Read Online Doyle After Death by John Shirley - Free Book Online Page A

history. Three days on the sand, down there, wandering through the fog, and then . . .”
    Brummigen looked toward the ocean. “At first we thought he’d simply immolated himself somehow. Occasionally someone will abandon their old body, and . . . well, it doesn’t leave a residue like this. It seemed strange. The soul was not there. It had already escaped—­or been released by someone. Doyle suspected foul play. I thought it was just another freakish mystery of the Before.”
    â€œAnd now, Major?” Doyle asked.
    Brummigen looked at the wire-­formed remains. “I think it was murder.” He turned to Diogenes. “Thoughts, Lamplighter?”
    Diogenes took a long ten seconds before responding. “They are both unnatural renderings of the soul. They are predation. Apart from that, shadow lies across it. I cannot see more; nor could I say more if I could see more.”
    I’ve learned you can’t make Diogenes explain, when he is not inclined to. Somehow, I don’t know how, Diogenes is doing the right thing by keeping quiet.
    â€œCome on, then, Fogg,” said Doyle. “We’ll have a cup of tea, and you will rest. Tomorrow morning you’ll see what formulation is. Much will be revealed . . .”
    We started back down the hillside, the Lamplighter leading the way, Brummigen beside me, Doyle following, looking at the trail curiously as he went—­perhaps, like Holmes, alert for more clues. “Major, who is it who’s gone missing, lately?”
    â€œMost recently—­Morgan Harris. And to me, those remains resemble him, in a general way. Hard to tell, of course, for sure. Not much there. But I’d guess it was Morgan. He was a botanist wandering the swamps, the forests, trying to understand the plant life . . . or plant afterlife. Could be he wandered too close to something.”
    â€œLike what?”
    He shook his head. “I don’t know. He did make a few cryptic remarks at the bar. Something about ‘the wrong seeds are sometimes sown.’ Said it twice, staring in the mirror behind the bar. Funny duck, that guy, anyway. I feel like . . . that was probably what was left of him, back there . . .”
    Morgan Harris . First thing you learn in Homicide Investigation 101: The identity of the murder victim is a good place to start . . .
    â€œWhere can I find out about this Harris?” I asked.
    Doyle paused, glancing back at me. “You’re quite the . . . what’s the American term? Quite the go-­getter. Well, then. Go see the mayor tomorrow, if you’re so inclined. I’m already fairly aware of Morgan Harris. You’d best get up to speed. I shall need you to provide a more quotidian perspective, ha ha . . .”
    I blinked. Quotidian?
    Doyle turned away, whistling tunelessly to himself, and continued down the hill. After a moment I followed, underneath the Great Darkness, but hurrying toward the contemplative lights of Garden Rest.

 
    FOURTH
    T he old wooden door of the two-­story brick building was studded with rusty bolts and the ivory door handle was worn with use. On the door a small brass plaque read
    H IS H O NOR, W INN C HAUNCEY
    M AYOR OF G ARDEN R EST
    The mayor himself, wearing an old-­fashioned mayor’s sash over a blazer, answered my knock, looking hazily surprised but not unfriendly.
    Chauncey was a tall, gaunt man with lined red cheeks, and a long neck displaying a prominent Adam’s apple. He seemed to have settled on his mid-­forties for his afterlife appearance, perhaps for the avuncular gravitas of it. He had a shock of white-­streaked black hair, for the late 1930s, a yellow ascot, and shiny black shoes.
    The mayor looked me over, thick gray-­black eyebrows bobbing. “Ah, one of the new chaps!” His accent suggested southern England.
    â€œMorning,” I said. “Are you Mayor