Stiletto (The Checquy Files #2)

“I’m not familiar with Pawn Mondegreen,” said Whibley. “Will she be able to offer adequate protection?”

“With a wave of her hand, she can cause people’s bones to dissolve instantly,” said Rook Thomas.

“Well, that would probably do it,” said Whibley.

“What other presence does the Checquy have here?” asked Sir Henry.

“Aside from us and Pawn Mondegreen?” asked Rook Thomas. “None that I know of. Unless some Pawns happen to have taken the day off to go to the races. I’ll have the Rookery text every member of the Checquy to see who’s here, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

“If it’s unsafe, perhaps it would be best if we got the members of the Broederschap delegation out of here,” said Chevalier Whibley.

“Not at all!” exclaimed Ernst. “We stand beside you as comrades. Your mission is our mission.”

“What about the young man?” asked the Chev, nodding at Alessio.

“All the Broederschap stands ready to do service,” said Ernst, and he laid his hand on Alessio’s shoulder. Alessio looked a trifle startled at this volunteering of his help, but he nodded weakly. “We will bend all our strength to help you track down and kill this person,” Ernst declared. Everyone cringed at this heartfelt but unpalatable sentiment and looked around to make sure no race-goer had heard.

“That’s very kind of you, Ernst,” said Rook Thomas finally, “but we generally try not to kill people unless we absolutely have to. At which point, we kill them absolutely. Our first priority right now is identifying this murderer.”

“What are our leads?” asked Sir Henry.

“Damn few,” said the Rook. “There doesn’t appear to be much of a pattern, except that all the previous murders took place in London or Northamptonshire.”

“Security should have lists of everyone who has entered the enclosure,” said Chev Whibley. “I’ll see about obtaining them and transmitting them to the Rookery. Perhaps they can do an analysis and identify any correlations, such as a home or business address in Northamptonshire.”

The Rook explained to him how to reach Major Llewelyn, and Chevalier Whibley hurried off toward the grandstand. Ernst looked over at Odette thoughtfully. “I have an idea that may be of help. Odette, was there any trackable scent in the toilet?”

“Not really,” said Odette. “The crystals didn’t smell of anything in particular, so there was just feces and the faintest smell of blood.”

“You can smell blood?” asked Thomas. “Interesting. Do all of you have super-smell?”

“It’s not super-smell,” said Marcel. “It’s a heightened olfactory capacity keyed to specific biological compounds.”

“Right,” said the Rook. “Super-smell.”

“It’s not super,” insisted Marcel. “It’s equivalent to the best sense of smell possessed by a normal human being, but only for certain substances that we encounter in our work. It helps to diagnose some conditions.”

“But there was no trail?” said the Rook. Odette shook her head.

“Perhaps one could pick up the smell of blood if the person walked by,” mused Ernst.

“It depends,” said Marcel dubiously. “But I suppose it is possible.”

“My thought is this,” said Ernst. “Marcel, Odette, and I stand at three of the Royal Enclosure exits, and we keep a nose out for anyone smelling of blood.”

We’re going to be sniffing every race-goer? thought Odette.

“It’s ridiculous, but we’re in a ridiculous situation,” said the Rook. “And it might at least give us a chance. Also, I’d like Pawn Clements to go back to the murder scene and read its history. If she can get a look at the murderer, it could be our biggest break.”

“And how long will that take?” asked Sir Henry. Clements straightened slightly under his gaze.

“It depends, sir,” said the Pawn cautiously. “We don’t know how much time elapsed before the body was found. But not too long, I should think.”

“I’ll go with her,” said Rook Thomas. “Sir Henry, I think you ought to accompany Miss Leliefeld. She has only minimal weaponry, and if the murderer detects any of you at the exits, he might decide to attack.” Clements opened her mouth and then shut it again. Apparently, if she couldn’t act as bodyguard, then a man who had once sunk a Russian submarine to the depths of the abyssal plain whilst sitting inside it drinking schnapps was an acceptable substitute.

“From what I know of you gentlemen,” said the Rook drily to Marcel and Ernst, “I expect you can handle yourselves.”

“That sounds like a decent plan, Myfanwy,” said Sir Henry. He put out his hand, and, looking startled, the Rook shook it. “You and Pawn Clements go on. We shall work out which exits we will cover.”

*

Myfanwy watched Clements go into the handicapped bathroom and shut the door behind her. The guards outside were under the impression that the Pawn would be engaged in some sort of forensic work, which, technically, she was. Myfanwy sat herself down in a nearby chair, and her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Rook Thomas, this is Pawn Ball at the Rookery watch office.”

“What’s the status?” asked Myfanwy.

“We sent out the text messages to all members of the Checquy. The nearest office is in Reading, and, given the traffic, that’s over an hour away, if we use cars without lights and sirens.” Myfanwy sighed. “Now, there is a party of three Checquy employees at Ascot today. They are attending in the public areas of the racecourse, but...” He trailed off uncomfortably.

“What?”

“Well, it’s their day off, and they’re at the races,” said Pawn Ball. “They’re somewhat intoxicated.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Myfanwy. “How intoxicated are we talking about?”

“Intoxicated enough that they wouldn’t legally be able to drive. And one of them was giggling when I spoke to him over the phone.”

“Great.”

“Plus they e-mailed me photos of what they’re wearing, and none of them would pass the dress code for the Royal Enclosure. They couldn’t even pass as security guards or waitstaff, especially the ladies.”

“All right, well, I suppose we’ll hold them in reserve. None of them have any abilities that might help us identify a murderer, do they?”

“I’m afraid not. Two of them are Pawns. One has fireproof skin and the other has the ability to disrupt the part of the human brain that deals with language comprehension.”

“No, I suppose that wouldn’t be of much use. Look, dispatch the team from Reading. We’ll need forensic investigators and a combat team, just in case.”

“Understood.” And he rang off. Myfanwy sat back in her chair and brooded. She had an idea but was not certain how practicable it was. Earlier, while moving through the crowds, she’d brushed against a person who’d grated on her supernatural ability. Normally, she kept her additional senses firmly closed down to avoid getting distracted by the minutiae of other people’s nervous systems. But this person’s presence had flickered in the corner of her mind’s eye like a cigarette lighter.

Daniel O'Malley's books