slow of thought. Burdock was an exceptional character with an offbeat sense of humour, and as he also now had a second heart, he had every chance of living to a reasonable age, as well as being healthier. It was a gift which Quester had appreciated.
He scanned through the information which had been given to Villnew, which was remarkably thin.
“I hope the others find something more than this in the evidence lockers,” he growled. “This is my office from now on; requisition me two more for working in. The inhabitants can double up with others.”
“Er... I don’t think they’ll be happy,” said Villnew.
“They don’t have to be happy; they only have to comply,” said Quester. “Well, jump to it, man! I want the offices today, not when your drool has had a chance to dry. And then you can see about finding me a house to rent nearby.”
“Y... yes, my lord,” said Villnew, who had almost forgotten in his office job how much power a Justiciar had.
Almost limitless.
Villnew straightened.
If he did right by this Justiciar, he would be distributing close to the word of the Blessed Abe himself. And that would settle a few old scores.
He smiled beatifically.
Hickenbak had the best office, with the morning sun and a panorama of the city; the justiciar would doubtless like that. It had a helipad too. Hickenbak could go in with that miserable old sod, Parkson, and may each of them hate it. There was good reason, too, the Justiciar needed helo access at all times. Yes, that would work nicely; it was a shame to upset Miz Lewis in the office between, but it would be sensible for the space to be contiguous. And she’d love to see the up-to-the-minute fashions the Justiciar’s assistant was wearing, and might keep a corner of her office if she made herself useful. She had the kitchen right opposite, after all....
Villnew went to talk Miz Lewis into supporting him in evicting Hickenbak.
He saw the Sub-Justiciar and the Ogroid coming back with a truck full of boxes.
Hickenbak first, then.
“In here, if you please, Your Honour, and Mister Burdock,” said Villnew. “I have not yet removed the current incumbent, but it’s a larger office for the Lord Justiciar; and the Jurisprudentor in the office between able to be useful, I am sure, as his lordship does not object to women.”
“Him in de big room a problem, huh?” said Burdock.
“He thinks he’s Abe’s gift to everyone,” said Villnew.
“Leave it to me,” said Burdock. “What’s his name?”
“Hiram Hickenbak,” said Villnew.
Burdock considered for a moment, then a smile came over his face, showing his snaggletoothed grin.
He kicked the door open.
“Which of you is I-ram Stick-in-back?” he demanded.
“I’m Hiram Hickenbak, and you can get out of my office, you dirty stupid Ogroid,” said the haughty tones of the senior Jurisprudentor.
“Ho, well, it ain’t your office no more, Stick-in-back, it’s been requisitioned for his lordship, Lord Justiciar Quester,” said Burdock. “You may have half an hour to gather your personal effects and what you are working on, and move elsewhere. Where should he go, Mr. Villnew?”
“If you knew how tempted I was to answer a straight line like that,” muttered Villnew; and almost fell over when the Ogroid winked at him.
Villnew came into the office.
“I think you’d better move in with Parkson,” said Villnew.
“What about your office, or Lewis’s?” said Hickenbak.
“Requisitioned,” said Villnew. “We’ll be acting as gophers for the Justiciar, and Abe help you if you irritate him, he has a nasty tongue.”
“’S’ all right, you got twenty-two minutes to get out,” said Burdock, clearing Hickenbak’s desk with a casual swipe of his arm. “This will do, I suppose,” he said. “Where do you make coffee?”
“Opposite Lewis’s office,” said Villnew. “I’ll go and apprise her of the rearrangements.”
Hunter went to collect Quester who looked round the larger office with approval.
“Well, this beats some of the places I’ve had to work,” he said. “Well done, Villnew, and I’m sure Burdock had a hand here too.”
“What’s the worst office you ever had?” asked Kiliana.
Quester gave a rueful smile.
“The senior officers’ toilet on a war Zeppelin,” he said. “It locked, and there was someone on board out to disrupt my investigations.” He smiled whimsically. “It had lovely shiny surfaces to set up infra red sensors for when the miscreant tried to ambush me by coming through the skylight.”
“You lead an exciting life, my lord,” said Purity. “I’ll be ready to run errands, shall I move in with Miz Lewis and see what the gossip tree says?”
“Why not,” said Quester. “Burdock in charge of the kitchen, I need you helping me, Kiliana, and Hunter, who can retire with the aid of Mr. Villnew on side projects. Set me up a white board, and a map of where those girls came from, Hunter. Did you have any trouble?”
“Not for long,” said Hunter, dryly.
“There was a fellow called Hopping-Weener but we persuaded him to leave us alone,” said Burdock.
“Otherwise, one Vigilior Oppenheimer,” said Hunter. “Burdock asked him if he was a heretic to try to oppose the will of a Justiciar, and he just about wet his pants and fled.”
“Wise of him,” said Quester.
The evidence, which Hunter had signed for, held film pictures of those girls who had been found, since film could not be corrupted, or duplicated by AI. Digital pictures could be made to show almost anything. The girls had been bound with a most unusual twine.
“What do you make of this?” he asked Kiliana, passing her a sample. Any DNA had been removed by now.
Kiliana regarded it thoughtfully.
“You know we had a kitchen garden on the Pinch Eddard Isles?” she said. “This is like the twine we used for growing beans on, threaded back and forth on a fence.”
Quester nodded. “I can’t find any suggestion that this twine has been identified; the report says, bound with heavy duty green twine, perhaps for tying parcels. Ask Purity to go round any garden or hardware malls, with her pass as my assistant, and ask if she can match it to any brand, and see how common it is. We are probably out of luck, and it’s probably as common as muck itself, but it’s worth a try. Give her enough out of petty cash to buy samples, and to pick up a meal on the way back.”
Kiliana ran off with a sample, bagged and signed for by Quester. Purity must sign it too, and then chain of evidence was maintained.
oOoOo
Quester recognised Lictor Cayban when he burst into the office.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing, stealing all my evidence?” he howled.
Quester looked up at him, briefly, and continued making notes, and looking at the photographs, to all appearances ignoring Cayban. Cayban strode forward and planted two meaty fists on the well-polished desk of the former occupant of the office. Quester looked up again from where he was examining a photo with a jeweller’s loop. He took the loop from his eye.
“Ah, Cayban, this saves me the bother of sending for you. Do sit down, and let us discuss how long you have been facilitating paedophiles with a liking for aristocratic debutants,” he said.
“I came to... what?” Cayban was rocked back.
“Well, either you are some kind of heretic to interfere with the duties of a Justiciar, or you are hiding the evidence for personal reasons,” said Quester, in his reasonable tone of voice. “You have failed to identify the linking factor between the girls, and a very pertinent link that has to the twine used to bind them.”
“There is no link between them save of social class and age,” said Cayban. “You are making it up to rattle me!”
“I hardly need to do that,” said Quester. “I find it astonishing that a supposedly capable and experienced Lictor like yourself should miss such obvious clues, without considering that you must be covering up for someone you know. I was wondering whether I should put you to the question over it.”
Cayban fell back into the chair Hunter had set for him, and if he did not actually faint, his grey pallor and sweating brow showed how close he had come to it.
“I... I am a lictor, you cannot....”
“If I suspect heresy I can put anyone to the question,” said Quester. “Now, answer my question, if you please; confession is good for the soul and can save you much unpleasantness.” He steepled his fingers, and sat back, quizzically.
“But... but I am not a heretic!” cried Cayban. “I observe all the offices scrupulously! And... and I am not a deviant, nor do I know any!”
“Then why did you ignore the link between the girls and the link with the twine used?” demanded Quester.
“I... there is no link! I cannot see one!” sweated Cayban.
“You do not think it significant that every one of those girls is given the name of a flower?” said Quester, in apparent astonishment. Cayban stared.
“But... they aren’t, are they?” he asked.
“Plainly botany was not on your curriculum. Your bafflement is genuine enough. Each of the girls bore the name which has grown from that of a flower; and the twine used to tie them up is garden twine. A tenuous enough link, perhaps, but further than you have got.”
“I’ll find out who does their father’s gardens, and have them brought in for questioning,” said Cayban.
“You will not,” said Quester. “Do you think I have time to waste, breaking each and every little perrin who cuts lawns and pulls weeds. By all means, have your men find out who does the gardens of each, and then we can cross correlate any features between them. Also any gardeners at any school or college they may have been attending, any public gardens nearby, and see if the same name of the same firm comes up more than once. Preferably in all eight cases. And remember, it may be a blind, by a botanically minded member of their own class. Or a teacher of botany. Once we are certain, then we can act. Are there any other young girls of similar age range who have not been molested? Find me a list of debutants. Bring that to me, too. This will stop, hopefully before another young girl has to suffer. Well what are you waiting for? I have given you a sufficiency of tasks to get on with; go!”
Cayban stumbled out of the office wondering where he had lost the plot of his complaint so badly.
