XXXII - The Investigation

  The Dusty Pumpkin was empty inside, devoid of human life save for the woman behind the counter and the agonized man upstairs that Sir Godwin would have much preferred to have let bleed out in one of Fenwick’s few gaol cells. It seemed that, despite the village’s slight revitalization over the last couple of days, its villagers did not yet see it fit to imbibe in what the tavern had to offer; perhaps this was because they felt guilty carrying on when so many of their own had now been killed, perhaps they were afraid to inebriate themselves with the threat of the lycanthrope still looming, or perhaps the Plague doctors had simply arrived too early in the day to witness any of the restored revelry, but whatever the reason may have been, the fact stood that the tavern was devoid of any and all customers. And that was exactly what Vlad had been hoping for.

  The Plague doctor and his apprentice found themselves surrounded by the emptiness of the tavern. From her spot behind the counter, Amabel looked up at them briefly as they entered before she returned her attention to the counter that she continued to wipe with a wet cloth despite it likely not having been dirtied in several days.

  “Welcome back,” she said. “I don’t suppose Avice threw you out of her forge and thus you’re now looking for new accommodations.”

  Vlad smiled. “I am afraid not. We are merely here to pay a visit.”

  “I wish others would do the same,” she said, “and actually pay for a drink or two while they are here.”

  “I just may be able to indulge you,” he said. “Night Owl here has been worried close to death about Mr. Dupont since that most dreadful night, and so she asked if we could pay him a visit. I have no interest in seeing the fool, but I relented under the condition that I stay down here while she checks on the charlatan.”

  Amabel looked at Sybil and smiled. “That’s kind of you. It seems that nobody in this village cares about what happens to that unfortunate man save for the two of us.”

  “Which is more sympathy than he deserves, I say,” Vlad offered. “But Night Owl certainly has a more generous heart than this old man does, and I shall not begrudge her that.”

  “Well, head upstairs if you’d like,” Amabel said to Sybil. “He’s in the first room on the right.”

  Sybil nodded once. “Thank you.”

  “Go on then, Night Owl.” Vlad sat at the counter. “I shall enjoy a drink here while you pay your visit to that rapscallion.”

  “Alright, Mr. Albescu,” Sybil said. “I shan’t take long.” His apprentice then made her way to the tight stairwell at the far end of the tavern and disappeared within its waiting threshold.

  And thus the first phase of their plan was complete.

  ___

  The boredom had finally grown worse than the pain. As his burning body had started to heal, he could feel the creeping ennui growing more powerful, until finally it usurped the pain’s place in the hierarchy of his agony. Now his restless mind felt imprisoned in his ruined form, forced to project itself back to better times, to when he could stand and walk and carry on with his friends, who were still of mortal standing and who were just as full of vigor and vitality as he was. But he could not escape from the truth for long; his mind always returned to the miserable reality that he was trapped within, always sure to remind him of the present before he got too comfortable in the what once was, the what could have been, and the what would never be again.

  But even worse—far, far worse—than anything else was the shame. Its gnawing weight was considerably more powerful than that of the boredom and the physical pain combined. Not even both of them at their worst could stand up to the unfathomable might of the embarrassment and self-hatred that he had felt for every single moment, waking or asleep, that he had existed through since that nightmare of an evening had come to pass.

  Which was why, when the Plague doctor’s apprentice entered his room and told him that she needed his help, he was all too happy to oblige her.

  ___

  Vlad took his first sip of ale in what must have been several years. He had made a pledge to keep his mind as sharp as possible at all times, which left no room for indulging in alcohol. It tasted bitter and unfamiliar on his tongue, and its foam clung to his facial hair in a way that made him desperate to wipe it away, but he refused to let his discomfort show on his face.

  “Has that charlatan been terribly difficult to tend to?” he asked his host.

  “Better than I would have expected,” Amabel said. “Caring for his hound while he recovers is more of a chore than anything else, but she tends to stay by his side for most of the day.”

  “Just say the word to Captain Godwin and he can take the man off your hands.”

  Amabel shook her head. “I’m not sure he would last long in a cell. His poor heart couldn’t handle it, being alone and left to rot. He’ll often call me to his quarters with some freshly imagined task at hand merely, I suspect, for the sake of having some company for a few minutes. As much as I shouldn’t, I do admit that I pity the poor man.”

  “You and my apprentice both.” Vlad took a sip of his ale.” As I said, though, I suppose I cannot judge either of you for it. My old heart holds little room to pity a man who has more than earned the predicament that he is in. I suppose if folk were more similar to you and Night Owl, then this world would be exceedingly more pleasant for all.”

  “Well, once our tormenter has been slain we can shift our focus to encouraging change in people’s hearts.”

  “Yes, dealing with that beast certainly is our first step toward a better world, isn’t it?” Vlad said. “But until such a time arrives, and Goddess willing it arrives soon, we must continue to protect ourselves from the horrible menace that plagues us so.” He tried to steal a glance beyond the counter to his host’s waist, but he was unable to see past the barrier. “Speaking of, did you have any luck with locating your stiletto? I would hate for you to find yourself defenseless in the event that the lycanthrope, Mother forbid, should take an interest in your establishment.”

  Amabel looked down at the sheath at her waist and frowned, providing him with his answer. “I did, but I must have left it in my own quarters. Foolish of me to keep forgetting it, I know.”

  He gave her a sardonic smile. “The weapon is certainly of more use when it is within reach.”

  A familiar voice echoed from the nearby stairwell. “Miss Amabel, I require your assistance posthaste!” Gaston Dupont yelled. “I currently endure such a terrible paroxysm of pain that I fear my pitiful life is finally at its end!”

  Vlad looked at the stairwell, then back at Amabel and frowned. “Is he alright?”

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  Amabel rolled her eyes. “I’d wager so. He thinks himself on the brink of death at least thrice daily.” She groaned. “I should probably go tend to him before he makes too much of a fuss.”

  “Do you need my assistance?”

  “That isn’t necessary,” she said. “You are my guest. Please stay and enjoy your ale; any aid I may need can surely be provided by your apprentice.”

  She stepped out from behind the counter and made her way toward the stairwell. As she went, Vlad, now able to see her lower half, confirmed that her dagger sheath was in fact devoid of its weapon. Amabel disappeared into the stairwell; he waited a few moments to ensure that she was truly gone, then, quickly downing the last of his ale, he hastily stood from his chair and stepped behind the counter.

  The Plague doctor began frantically-but-methodically searching for something—anything—that contained enough of Amabel’s handwriting in it or on it for him to analyze and compare to the letter given to him by Lucia. He had to make haste, but he also needed to be thorough; he doubted if he would get another chance to do this, but if he acted too rashly, he would risk exposing his search to Amabel. He needed to work under the assumption that she was, in fact, involved with the lycanthrope in some way, and if she was, her being alerted to his investigation would only spell trouble for him in the future. It was imperative that he find his evidence, study it, and return it exactly to where he found it, and he needed to do so before Amabel returned. Vlad had to have faith in his apprentice; it was important for him to trust that she would keep the older woman distracted long enough for him to complete this crucial task.

  The state of affairs behind the counter did not help him. The space was a mess; bottles of wines and spirits were scattered about on shelves, between which were placed haphazard towers of tankards and precariously stacked serving trays, which looked ready to fall over and crash to the ground at the slightest suggestion of a fledgling breeze. Vlad noted that, despite its chaos, the space at the very least looked clean, and he was glad to know that the tankard he had just drank from would likely not be providing him with any unwanted visitors to his body that would stay with him until long after he had said goodbye to Fenwick.

  His search behind the counter yielded no results. Vlad quickly glanced around the space, looking for another avenue to continue his investigation, when he saw the small, doorless entryway that led from behind the counter into a compact kitchen space. He stepped through this threshold, making sure not to knock into any of the tightly-packed pots and pans that littered the crammed walls of this new room as he did. The room was gloomy and devoid of windows; not even its oven, which was cold and lifeless, provided any light by which to guide his search. At first he feared that he would not be able to discern anything through the shadows, but as his eyes began to adjust, he was relieved to learn that the meager light coming in from the larger room beyond the doorway was enough for him to move by.

  Vlad spotted a small shelf near the oven, upon which rested a handful of messily arranged books. He picked up the first volume, and even through the gloom he was able to discern from its cover that it was an aged cookery book. Vlad opened it to a random page towards the front of the volume, and was glad to learn that the book appeared to be entirely handwritten, but he frowned when he realized that he was unable to properly make out the small, sloppily-scrawled text transcribed upon its pages in the gloom of that little space. He took the book back out into the tavern proper, where light was more abundant, and placed it onto the counter, then pulled the folded up letter from its place tucked into his belt. He began to compare the handwriting of both texts, but quickly realized that the two did not match. Vlad leafed to several more pages all throughout the book; It soon became clear to him that each recipe was written in a different penmanship, and he had no way of determining if any of them belonged to Amabel. He turned to the final page of the volume, and, realizing that it too contained several different scripts, understood that he would not be able to discern anything from the book.

  The Plague doctor paused. He listened to the sounds of creaking footsteps above him, none of which appeared to be making their way toward the stairwell. It sounded as if Amabel and Sybil were still working on whatever it was that Dupont had asked of them. He still had some time left, but he knew that he would not have any to waste on books of no importance. He needed to find something that was definitively in Amabel’s handwriting, and he needed to do so with haste.

  Leaving the letter on the counter, Vlad returned to the kitchen and placed the cookery book back where he had found it on the shelf. He picked up three more books and quickly glanced at their front covers. The natures of the first two were indiscernible from their covers, and so he chose not to waste any time on them, but the third held a title that suddenly flushed him with hope. Scrawled on the front cover was a single word: Ledger. A ledger of what, he did not yet know, but the word was enough for him to determine that the book was worth looking into.

  Vlad took the volume back out to the counter, opened it to a page in the middle, and began to read. It contained a list of various transactions. Vlad silently thanked Amabel for her responsible business practices, turned the ledger to one of its last filled pages, and began his comparison.

  A few fleeting minutes sped by with unprecedented speed. Vlad was ripped from his examination when he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps making their way toward the stairwell. Soon the shaft was alive with the groans of use, and he knew that he was out of time. He closed the ledger and rushed it back into the kitchen, but even as he returned it to its shelf, he knew that he would never be able to make it back to his seat on the other side of the counter in time. Instead he rushed back out into the tavern, scooped up the letter from its place on the counter, and, after hurriedly stuffing it back into his belt, turned his attention to the one of the messy shelves of alcohol in front of him. He snatched up the nearest bottle and pretended to read its label just as Amabel and Sybil appeared from out of the stairwell.

  “That man is going to be the death of me,” the tavern owner was saying. “Were he not my only guest, I might have half a mind to turn him over to Sir Godwin after all.” She noticed Vlad standing behind the counter and frowned. “Can I… help you with something, Mr. Albescu?”

  Vlad, pretending to notice them for the first time, looked up. “Ah, Miss Cook. I did not know when you would return, and I thought I would peruse your collection for a good wine that I might nurse while you tended to Mr. Dupont upstairs.” He quickly placed the bottle, which he now realized to be brandy and, in fact, not wine at all, back on its shelf between two half-empty decanters of similar spirits. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for breaching the unspoken contract formed between us when I took on the responsibilities of being your customer.”

  “Think nothing of it,” she said through a confused stammer as he stepped out from behind the counter. “I have dealt with far worse behavior than customers serving themselves.”

  “I do not doubt that,” Vlad said. He produced his coin purse and laid out enough silver on the counter to pay for at least two tankards of his ale. “Well, I suppose Night Owl and I should be on our way, then. We thank you very much for your hospitality.”

  “Do you no longer want a glass of wine?”

  “Thank you, but no,” he said. “I only thought to enjoy another drink while I was waiting for the two of you to complete your task. Now that you are finished, we can take our leave.”

  “Well, alright, then,” she said. “Come back soon. You’re always welcome at The Dusty Pumpkin. And please give my regards to Avice!”

  Vlad nodded as he and Sybil began moving toward the exit. “Of course! Remember to keep yourself safe, Miss Cook, and thank you again.”

  “Goodbye, Amabel,” Sybil added before Vlad pushed open the door and the two of them stepped through the threshold. Once they were outside, she turned to look at her mentor quizzically. “You were rather quick to get us out of there.”

  Vlad nodded again as they walked. “No use in us lingering when our task is complete.”

  “I would have given you more time if I could have, but Amabel has grown so accustomed to tending to Mr. Dupont that she was able to satiate him with alarming haste, despite my urgings for him to be as difficult as he possibly could. It would appear that even he has his limits when it comes to being a less-than-gracious guest.”

  “It matters not,” he said, “because the two of you together managed to provide me with all of the time that I needed.”

  He could see the excitement flare in her eyes. “Did you discover something?”

  “That I did, Night Owl—thanks in no small part to your excellent diversion.” He paused to gather his thoughts, inadvertently strengthening her anticipation. “I managed to find some of Miss Cook’s writings. It was difficult to be certain in the limited amount of time provided to me, but I believe I can say with at least moderate confidence that she is, in fact, the one who wrote the letter.”

  Sybil frowned at this. “But that would mean…”

  “Indeed it would,” he said, detecting where her thoughts were headed even if she was unable to speak them. “If I am correct in my assessment, then it would appear that Miss Amabel Cook is in league with the lycanthrope that so aggressively haunts this village.” He paused again, this time because it pained him to speak the words that he knew had to come next. “And if she is in league with the lycanthrope, then that makes her our enemy.”