Ghosts in the Snow (32 page)

What if the lad told the truth? What if he was innocent? Was that even possible? Did the silver bracelet give credence to another theory or was it additional evidence of his obsession and pent-up frustrations?

Dubric took a breath and tried to not second-guess himself. If Risley was innocent, the facts should sort themselves out soon enough with the real killer still loose.

He sighed and turned away from his ghosts. His heart troubled, he sipped his tea and waited for sunlight.

"I've gathered a preliminary list," Lars said as he walked through the open door into Dubric's office. "It's a short one."

Dubric grabbed a slipping piece of paper as he glanced up from a statement the gaol keeper had given Otlee. A young woman had visited Risley that morning and the night before, bringing food, clothes, and a book with her. The gaol keeper worried that she had placed herself in danger by visiting him.

Keeping Risley and Nella from flirting had become the least of his worries.

Elli and Fytte were now trying to upset the stacks of notes and books on his shelves. Occasionally they succeeded, with scattered papers mutely proclaiming their achievements. He worried over what would happen once they could move objects of more substance. Would they throw furniture like they threw Rianne's arm?

Lars said nothing as he closed the door. He picked up the few loose sheets and an overturned logbook and returned them to their proper place. Giving Dubric a concerned look, he sat in his chair while Fytte sent another sheet fluttering to the floor.

Dubric clasped his hands over his desk and watched the boy instead of the falling paper. "What have you found?"

Lars glanced at the sheet on the floor, sighed, then opened his notebook. "The dishes in question were last used at the Council luncheon, held before last spring's festival. Would you like a re-account of attendees?"

Dubric shook his head. The Council that spring had merely consisted of himself, Lord Brushgar, Friar Bonne, Kyi Romlin, and the Duke of Jhalin. No others. They had ruled on the merits of perhaps half a dozen cases of theft, support for two illegitimate children, and a handful of grievances and misunderstandings. Winters tended to cause squabbles and a spring Council was a standard occurrence.

Lars watched a clipped packet of testimonies slide off the shelf and fall to the floor. "Sir? Can you make them stop?"

"No. They pay me no heed."

Agitated, Lars tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair as he returned his attention to his notes. "All of the dishes from the luncheon were washed and dried by Thallia and Fionne. Both are currently employed, and they filled out the proper inventory forms when they finished their chore. Pitta initialed them. No dishes were noted as broken or missing at that time."

He glanced at Dubric again, and went on, "There are standing orders that once each moon the dishes are washed and recounted. Again, this duty has consistently fallen to Thallia and Fionne. I asked Pitta why, and she said these two women, both in their forties, by the way, had the steadiest hands in the kitchen. Evidently, the dishes are quite fragile. Each moon, a page has been assigned to watch them and ensure no thefts occur while the dishes were in the kitchen."

Dubric nodded. One teaspoon alone was worth at least five crown if melted down, and security protocols must be followed when working with valuables. "Go on."

"The inventories have been promptly initialed and filed each moon. The last was three phases five days ago. As of that day, all of the dishes and silverware were accounted for."

Dubric noted Lars's information. The dishes were due to be counted again in two days' time. "Have the counts been accurate?"

"I believe so, sir, but I have not spoken to Thallia and Fionne yet. They're in the midst of washing the finer morning dishes and did not wish to delegate the task to younger maids. I am trying to be accommodating and have requested a private meeting with each of them between three and four bell this afternoon."

Thoughtful yet timely. A good compromise. He smiled. "Nice job. Did you do a recount today?"

"Yes, sir. Pitta, Moergan, and I closed off the valuables storeroom and inventoried the entire cabinet. We are missing two dinner plates, one small bread plate, two full sets of gold eating utensils, a single serving spoon, and a small meat knife."

Dubric paused in his note taking. Lars had listed over a hundred crowns' worth of gold and china. "Are you certain?"

Lars produced two sheets of paper and handed both to Dubric. "I thought Pitta would faint, sir, when we counted them the first time, so we counted again. Both counts are there, and both are identical. The other sheet is last moon's official inventory."

He looked over the numbers and frowned, slamming his hand on a paper as Fytte tried to snatch it away. Tiring of her little game, she huffed off to sulk in a corner. "Who has access?"

"Only you and Pitta have keys to the cabinet, sir."

Dubric met Lars's gaze. "Has Pitta's key gone missing?"

"No, sir. She had them handy in her pocket and insisted they had never left her possession. The cabinet actually takes two keys, sir. Plus a third for the storage room door."

Dubric clasped his hands together and watched the curious gleam in Lars's eyes. "You think it was me? You think I concocted that plate of gore?"

"No, sir. While it is theoretically possible you may have stolen dishes from the cupboard, I am certain you have not been murdering servant girls."

"Thank you for that vote of support," Dubric muttered as he picked up the papers again. He sighed and compared inventory numbers on the two pages. "Please fetch Pitta. Since Otlee is busy with research, you will take notes of her interrogation."

Lars got up and nodded. Without a glance back, he left Dubric's office.

Dubric grumbled at his ghosts, then folded the two inventory sheets and placed them in his notebook.

* * *

"I did not take them. I swear!" Pitta said. She looked back and forth between Lars and Dubric. Her earnest face was blotchy from crying, and her thick, ruddy hands clutched and pulled nervously at her apron.

"Someone took them," Dubric said. "You and I have the only keys, and I certainly did not."

"I swear, it was not me. All were there last moon when the girls cleaned them. We three counted them together when we put them away. They were all there, and I locked the cabinet."

The two scullery maids, Fytte and the girl the lackeys had found—Dubric could not at that moment recall her name—stood on each side of Pitta and made faces at her as she wailed. Elli and the laundress had pulled Rianne's head off and were tossing it around her in a gruesome game of keep-away. Dubric hoped one would drop the nasty thing and it would slip through the floor so they could continue their game downstairs in the gaol.

He pulled his attention off the ghosts and back to Pitta's terrified face. "Have you loaned your keys to anyone, for even a moment, this past moon?"

Her denial came frantic and loud. "No, sir. I have two sets of keys, the common set and the specials. I've never loaned the specials. Not to anyone. Ever. Not once in all my summers as kitchen master."

"How about your husband? Has Lander ever used them? Carried them for you?"

"No, sir. Absolutely not! I lock them every night in my trinket box and unlock them every morning before work. That key I wear around my neck." She pulled a ribbon with a tiny brass key from beneath her grease spattered uniform. "I take every possible precaution I can to ensure that I keep the specials safe."

"What about your eldest son? He is what, fourteen, fifteen summers now? Could he have taken them?"

She shook her head with even more gusto. "The children do not touch my things without permission, sir. Besides, they're all visiting my mother. Been there for almost two phases now. Before that, Telek apprenticed dawn to dusk with the blacksmith every day since the summer solstice. He's been too tired to eat, let alone get into mischief. Like I said, sir, I've always locked away my special keys. I don't think the children have ever seen them, let alone touched them."

Dubric leaned forward. Was she protecting the boy, as mothers were prone to do? "If your son is apprenticed to the blacksmith, why did he visit your mother?"

Pitta looked at Lars, her eyes flicking over the pen he clutched in his hand. Her lip quivered and she slowly turned her worried gaze back to Dubric. "Do you have to write this down, sir? Please, can't this part just be between us?"

Dubric wanted to bang his head on his desk. He forced his voice to remain calm. "All testimonies are private. What you say will not leave this room."

"But it will be written. For others to read."

"For me to read," Dubric said.

Pitta looked at the pen. "I never took the dishes, Lander never took the dishes, and Telek never took the dishes, so I guess this will never end up as evidence at Council." She took a single deep breath and looked at Dubric. "I had the children, all of them, visit my mother for at least a moon."

Red, blotchy embarrassment flared up from her neckline, and she sucked in another breath while Dubric waited. "Tis my marriage, you see," she said. "We have the seven children and all, but it's never been easy and we've grown apart these past summers, ever since Lander became a herald. He has a certain image to maintain, meeting all the visitors like he does, and he's come to like it."

She snuffled in a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "I grew bigger after every baby, and I know Lander looks at the younger, thinner girls. And why wouldn't he? Look at me, Dubric! Greasy and filthy, big as a barn and covered in cooking mess, while he's so handsome and particular about his dress and bearing. He's discovered silks and minstrels and educated discussions, but I'm just boring old pig slop. The ugly old sow he married before he knew any different.

"We've had nary a moment to ourselves and I didn't know what else to do. He's been drawing away from me, looking at the young pretties, but I thought maybe if we were alone for a while we could find each other again. Maybe he could love me again instead of giving me a cold kiss then rolling away every night.

"That's why I sent the kids to visit Nana."

She bawled in her hands while Lars looked at Dubric and waggled the pen.

Dubric shook his head and watched Lars lay the pen onto the paper. The boy was almost as red as Pitta and the ghosts had turned to watch the show. From capital theft to marital trouble, in less time than it took to draw a breath. How did he get himself into these situations? "I am certain everything will turn out all right," he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "You two have been married for what, sixteen summers? You can surely work out any troubles."

Pitta nodded and blew her nose, loudly, into her already drenched handkerchief. "You would think so, but it's been tougher than I thought. I'd planned on having a romantic dinner or two each phase, take walks and all. Spend time together. But it's hard to be romantic while these murders are going on, and now you think I've stolen the lord's dishes. We've barely spoken to each other since this started. I don't know how it can get any worse."

Before Pitta could blow her nose again, a knock rattled the door. Dien peeked in. "We've searched their rooms as you've requested, sir. No dishes, no murder weapon, no—"

The sharp slash of Dubric's hand stopped Dien's report. Pitta took one look at Dien and wailed.

What ghosts could leave did leave, and Dubric did not blame them.

* * *

"You shouldn't go," Dari said.

Nella fluffed a pillow, standing it pertly on the bed. "I have to."

Dari smoothed the coverlet. "You're still in the pigsty for pilfering that broom, and if Helgith finds out you've snuck off to the gaol again, I don't know what she's going to do. Why you thought you needed to snatch a broom is beyond me, but she's furious!"

"I did not 'pilfer' a broom. I borrowed it, and I brought it back."

Dari stared at her. "In all the time I've known you, you have never, ever 'borrowed' anything without asking first."

Nella shrugged and gathered up the used sheets. "The answer would have been 'no,' so I didn't ask."

"Can you hear the words you're saying?"

Nella paused, her shoulders and head sagging. "Don't, Dari. Please. I know I'm breaking rules, but I have to. No one will help me, but I have to help Risley, and it's so horrid down there. Just awful. The least I can do is sweep the nastiness from his door or spend time talking with him after all he's done for me."

She looked at Dari, her lip trembling. "They're going to kill him, in a phase, maybe less, he thinks. I…" She swallowed, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I will stand by him. I will remain his friend. I will bring him food and sweep the damned floor. Helgith can punish me all she wants; just visiting him is more punishment than she can possibly conceive of. I can come back here, but he's trapped down there! He's locked in a slimy, stinking box, and he can't get out for even a moment to make beds or fold towels or get in trouble."

Nella straightened her back and said, "I'll buy the damned broom if I have to. Reimburse the kitchen for the food. It doesn't really matter, because the man I love is going to die and there's not a damned thing I can do to stop it. And I'm not even sure if he's guilty or innocent or anything!"

Struggling to regain her composure, she carried the sheets to the hall and threw them in the laundry cart. The rest of her friends and coworkers gave her concerned glances but said nothing.

She ignored their worries as best she could and gathered an armload of towels, carrying them into Lady Jespert's suite.

Dari stood in the middle of the room, frowning with concern. "I'm sorry," she said, hugging Nella. "I know how much you care about him. I should be more understanding. "

"Thanks for caring about me," Nella said, her shoulders shaking. "Really. You're a good friend." Before she could stop herself, she started crying, dampening Dari's uniform with her fear and her shame.

The other girls worked on, leaving Nella to cry in peace.