Autumn (24 page)

             
It was widely speculated that the Chief was not above eliciting information via strange, secretive and sometimes cruel, inappropriate, or unusual, manners. The Chief often foolishly utilized magical potions he did not possess the depth to understand and/or drugs, pain and deprivation techniques to loosen the tongues of both unwilling prisoners and innocent victims.

             
The thief paused, as if trying to formulate the right words to convey properly his story through his obvious distress and somewhat altered state of consciousness.

             
“I dunno who they are or what they are, even. One minute I am standin’ right here and the next, I ain’t but I dunno where I am. I reckon it be like I been pushed out and taken over and I
got no control left over what me
body does.” Jonty’s voice broke and a fat tear of misery slid down his dimpled cheek.

             
Arabel almost pitied him. Almost.

             
“Are you telling me you have been the victim of a possession? That some evil force possesses your body and soul?”

             
The thief shook his head. “I dunno, missy, ‘bout my
soul, but my body’s been not me
own.”

             
Arabel wasn’t surprised he hadn’t given any thought to his soul as most likely he never would. No great surprise there.

             
“Alright, “Arabel continue patiently, “what can you remember of the times you’ve been taken over? Can you recall any specific place, or people, or even actions you might have performed?”

             
The thief started to shake. Tears flowed copiously now. Arabel watched the pain expanding overtop of his head, the orange cloud, pulsing, pulsing.

             
“Do you suffer migraine?” she asked him.

             
Jonty shrugged. “Dunno,” he replied indifferently, “what is that?”

             
“Headache. Incapacitating pain.”

             
Jonty nodded. “Yes’m, I reckon I had ‘em since I was a wee lad. What has that got t ‘do with anythin’?”

             
“Maybe nothing. Continue. What do you remember happening? Where have you gone and what have you done?”

             
“I saw – “ Jonty broke off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t stand to utter the words.

             
“What? What did you see? You have to tell me quickly, we only have fifteen minutes to converse!”

             
“I saw…that man, the dead one, after you asked me ‘bout him.”

             
“Indra Northrup? You saw his body?”

             
“No, missy, I saw him alive.”

             
Arabel was perplexed. “Alright, so when I asked yo
u about him, you knew nothing.
How did you come to see him? Where was he?”
             

             
“It was after I met you. He was down by Potter’s Creek, where my caravan’s been
, like I told you. He was pokin’
around, dunno exactly doin’ what and I told him he best clear out.”

             
“Did he?”

             
“Well that’s just it, missy, I told him to leave and then – and then – ahhh!” Jonty broke down crying once more and Arabel could make no sense whatsoever of the mournful refrain of his tearful gibberish. She reached out and shook his arm somewhat forcefully.

             
“Get a hold of yourself, man!” Arabel said sharply.

             
“I told him to leave…” Jonty whispered, through his tears, and Arabel was forced to lean in closer to hear him. The thief continued his tale of woe softly, as if each spoken word was a hammer to his wretchedly painful head.

             
“There was a buzzin’ in me head, like a swarm of bees’d taken over me brain. It was grey behind me eyes and
it tasted like dry dust down me throat…Next thing
, I’m all crouched down at St. Martin’s bog…and the man’s lyin’ at me feet, cold as snow and just as pale! I’ve no mind to know if I did it!” The thief bowed his head and sobbed loudly.

             
“Do you remember anything else? What about the other times? Did you see anyone?”

             
“You best not be hearing me, miss – I said I dunno if I done kilt that man!”

             
“Yes, I understand; you have no recollection of the act! Please do continue; we haven’t much time,” Arabel beseeched the thief.

             
Jonty stared at Arabel in dismayed wonder. “D’you know what that be like, missy? To not know if you murdered a man?”

             
“Please, just continue. I’m sure you will not be held accountable if you were possessed. You really need to tell me everything you can remember, it will help the victim.”

             
“I never saw no one. No one but the dead man.”

             
“But you said this had happened more than one time; tell me about the other times.”

             
“I was just about sleepin’ one night, all cosy; I’d had some ale, well, maybe quite a bit of ale and was feelin’ mighty drowsy when I heard a buzzin’, a loud bee sound and thought to meself maybe I drank more’n I oughta,  and was goin’ to be sick, y’know? But I weren’t sick. I reckon I must’ a passed out and when I came to, I was outside, in the rain, near the Great Torch, where they – where they – where they found those bodies. Those dead girls.”

             
“But this was after they were killed, correct? Not before?”

             
Jonty’s eyes swam with tears. “It be like I can’t tell. I dunno! Me head is all mixed up, nothin’s clear anymore. You gotta help me! You got to make it stop!”

             
“Did you see anyone else, or hear anyone speaking, giving you orders?”
             

             
Jonty shook his head. “No, miss. Just that sound. That horrible sound – buzz buzz buzz, in me head!”

             
Arabel didn’t kn
ow what to say. She leaned
against the back of the hard wooden chair as the thief sobbed and looked to her for answers, his eyes huge in his stunned face.

             
“Why do you think I can help you?” she finally asked.

             
“Why
,
the voice in me head told me so.”

             
Arabel started involuntarily. “The voice in your head?”

             
Jonty nodded. “Clear as day! It said call on that witchy girl that helped you to the Moor that time.”

             
“You don’t even know my name. Is that how you asked the Chief to find me, by calling me ‘the witchy girl?’” Arabel accused.

             
“Sure it was, miss. But I reckon you may as well tell me now.”

             
“Arabel. Arabel Spade.”

             
“You speak fey, isn’t that so? Help me, miss, please! Help rid me of th’ cursed bees!”

             
The door to Chief Constable Bartlin’s office swung open abruptly and the Chief and the two burly guards re-entered the room.

             
“Time’s up, Governs,” the Chief announced and the ankle shackle was removed from Jonty’s foot as the guards prepared to transport him back to his dank, underground cell.

             
Jonty’s huge eyes flashed in panic. “But she wants t’ help me! She be th’ only one who can help me! We ain’t done here yet! We just are not done here! Chief!” The thief balefully entreated the Chief, but to no avail.

             
“Keep a guard posted on his cell without pause,” the Chief commanded his officers brusquely.

             
This statement alarmed Arabel to no insignificant degree as she realized the Chief was putting Jonty on an around-the-clock–suicide-watch.

             
“Keep eyes on him; he’s right tricky, that one.” The Chief signalled that the guards depart with Jonty.

             
“Help me, miss! Please! You got to help me with th’ curse!”

             
Arabel stared after the man as he was practically dragged away down the hallway by the burly guards.

             
“Be assured I will do for you what I am able,” Arabel called after Jonty. “But I am not certain how much I can be of service.”

             
The Chief peered at Arabel sardonically. “Well?” he asked dryly.

             
Arabel sighed and took a deep breath before launching into the lengthy explanation. “Jonty Governs claims to have been possessed,” she answered, “and he quite possibly might have killed Indra Northrup. Jonty believes he has been taken over at times, possessed by an evil force, you could say, and he cannot recall his actions once this ‘force’ releases him from the hypnosis, and he returns back to himself in the present moment.”

             
The Chief snorted. “A likely tale,” he retorted.

             
Arabel took her time in responding. Her thoughts were racing. She’d been given so much information in the few short sentences the thief had spoken. Arabel was convinced that Jonty didn’t know what was going on and that he was being used as a pawn, most likely a deadly pawn, in this on-going game of search and destroy.

             
Who had told him to ask for her? Who was commandeering the voice in his head?

             
Arabel relayed the entire conversation to the Chief and once he was satisfied she wasn’t lying, nor withholding further information, he gave her permission to leave, promising her that she could return tomorrow if the Gypsies allowed Governs to be held in the jailhouse, as opposed to in their encampment in Ravenswood Glen. Arabel could return to question the thief further tomorrow if he was still in residence at the jailhouse.

             
“Your talents would be mighty useful in the right hands, Miss Spade,” the Chief remarked as Arabel prepared to leave his office.

             
Arabel paused in the buttoning of her black cape. “My talents, as you deem them, sir, are both highly unstable and intensely private,” she replied, fixing the Chief with a level gaze.

             
“We would allow you to flourish, given the right conditions,” he proposed.

             
Arabel smiled sweetly. “Good-day, sir,” she called, buttoning the last button on her cape and making for the door.

             
Arabel was glad to finish her interview with the Chief and she declined his offer of the use of a carriage to journey home in. The day was sunny but cold and Arabel resolved to walk home, to enjoy this odd autumn weather to the fullest and perhaps she would stop at the Priory to see what the mood was like and the climate of the population as well.

             
Arabel stepped onto the street, squinting in the brightness as the pale sun beat upon her and reflected the light off of the snowy ground. The street was quite busy with foot traffic and horses and a select few, brave carriages mucked their way through the snowy track to their destinations.

             
Arabel looked for Ira but the crow was momentarily nowhere to be seen. Arabel turned to her right, to move forward into the flow of the pedestrians when her arm was suddenly jerked and held sharply, and a man called her by name.

             
Arabel whipped her head around, moving at once to dislodge the man’s arm from her person. She stared at the stranger grasping her arm.

             
He was a Gypsy, slightly older than herself, with dark auburn hair and flashing green eyes. His freckled face was well put together and his features were handsome but he looked to be in an ill-tempered frame of mind as he released Arabel’s arm abruptly.

             
“Sorry, Miss Spade,” the attractive stranger said evenly, his voice well modulated, if somewhat curt.

             
Arabel rubbed at her arm where she was certain a nasty bruise was going to appear.

             
“Who are you? What business do you have with me, sir?” Arabel asked haughtily, trying to make sure she did not appear frightened or intimidated by the stranger’s brusque manner and forceful action.

             
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It was not my intention to frighten or mishandle you. I thought – I thought you might disappear into the crowd and I urgently must speak with you.”

             
The strange Gypsy gave a slight bow; his face regained its inherently easy humour and his eyes warmed to her.