Page 5 of The Toymaker's Son

“I did.” His smile cooled. “Report to me a’morrow. Good day.” He closed the carriage door and thumped its side, signaling for the driver to depart. “To the undertakers, in town,” Rochefort ordered.

The carriage jolted. I slumped in the seat, sighed, and loosened my stifling collar. Rochefort would probably lose interest once he realized I was not an easy target. Besides, I had other more pressing matters to attend to, such as discovering who killed Jacapo Barella, if indeed he was murdered.

The easy solution would be to blame it on Devere Barella and leave town with a substantial deposit in my bank account. If he had killed his father, I’d do exactly that. But I’d always had a talent for reading people. While Devere had been aggressive during our meeting, it hadn’t been from anger, as I’d assumed, but likely from fear. My instincts suggested Devere had much to hide, but the murder of his father wasn’t among his secrets.

But if he didn’t kill the toymaker, and if the remains pointed toward murder as Rochefort seemed to believe, then someone else had killed Jacapo.

Who and why were the questions Rochefort was paying me to answer.

As the carriage rumbled toward town, sinking into the mist, the air outside cooled and the windows fogged again. I shivered and pulled my coat tighter. Minerva had always been cold and isolated, tucked away in its own world, far from the bright and brilliant Massalia City. But this cold tried to gnaw through my clothes down into bone. If I stayed too long, it would sink into my soul like a disease.

Hopefully, Jacapo’s body would yield the truth, and this would all be over by the end of the week.

ChapterThree

Jacapo Barella’srotund body lay on a metal examination table. A plain white sheet covered him from chin to toe. There was no dignity in death, just raw fact. I’d seen a dozen bodies during my studies and learned how the flesh decomposed and what signs of foul play to look for. But as I’d mentioned to Rochefort, those bodies hadn’t belonged to people I knew. While I hadn’t seen Jacapo since my leaving, I had no trouble remembering the man’s jolly laugh and large personality.

“You must be the lord’s new constable?” Miss Couper, the undertaker, asked. She’d escorted me through the more comfortable surroundings, designed for customers, to the back rooms, where the town’s recently deceased were prepared for their final days above ground.

“I’m not a constable, no.”

“But you work for the law?” Miss Couper inquired.

“I consult, yes.”

“Not going to give me any more than that? Mystery man, huh?” She smirked and folded her arms. Several curls escaped the mousey bun pinned atop her head. Her black skirt skimmed her heeled boots, and white lace embellished her cream blouse. Not her formal wear, she’d told me, since I’d arrived unannounced. We’d likely attended school together, although I couldn’t recall her.

Undertaking was an unusual profession for a woman, but she had a kind, friendly face that the bereaved would appreciate.

I approached the table. Devere’s father had been in cold storage for several weeks after Rochefort had stopped any funeral arrangements.

“I take it something isn’t right with Jacapo?” she asked.

“Besides the fact he’s dead?”

She chuckled. “A gallows humor, I see.”

“More of a realist.”

She laughed softly again and folded the sheet down over Mr. Barella’s chest. “Then I doubt this will disturb you.”

“Little does, Miss Couper.”

Jacapo was a large man, and formerly deep voiced. His son was nothing like him. Short, where Devere was tall. Overweight, where Devere was as slim as a rake. Jacapo had laughed every other word, whereas Devere likely hadn’t laughed in years. Jacapo had been the soul of the toy store. Some might argue he’d been the soul of Minerva too.

Black hair clung to Jacapo’s placid face. His eyes were closed, a mercy. Decomposition had tried to sink its claws in, but the funeral parlor had slowed some of that with various chemicals. Their bitter smell hung in the air and burned my nose.

“I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I can tell you a few things I’ve seen that I don’t normally see on the deceased.”

“Go ahead.” She’d likely been one of the first to study the man’s body. Her insight would be invaluable.

She folded the sheet all the way down, exposing Jacapo’s body. His blood had pooled at his lowest points, leaving him a translucent blue. “His wrists, you see here?” She picked up his left wrist, nearest her. “Bruising. It’s paled some, but was prominent when he arrived. And here.” She lowered the wrist and pointed at his neck, showing small, dappled gray smudges on either side. The mottled bruises typically indicated choking.

I picked up his right wrist, ignoring how the cool flesh moved, as though slightly loose. “Restraints?” I asked.

“It appears so.”

Restrained and choked? No wonder Rochefort had stopped the funeral. Foul play had obviously been involved in the man’s death. I studied the rest of the body. Despite the typical bruising, there were no further wounds. Foreign body airway obstruction was likely the official cause of Jacapo’s untimely demise.

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