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dnd oakley street > Oakley Street Part Three
the Airship
The band of adventurers, Dahlia, Ethel, John and Tom, are walking through the streets of London away from the party where they narrowly avoided causing a major disturbance. They come across a beggar. “Want any eggs, mate?” asks Tom. The beggar, on hearing this unusual question, thinks that Tom is making fun of him.
“Think it’s funny, do you? That I don’t have any food? Do you? I’ll take your eggs, mate,” and snatches the bag of devilled eggs from Tom. The group walk back to Marchestra, eggless, and ready for bed. They get in to find that Cassandra has already arrived. She is sleeping soundly in the nicest berth, with an empty bottle not far from her on the floor. She has clearly had a hard night partying with the local gyptians. Dahlia, Ethel, John and Tom shuffle around in the small cabin to find places to sleep.
Early the next morning, there are raps on the window. Tom’s daemon, and by connection Tom, are woken first. Erin, Dahlia’s hedgehog daemon, falls onto the floor, waking Dahlia.
“I think it’s time we talk”, comes the voice from outside of the cabin. Cassandra opens the hatch, revealing that the voice came from a London river policeman. “How long are you intent on staying here? Will you be needing the mooring much longer?”.
“Good morning, officer”, Cassandra greets the policeman. The rest of the party are still engaged in the process of waking up and evaluating their surroundings. Groggy though they are, it dawns on them that Cassandra was clearly the worse for wear last night, but has recovered in an instant. She must be a regular heavy drinker. “We set off today by zeppelin to continue our investigation, so we will be needing the mooring for a while, yet.”
“This won’t do at all,” says the policeman, “but there is a private mooring a short way along the river which you can use. May I ask that you fill me in on what’s been going on, what takes you away from London so soon, and when you might return?”
“That’s Oakley Street business,” Dahlia interjects.
“Oh, of course, if it’s Oakley Street business, I’ll pry no further and take you to the mooring.”
Cassandra moors Marchestra skillfully at the berth directed by the sympathetic police officer and joins the rest of the party as they enter the Central London zeppelin station. The station lobby extends out ahead of them for what seems like half a mile. The floor is of the finest polished marble. Clocks, and ticket booths made of dark hardwoods, line the main station thoroughfare, with stone staircases either side leading to airship berths. “Five tickets to Paris, leaving as soon as possible,” Tom asks at one of the hardwood booths.
“There are five tickets left for the ten thirty, if that’s acceptable?” replies the ticket clerk.
“We’ll take them, thank you,” interrupts Cassandra, who is eager to be on the move. Tom pays for the tickets and the party join the queue to board the waiting airship. “Everyone keep hold of your ticket!” reminds Cassandra. The travellers look out of the skylight to see the airship’s anbaric engines starting up above them; the airship is almost ready to leave.
They pass a Magesterium security checkpoint. The Magesterium guard, dressed in his smart, green uniform, waves the party through. His daemon is a chicken. Cassandra and Dahlia both look sternly at John and Tom, silently imploring both of them not to make an egg related joke.
“Tickets, please!” requests the guard on the boarding ramp. Each of the party hand over their ticket for inspection. “Your tickets are for the common area, good luck.” adivses the guard, with a small smirk on his face. None of the party are quite sure what to make of this, but each are thinking to themselves, “surely it can’t be that bad?”.
There are only five seats left in the common area. The party sit uncomfortably on the wooden benches, which are too narrow and slightly too close to the floor, to accommodate for the modest dimensions of the gondola. The common area is at the back of the gondola, near to the anbaric engines, which are now running at full power, spreading noise and vibration through this end of the gondola. Gracefully, the airship leaves its London berth, and makes a turn for Paris. Dahlia, John and Tom twist awkwardly to look out of the window as Tower Bridge shrinks into the distance. Cassandra, despite her fierce independence, shares a deep kinship with her people, and ignores the view out of the window as she notices a wave of sadness pass over her at the sudden distance from them.
After a short time in the air, Tom attracts the attention of the trolley lady, who is pushing her trolley from the door at the front of the common area, which leads to the private cabin accommodation, back to the kitchen to replenish her supplies. Tom has spotted a few plates of Eggs Benedict that appeal to him, and attempts to purchase one.
“Passengers in the common area cannot buy items from the trolley,” the lady informs Tom.
“But why?” protests Tom, loudly.
“Because it is not permitted, that’s why! Now go back to your seat or I will fetch the guard.”
The guard who had checked the group’s tickets begins to look perturbed. Not at the narrowly avoided altercation between the trolley lady and Tom, but at something happening behind the closed door. He exchanges a few hushed words with the trolley lady, then goes through the door to the cabin accommodation. The trolley lady turns and heads towards the kitchen to replenish her trolley. After she has passed Tom, he gets up and puts his ear to the door. A loud scream and hurried footsteps, from big boots, come from the other side of the door.
Tom acts impulsively, standing back from the door ready to force it open, not checking whether it is locked first. He runs at it with his full power. As his shoulder makes contact with the door, the guard opens it from the other side. Tom stumbles and almost falls to the floor in the corridor which leads on to the private cabins. The guard looks at him, part perplexed by what’s going on, part angry at Tom for far exceeding the limits of the common area accommodation, and part embarrassed for Tom at his pathetic error. Tom, however, is very proud of himself for, as far as he believes, breaking down the door.
The guard, too busy to deal with Tom’s infraction properly, orders him to sit down in the common area, before going back through the door and speaking in raised tones with the staff on the other side. The entire party put their ears to the door and listen as the staff debate what they should do with the passenger in compartment four. They all rush back to their seats as they hear footsteps again approaching the door. The same guard rushes to the back of the common area. The party silently agree that they need to be in the corridor, so at the first moment, slip past the guard, open the door which they assume is not locked as they have not seen anyone use a key to open it, enter the corridor, and close the door behind them to prevent suspiscion.
As they follow the loud voices to the cabin, the party overhear the words ‘death’ and ‘passenger’. They walk into the compartment to find the wait staff huddled around the lifeless body of a man, arguing over what to do. “We should move him!” said one.
“No, leave him be; move the other passengers from this compartment,” said another. The trolley lady, also alerted to the disturbance, had walked in and was shocked and frightened at the sight of the dead man.
“What’s going on here?” asks Tom as he walks in, followed by the rest of the group; at least, those who can fit into the cabin; the rest wait within earshot at the door.
“We just found him,” replied the first waiter to have entered the room, his hands trembling slightly. The second waiter studies the scene carefully.
“That’s strange; our chef doesn’t normally use flowers in his Eggs Benedict,” said the second waiter, as they looked at the half-eaten dish in front of the dead man. The first waiter steps away from the body to examine the dish.
“That’s oleander. I’m quite sure,” he says. “It’s poisonous.”
At the blunt comment, the trolley lady begins to hyperventilate. The party’s eyes turn to her. Cassandra, quick to act, steps over, sits her down and pulls a small flask of brandy from a pocket inside her large coat. Dahlia objects, but the trolley lady takes a sip from the flask. For a moment, her demeanour appears to be completely restored, but this is more from the taste of Cassandra’s strong brandy than its alcoholic effects.
“How… how do we know that it was meant for him?” sobbed the man who was sat opposite the victim.
“What’s your name? And this man’s name, if you please?” asks Cassandra.
“Edward Clarkson, and his name is… was… Hugo.” replies the man, who is dressed in a slightly crumpled collared shirt and trousers and a sleeveless wool jumper.
“And your name?” says Cassandra to the third passenger in the compartment, who was yet to speak.
“Benedict Aylesbury,” he replies, simply.
“And what is your reason for travelling to Paris?” asks Ethel, eager to begin investigating the events leading to the poor man’s death.
“We are… were… travelling to a conference in Paris. Hugo has been living in England for a while as a visiting scholar. He was due to present his research on our return to Paris, unfortunately that will never happen now.”
“What was he working on?” asks Cassandra, listening intently to every word.
“He was… on the precipice of something big. Look, it’s very complicated, you wouldn’t understand half of it.” replied Benedict, the look of loss clear on his face. Not just of his academic colleague, but of the knowledge that had died with him.
“Now, come on. If you can’t explain it to a six year old, you don’t understand it yourself.” remarked Ethel, encouragingly.
“Well, the work was surrounding particles. You know, the building blocks of matter, of everything. Well, you see, some particles, we understand very well. ANd some, we don’t. That’s what Hugo was working on.” explains Benedict, unconvincingly. Ethel, indeed the rest of the party, look at other items in the room.
“Was this Hugo’s briefcase?” asks Ethel, gesturing to a smart, black leather case in the cubby hole beneath the seat.
“Yes,” replies Benedict, passing it across the cabin. “I don’t know the code, though.”
“Do you know his birthday?” asks Ethel, eyes bright in anticipation.
“It’s the seventeenth of June,” Edward offers, as Benedict provides only a blank look. Within moments, Ethel has opened the briefcase and spread some of its contents on the table. Benedict pores over the documents and notes inside, as though he’s seeing them, like Ethel, for the first time. Scanning through the notes, Ethel sees mentions of Dust (with a capital ‘D’), consciousness, daemons, adulthood, and the named ‘Rusakov’.
At this moment, the guard, who had been checking on passengers in the common area and quietening them after the disturbance, walks in. He is angered by these passengers from the common area encroaching on his duty to secure the cabin. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he asks, gesturing with his hands in frustration at the scene before him.
“A better job than you,” offers John, inflaming the guard further. He then takes a deep breath, at the realisations that, under the circumtances, the intrepid passenger might be right. It would be impossible to keep an eye on the common area, reassure the compartment passengers, and secure the scene all at the same time.
A Magesterium guard enters, wearing a green uniform. He has heard the discussion which has already taken place, and in his head has come to the same conclusion as the airship guard; that the passengers from the common area are doing more good than harm, for the time being. He gives them leave to continue their investigation; at least it will keep them out of the way.
Cassandra’s flask of brandy, or more likely the passage of time, has by now calmed the nerves of the trolley lady to the point that Dahlia attempts to ask some questions. “What time did you serve the meals to these gentlemen?” she asks, politely.
“Oh, not long ago,” the trolley lady replies, still nervous. “I brought the plates, on the trolley, straight from the kitchen, you see, oh, and, bringing them past the other door there, which leads to the storeroom, I heard a banging noise, that made me nervous.”
“What sort of banging noise? Why would it make you nervous?” asks Cassandra, feeling as though she’s on the cusp of uncovering some vital piece of information.
“Because the storeroom is not meant to be accessed during the flight, not even by the airship guards,” the trolley lady replies, on firmer ground now that she is simply reciting process and this seems to be pleasing Cassandra, a grin forming on her face.
“Thank you. John, you and I will search the storeroom. Dahlia, please continue to interview all the passengers in these compartments.” Gesturing to the guard, who was edging towards the door; “And I’m sure you will be happy to provide a passenger manifest.”
“Of course, right away,” replies the guard, as he hurries out of the room and into the corridor.
Cassandra and John enter the storeroom via two ladders; Cassandra taking the one near the airship’s bow, and John taking the one nearer the stern. In case a person in the storeroom had made the banging noise and were still there, they would be intercepted by either Cassandra or John. As it turns out, the room contains only inanimate luggage. It is well lit, by anbaric lamps, and Cassandra and John get to work quickly examining the passengers’ luggage.
Dahlia, going from compartment to compartment, begins interviewing the passengers, asking each of them in turn what they’d heard of the disturbance, and where they had been during the voyage so far. She first meets a stylish, likely wealthy, French lady with impeccable English. “I was here with my daemon, Francis, the whole time,” she declares. Francis, a robin, sits proudly on the small table as she speaks.
In the next cabin, Dahlia interviews a florist. Her daemon, another bird, flies around the cabin, restlessly, while the florist herself is calm. “I boarded and checked that my cargo had been stowed correctly,” she says.
“Your cargo?” asks Dahlia, intrigued.
“Oh yes. I’m carrying a valuable selection of cut flowers for the French markets. Mostly English roses, but a few daisies, as they’re coming into fashion now.”
“You don’t have any oleander in your cargo, by any chance?” asks Dahlia.
“Oleander? Are you crazy? That’s poisonous!” replies the florist, her voice raised. Returning to her original, calm demeanour, she adds “No, I do not have any oleander.”.
Finally, Dahlia enters the last compartment adjacent to the one occupied by the scholars. She meets a French painter holding a small lapdog. He is very relaxed, unaware that the scream he had heard earlier had come from one of the wait staff discovering the body of the scholar.
In the storeroom, Cassandra and John examine each of the passengers’ luggage in turn. They come across a matching set of cream and brown luggage, which appears to belong to a lady of some wealth. They take a quick look through the suitcases, justifying their invasion of the passenger’s privacy with the fact that they are investigating a murder. There is no sign of oleander in the luggage, but there is a letter with a name that the pair recognise; it is from the Bonneville estate in Paris. They return the letter to the luggage, knowing that they can come back to it later if it might be relevant.
Next, they come across several boxes of flowers, all neatly stacked and carefully netted over to prevent their movement during the flight. None of the flowers are unusual to Cassandra and John; most are roses and daisies, none are oleander. They do discover, however, a loose sheet of paper folded into a rectangle. Unfolding it, John can see a second set of fold lines; the paper had previously been folded into a cone suitable for holding a small cut flower. They take this, as it may be the first piece of evidence explaining how the oleander came to be aboard the airship.
Finally, they search through the food supplies, which had been brought on board by the chef. There is no sign of oleander; in fact, there is very little produce, as most of it has been taken up to the kitchen already.
Climbing the ladder out of the storeroom, Cassandra and John regroup with the rest of the party and present their evidence in the form of the folded paper. Dahlia repeats verbatim everything that the other passengers had told her. The group sit down at the table in the compartment area lounge, which was empty, to deliberate on their findings.
Having discussed the available evidence, the party can start to draw connections between the events that have transpired. They decide that the next move is to work out when the oleander entered the dish that killed the scholar, and so they must interview the chef who prepared it. John decides to leave the group at this point and take a nap, to save his energy for later and prevent the investigative group from becoming too mob-handed.
The chef looks up from his work as the group enter his kitchen. His daemon is a magpie; she is perched on a plate rack, and turns her head as the door opens. “Hello,” says Dahlia, calmly. “We’re investigating the death of the scholar, you must have heard about it.”
“Yes, terrible business, but I don’t know why you want to speak to me.”
Ethel speaks, “Obviously, as the meal that killed the scholar came from this kitchen, we need your help to clarify the order of events.”
The chef’s expression changes; he is agitated at the suggestion that he might be a suspect in the case, even amongst many potential suspects on board. “Well, I am very busy, so if you’d kindly hurry up and ask your questions, the quicker you can be out of my way, the better.”
“About the food; what was on the menu today?” asks Ethel, keen to calm the situation.
“Eggs Benedict. It was the same for all of the passengers,” replies the chef.
Dahlia comments, “Some of us aren’t privileged enough to know what a ‘Beggs Enedict’ is.”
The chef turns up his nose. “Will that be all?”
“Do any of the passengers have dietary requirements?” asks Cassandra, ready to note down the chef’s answer.
“If they do, that’s their problem,” replies the chef, his irritation continuing.
“And did you prepare the cocktails that were served with the Eggs Benedict?” asks Casssandra.
“Yes, who else?” the chef replies, through almost gritted teeth. “I prepared the food, the cocktails, and put them on the trolley. Charmaine here,” he gestures towards his daemon, who bows, “checks the presentation before they are taken to the cabins.”
Cassandra writes all of this down. “And the bottom tray was for the scholars’ cabin, yes?”
“Let’s see, three meals, yes.” replies the chef.
“It would be easy for someone to slip something in and pretend to be tying their shoelace,” remarks Ethel. This comment gains her a stern look from the chef.
“Will that be all?” he asks.
“For now.” is Cassandra’s reply. The party leave the kitchen. As they walk down the corridor, nobody else is in sight; the group speak, in hushed tones, so as not to be oberheard by passengers or crew behind the thin walls. “There’s clearly a motive to take a private cabin; privacy. But that may be the murderer’s undoing, to. Let’s imagine one of the other two scholars killed their colleague. How would they have slipped out unnoticed to fetch the oleander?”
At the scholars’ cabin, Cassandra confirms just that. The scholars were together, in their cabin, for the entire journey.
They move on to speak to the painter, whom they have not spoken to yet. He is sat in his cabin. His daemon, a small dog, sits on his lap. The two look very peaceful. Without standing, he welcomes the party into the cabin.
“We just have a few questions for you, regarding the events that have taken place during the voyage,” says Cassandra.
“Of course,” says the painter. He has a thick French accent. “There was a commoton outside. I do not know more than that, I was in my cabin the whole time.”
“A man has been murdered.”
“Oh. Well. That is very sad news, I had not idea,” replies the painter. He looks genuinely upset, despite not yet knowing any more about the identity of the deceased or the manner of his demise.
“Let me ask you for your views on the Bonneville family,” continues Cassandra. “Do you know of them?”
“But of course,” the painter begins. “Most of France has heard of them, at least. And most of those, they wouldn’t say anything of course, have heard the rumours.”
“What rumours?” asks Dahlia, intrigued.
“Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t say. They are rumours of course,” says the painter.
“Go on,” says Cassandra, sternly, her grip on her pencil tightening, as she is eager to note down everything that the painter says.
“Well, they have internal conflict. Most of them support the Magisterium, you see, but there are a handful who don’t. Never publically for or against, you understand. That Gerard; he’s a natural theologian, but would never admit it. Oh,and you didn’t hear this from me, some of them have,” he pauses, thinking, “an interesting relationship with their daemons.”
“The man with the three-legged hyena daemon?” asks Dahlia, though she already knows the answer.
“Yes,” the painter continues. “The way he spends money on his studies upsets the family, they find it,” he searches for the word, “frivilous.”
“You must move in polite society, given the profile of your work?” asks Cassandra.
“Yes,” replies the painter. He looks and sounds slightly uneasy, as though he’s hiding something. Ethel spots this.
“Has the Bonneville family ever commissioned you to produce a work for them?” asks Ethel, boldly.
The painter takes a deep breath. “Yes, once. I did not complete the work.” He pauses.
“Tell use more,” presses Cassandra.
“Well, Gerard commissioned me to paint himself and his mother. It was a fairly typical commission, except that,” he paused, straining in thought, “most people would want their daemon in the painting with them, but Gerard didn’t. And his mother, well, I never once saw her daemon. As if she,” his voice drops to a whisper, “didn’t have one.” Dahlia shudders at this revelation.
“And what happened to the painting?” asks Cassandra, after a brief pause for Dahlia to collect herself.
“I never finished it. The family didn’t want it. There were meant to be more sittings, but they cut off contact,” the painter continues. The subject is clearly confusing to him, if not troubling. “I take payment in advance, it is usual in my profession. The family did not want it back after I did not complete the work for them.”
“As if they wanted to keep something secret?” asks Cassandra. “Something you know, that they don’t want to get out? Something you suspect, even?” she says, maintaining eye contact with the painter. The atmosphere in the room is very serious.
“There isn’t much that I know about them, other than what I have told you.” says the painter, leaning back in his seat.
“You’ve painted a fairly detailed picture of them,” says Cassandra. Everyone else in the room rolls their eyes, while Cassandra grins at her terrible pun. “What else is there that we should know?”
“Just that, if I were you, I would stay away from the family, if you want to avoid this kind of,” he pauses yet again, searching for the correct word to use, “drama. I feel sorry for anyone who marries into the family. The lady in the next cabin got away from them in time.”
“Oh?” asks Cassandra, puzzled.
“Yes, most people know, but not many will say. She was engaged to Gerard Bonneville, the outcast son of the family. What put her in mind to say yes, I do not know, but anyway, they are no longer together. A good thing for her, I think.”
“Thank you, you have been most generous with your time, that will be all for now,” says Cassandra, releasing the tension in the room. She rises to leave. The rest of the group follow her.
“But of course. If you should ever need me, here is my card.” The painter presents Cassandra with his card, an exquisite, tiny piece of art in its own right.
Having learnt a good deal about the Bonneville family, but getting no closer to the identity of the murderer, the group continue on to the next cabin. They knock and a voice with a thick French accent invites them, “Come in.” Their host is a woman, clearly of some status. She wears a morning dress, accentuated with jewels around her neck.
“Good day. Please pardon the interruption, we are here to ask you a few questions about recent events.” says Cassandra to the woman.
“But of course. I am happy to help,” she replies, kindly.
“I would like to ask you first about what you know of the Bonneville family. As I understand it, they are well known in France?” asks Cassandra, politely, with the intention to leave the question open for the woman to day as much, or as little, as she wanted.
“Of course,” she begins, with a deep breath. “I know more than most do about the Bonneville family, and I should fear for anyone who marries into it. Gerard, in particular, he is the loose cannon, as you might put it. Oh, it is true that I was engaged to him, once. He can be very charming, you see. And so can that hyena daemon of his.” Dahlia and Ethel exchange glances at hearing this.
Dahlia holds up one of the envelopes that she found in the hold. “If this engagement was in the past, please tell us why you have been in contact with the Bonneville family recently?” she asks.
The lady is surprised at seeing her private letters presented to her, but in a controlled tone, simply asks “Why do you have these? You’ve been through my luggage?”
Cassandra jumps in, “Only as far as required for our investigation, I assure you.”
“Well then,” the woman says, obviously angry but remaining calm, “Personally, yes, I am on bad terms with the family. Publically, we are amicable. There is business between us that will not be finished until a private issue is resolved. And that is all I have to say on the matter.”
Aware of the invasion they have already made into the woman’s privacy, Cassandra halts this line of questioning, and changes tack. “What is your opinion of the Majesterium?” she asks, another intentionally open question.
“I support the Majesterium, as most good people do,” she says, puzzled at the nature of the question, but still choosing her words carefully. “The Majesterium are an arm of The Authority himself.” This answer satisfies Cassandra; there is nothing to indicate that she may be lying. In fact, thinks Cassandra, her support of the Majesterium would give her a clear reason to break off her engagement to Bonneville. It would also, however, give her a reason to want to see the scholars in the next cabin dead. But not enough of a reason. Why would a woman of such status risk everything by taking the life of an academic? It doesn’t make sense.
“Thank you for your time, we must be moving on,” says Cassandra. She stands to leave, and the rest of the party follow her out of the cabin. They move next to the scholars’ cabin. On their way, Cassandra remarks, “If Hugo was targetted specifically by the killer, then one of the scholars must have at least been complicit, if not themselves the killer.”
The group are readily invited back into the scholars’ cabin. Edward has regained his composure and is drinking from a glass of water on the table. Benedict is sat next to him, comforting him. The eyes of suspcion are on both men.
Ethel begins the questioning, asking both men, “How close were you to the deceased?”
Benedict answers the question quickly. “Academically, we were close; we worked on a lot of the same topics. Personally, though, I was not very close to him at all. Edward was much closer.”
Edward, still slightly shaken by the events, adds “I was worried for him. Repercussions for his work, he went much further than either of us. He was a good friend.” His eyes fill with tears again. It is clearly an effort for him not to cry in front of the group of strangers before him.
“Are you aware of the Bonneville family, at all?” asks Cassandra, thinking that this line of questioning will lead to a greater understanding of the scholars’ work.
“Yes, we know of them,” says Benedict, succinctly.
“Would you mind elaborating?” asks Dahlia, well aware that Benedict has much more to say than he has let on.
“Gerard, the wild son of the family, he studied the same topics as myself and Hugo. We were friendly rivals in the field of study, before he parted ways with the college. It is my understanding that now he uses his family’s money to continue his studies privately.”
“They are not too happy about that,” interrupts Edward. “They would say that he squanders their money. It divides the family.”
Dahlia turns to Benedict. “Have you had any correspondance with the Bonnevilles since he parted ways with the college?” she asks.
“No,” is Benedict’s simple reply. He does not appear to be lying; nor does he appear to be hiding any relevant information. “It is such a terrible shame,” he continues, “Hugo’s work, he was about to change the world.”
Benedict’s comment cements in Cassandra’s mind that whoever targeted the scholars, targeted Hugo specifically. Being able to silence a scholar on the brink of making a breakthrough in a controversial subject must be a huge motive for someone.
“Were the two of you working very closely together on this breakthrough?” asks Cassandra.
“We worked closely, “ says Benedict, “but Hugo was well ahead of me. It was a sensitive endeavour.”
“Will you carry on hs work?”
“No.” replies Benedict. “Someone might, but they have a lot of catching up to do to get to the point Hugo was at.” He gestures at the empty seat where Hugo was sitting earlier. “There is too much at stake for me to do it now. Those with private funding, maybe; possibly Gerard. He would have much less to lose.”
“Why?” asks Dahlia. “Because he would be working away from the eyes of the Majesterium?”
“Precisely.” Benedict replies. “We are granted Scholastic Sanctuary by the Majesterium, but Hugo was so far over the line of protection that offers us.”
“I told him that it was dangerous and that he should stick to safer work,” interrupts Edward, on the verge of tears again, “but he didn’t listen.”
“Thank you again for your time, I think that is all we needed to know.” says Cassandra, eager to leave the grieving man in peace. “Oh, just one other question; what form did Hugo’s daemon take?”
“A hog-nosed snake,” replies Benedict.
The party leave the two scholars and move to the next cabin. Inside are two Majesterium guards and a prisoner whom they are transporting. The guards are annoyed at the interruption to their duty, but each of them steps out of the cabin in turn to be interviewed in the corridor, which is quiet enough to offer as much privacy as any of the cabins.
“Please start by telling us your name and your movements during the flight,” begins Cassandra.
“Charles White,” he begins. “I have been with the prisoner the whole time during boarding and the flight, until you asked me to step out to speak to you.” He says this gruffly, to make the group aware of his annoyance. His doberman daemon makes a slight growl.
“Tell us about the prisoner; what is he accused of?” asks Dahlia.
“That, I cannot discuss with you in detail. But he is wanted for heresy in France. A crime he committed when he was much younger. Anyway, this business about a murder. An airship is not an intelligent place to commit such a crime, as it leaves so few suspects. You haven’t had any trouble identifying who did it, have you?”
Ignoring the question, Cassandra continues. “Tell us what you know of the staff and the other passengers on this flight.”
“I know the staff quite well from previous journeys. Oh, the scholars, one of whom was killed, they think that nobody knows what they do, but I do, and the Majesterium does, and they’re walking on very thin ice. Even if one of them hadn’t been murdered, the work wouldn’t be going on much longer.”
Cassandra nods convincingly at this comment, which seems to alleviate the guard’s sour mood. “One more question. It would appear that the poison was transported aboard wrapped in a piece of floristry paper, which was discarded in the hold. Did you spot anything unusual in the cargo hold?”
“No, I haven’t been down there on this flight. My colleague checked the hold, but a piece of floristry paper wouldn’t be of interest to us.”
“Thank you,” says Cassandra, and the guard returns to the cabin with the prisoner. Moments later, the other guard emerges. His ferret daemon hangs around his neck like a thick fur collar, making his appearance all the more intimiating.
“Wrightson,” he introduces himself, apparently eager to get the questioning over and done with quickly.
Cassandra begins. “We understand that you checked the cargo hold before the passengers boarded? What were you looking for?”
“One of us checks the ship before bringing the prisoner on board. No suspicious items, locks, emergency exits; to make sure that the journey will go smoothly.”
“And did you find anything?” Asks Cassandra. “Like the paper that was used to smuggle in the murder weapon?”
The guard looks a little annoyed at this question. “Of course not, or I would not have permitted the flight to leave.”
“I see,” says Cassandra, taking notes. “And tell us, do you know any of the staff and passengers on board? From previous trips, perhaps?”
“Of course. I know all of the staff on board today. It’s not their fault about their status,” he says, his pace slowing to betteer consider his words, “but some of them, that airline guard in particular, would be prime candidates for jobs at the Majesterium. His talents are being wasted here. The passengers, yes, I know most of them in passing. The scholars, keep a close eye on them; they should not be doing the work that they are engaged in, lest they end up in the position of our prisoner friend, here.” He gestures to the closed door of the cabin.
“Thank you, that will be all for now,” says Cassandra. As the Majesterium guard joins his colleague in the cabin, the party catch a glimpse of the prisoner. He is secured to a seat in the cabin, and his quail daemon is in a small cage, itself chained to a fixture on the wall.
Having gathered all of the evidence they need from searches and interviews, the group are led by the waiter to a spare cabin to deliberate. After a mere five minutes, Ethel calls the waiter back and asks him to gather all of the passengers and staff together in the common area.
Not all of the passengers are happy about being brought together, and the two Majesterium guards flatly refuse to join and stay in their cabin to guard the prisoner. Dahlia insists to the waiter that the guards’ presence is not required, just for the moment, as Ethel jostles to find a spot near the middle of the now rather cramped room where everyone will be able to hear her.
“Let me get straight to the point,” begins Ethel, to gasps of relief from those passengers and staff in the most awkward positions. “Early into this flight from London to Paris, a man was murdered. He was a respected scholar from France. We have gathered evidence, interviewing many of you in the process, and we now know the identity of the murderer.” There are shuffles and glances from the assembled audience. “The culprit is this gentleman,” she gestures to the airship guard, “and we, my colleagues and I, will explain how we have come to this conclusion.”
“First, we found out how the poor victim died.” begins Ethel, in a calm voice. “He was poisoned with a flower called oleander, discreetly added to his meal.” There are a few murmurs from the passengers in private cabins; they had all eaten on this flight.
“We found out how the oleander was brought on board,” adds Tom, “and how the packaging was carefully left for us to find in a passenger’s luggage.” Murmurs again from the private cabin passengers, whose luggage was kept in the cargo hold.
“And then we figured out the motive.” continues Cassandra. “But before we get to that, a paradox that had me puzzled for a while; how could anyone except one of the two gentleman that the deceased shared a cabin with be the murderer, when neither of the gentlemen left the cabin or had any opportunity to slip the poison into the meal?” There are shifts again from the assembled audience, some of them beginning to get restless. “Of course, the only possible explanation is that it didn’t matter to the murderer which of the three occupants of the cabin received the poison. The goal of the murderer was to send a message. And, given what many of you seem to know already about the three passengers’ work, the motive is quite clear.” Cassandra pauses, and gestures to Dahlia to continue.
“We interviewed many of the passengers and staff, and found only one person with the motive to commit this terrible murder. And that’s the airship’s guard, the one person entrusted with the safety of all those on board. Betrayed.” says Dahlia, pensively.
The guard steps forward carefully, as there isn’t much space, and stands next to the party to address the audience. “Yes, I did it,” he begins. “The Authority has given power to the Majesterium to carry out its wishes. I merely assisted.” His tone is regulated and his frame is loose; Cassandra, standing next to him, is ready to restrain him if required, but she is confident that she will not need to. “I am an agent of the Majesterium. I have been working on airships for many years, stewarded many dignitaries. Over the years, I came to understand wrongdoing when I saw it, and never before did I see it as much as in the work tht these scholars were doing. So, I sourced the oleander, which was not too difficult, and had my daemon,” he gestures to the crested gecko on his shoulder, “place it in one of the meals and then hide the paper wrapping carefully in the florist’s luggage.”
The florist is about to react and speak up, but thinks better of it, and instead stands in corner of the cramped room for a moment, open-mouthed.
“It didn’t matter to me which of the scholars got it,” continues the guard, “Only that I could send a message to the world that their work will not be tolerated.” With that comment, both Benedict and Edward look stunned. The poison could just have easily have been in either of their meals and met with either of their lips.
The guard wilfully follows the party into a vacant cabin, where he remains for what little remains of the journey. Tom fills in for the guard as best he can, liaising with the pilots and relaying details of everything that has occurred. Dahlia stays in the cockpit, and with the co-pilot’s assistance, relays a summary of the events to the airport by means of the ship’s lodestone resonator.
When the airship lands in Paris, a small group of police officers are waiting to receive the airship guard into custody and begin their own search of the airship. The passengers and staff, each being interviewed again by the Paris police, gather in a private waiting room, to be called individually byt the investigating officeres. The brave adventurers Cassandra, Dahlia, Ethel, John and Tom, and their daemons, once the police have given them permission to leave, exit the ‘Gare du Nord’ airship station.