Read Online A Charm of Magpies 03 Flight of Magpies by Kj Charles - Free Book Online
Authors: Kj Charles
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stole it.”
“Yeah,” Merrick said thoughtfully. “I reckon we need to talk to Mr. Day pretty sharpish.”
“I think we do. If only I knew where the bugger was.”
Stephen stood in a small bedroom, its close heat stifling after the chill outside. His heart was thumping, breath coming hard, and he was staring at a naked man on the bed.
The man sprawled over the coverlet, spread out on display. His legs were wide apart and his eyes were open, gazing at the ceiling. Stephen couldn’t stop looking at him.
He jumped as the third person in the room put a heavy hand commandingly on his shoulder.
“You’re not going to be sick, are you, Mr. Day?”
“I’m fine.” Stephen slithered away from Inspector Rickaby’s touch. “Unlike this chap. Why am I here?”
“What’s this look like to you?” Rickaby’s tone was thick with suppressed anger.
Stephen scowled at the spreadeagled figure on the counterpane. The dead man’s body and face were a mass of open wounds—long savage cuts, some laying the flesh open to the bone, an anatomist’s diagram. Stephen could see layers of dark red muscle and yellow fat, reminding him of an uncooked side of bacon. Between the open legs, the genitals had been almost completely severed. Blood soaked the bedclothes and pooled on the floor beneath.
“Butchery,” Stephen said. “Someone went mad with a knife. More than one person, perhaps. This must have taken hours. Did the neighbours not hear screaming? But,” he hurried to add as Rickaby opened his mouth, “what it doesn’t look like is my area of expertise. Why is this other than a straightforward killing?”
“The neighbours did hear screaming. Heard it, came up, kicked the door in, and saw… Want to guess?”
“No.”
“Nothing. Not another soul. Just him on the bed, screaming, and cuts opening up all over him. Like an invisible man was attacking him with an invisible knife, they said.”
Stephen repressed a groan. “And you think this report is accurate?”
“A constable saw it too. All the accounts tally. And, do you know who this gentleman is, Mr. Day?”
It sounded as though he was expected to, but the face was a mass of blood and muscle and white bone that Stephen had no great desire to examine. “I have no idea.”
“No idea? Don’t recognise him?”
As if the corpse’s own mother could. “No.”
“Funny, that. You knew him well enough once.”
Stephen looked at the body again, reluctantly. The hair was sparse, and faded ginger tufts were visible under the blood. The agonised eyes were of a peculiar pale blue, and as Stephen stared, his memory shifted the pieces into place.
“It’s not Fred Beamish, is it?” he said, barely able to believe his own words. “Oh God. It is, isn’t it?”
“Fred Beamish,” Rickaby repeated. “Inspector Beamish. The Council’s police liaison officer, as was, before you lot ruined him. And now here he is, murdered by magic.”
“Hell’s teeth.” Stephen pulled his gloves off, mind skittering as he attempted to understand the scope of this disaster. “But why would anyone hurt Beamish? He’d retired.”
“Resigned,” Rickaby corrected. “When he lost his nerve. When he saw one too many God-rotted filthy thing.”
Stephen remembered it all too well. Beamish had been a decent enough man, but like most of the men of the Metropolitan Police, he had not signed up for unnatural evils, and there had been a lot of those last year, when the warlock Thomas Underhill had abandoned all caution, drunk on power, and had operated in plain sight. Beamish had been one of the first on the spot when they had found a child, alive, its ribcage gaping and heart gone, wandering along the Embankment crying emptily for its mother. He had resigned from the police force the following day, and started drinking. Stephen had meant to go and visit him, to talk, or to see if he could draw some of the venom out of Beamish’s memories, but he had had to hunt down Underhill first,
“Yeah,” Merrick said thoughtfully. “I reckon we need to talk to Mr. Day pretty sharpish.”
“I think we do. If only I knew where the bugger was.”
Stephen stood in a small bedroom, its close heat stifling after the chill outside. His heart was thumping, breath coming hard, and he was staring at a naked man on the bed.
The man sprawled over the coverlet, spread out on display. His legs were wide apart and his eyes were open, gazing at the ceiling. Stephen couldn’t stop looking at him.
He jumped as the third person in the room put a heavy hand commandingly on his shoulder.
“You’re not going to be sick, are you, Mr. Day?”
“I’m fine.” Stephen slithered away from Inspector Rickaby’s touch. “Unlike this chap. Why am I here?”
“What’s this look like to you?” Rickaby’s tone was thick with suppressed anger.
Stephen scowled at the spreadeagled figure on the counterpane. The dead man’s body and face were a mass of open wounds—long savage cuts, some laying the flesh open to the bone, an anatomist’s diagram. Stephen could see layers of dark red muscle and yellow fat, reminding him of an uncooked side of bacon. Between the open legs, the genitals had been almost completely severed. Blood soaked the bedclothes and pooled on the floor beneath.
“Butchery,” Stephen said. “Someone went mad with a knife. More than one person, perhaps. This must have taken hours. Did the neighbours not hear screaming? But,” he hurried to add as Rickaby opened his mouth, “what it doesn’t look like is my area of expertise. Why is this other than a straightforward killing?”
“The neighbours did hear screaming. Heard it, came up, kicked the door in, and saw… Want to guess?”
“No.”
“Nothing. Not another soul. Just him on the bed, screaming, and cuts opening up all over him. Like an invisible man was attacking him with an invisible knife, they said.”
Stephen repressed a groan. “And you think this report is accurate?”
“A constable saw it too. All the accounts tally. And, do you know who this gentleman is, Mr. Day?”
It sounded as though he was expected to, but the face was a mass of blood and muscle and white bone that Stephen had no great desire to examine. “I have no idea.”
“No idea? Don’t recognise him?”
As if the corpse’s own mother could. “No.”
“Funny, that. You knew him well enough once.”
Stephen looked at the body again, reluctantly. The hair was sparse, and faded ginger tufts were visible under the blood. The agonised eyes were of a peculiar pale blue, and as Stephen stared, his memory shifted the pieces into place.
“It’s not Fred Beamish, is it?” he said, barely able to believe his own words. “Oh God. It is, isn’t it?”
“Fred Beamish,” Rickaby repeated. “Inspector Beamish. The Council’s police liaison officer, as was, before you lot ruined him. And now here he is, murdered by magic.”
“Hell’s teeth.” Stephen pulled his gloves off, mind skittering as he attempted to understand the scope of this disaster. “But why would anyone hurt Beamish? He’d retired.”
“Resigned,” Rickaby corrected. “When he lost his nerve. When he saw one too many God-rotted filthy thing.”
Stephen remembered it all too well. Beamish had been a decent enough man, but like most of the men of the Metropolitan Police, he had not signed up for unnatural evils, and there had been a lot of those last year, when the warlock Thomas Underhill had abandoned all caution, drunk on power, and had operated in plain sight. Beamish had been one of the first on the spot when they had found a child, alive, its ribcage gaping and heart gone, wandering along the Embankment crying emptily for its mother. He had resigned from the police force the following day, and started drinking. Stephen had meant to go and visit him, to talk, or to see if he could draw some of the venom out of Beamish’s memories, but he had had to hunt down Underhill first,
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