A Pocket Full of Murder (9 page)

Mistress Anandri touched her fingertips together, regarding Isaveth shrewdly. “So he sent you to find out for him? You are young to be dealing with such harsh matters.”

Which meant she had no idea Isaveth was Urias Breck's daughter. Quiz had kept that secret, at least.

“I know,” said Isaveth, gaining confidence, “but ignoring bad things doesn't make them go away. And I know—I mean, we believe that the man the Lawkeepers arrested is innocent.”

“I see.” The spellmistress's gaze turned reflective. “Well, I suppose it can do no harm to let you look around—as long as you do it discreetly and don't disturb the masters. Keep that apron over your dress, put on one of the kitchen caps, then fill one of those big jars with your light-tablets and take it over to Founders' Hall. If anyone questions you, tell them you've been sent to refill the lamps.”

“Founders' Hall? Is that where Master Orien . . . ?”

“The governor's office is there, on the second floor. The cleaning maid found his body when she came in that night, but I don't know any more than that. His secretary might help you, I suppose, if she's in the mood.”

“What about the maid? Could I talk to her?”

“I'm afraid not. She gave her notice the next day, saying she'd found a better position. No one's seen her since.”

That was odd. Not that the maid would want to quit the college after such a dreadful discovery—Isaveth could understand that part. But how had she found a new post so quickly, when many people were desperate for any work at all?

“Did she say where she was going?” Isaveth asked.

“Not to me, but we never spoke. I only heard about it after she was gone.”

Isaveth gave a thoughtful nod. She'd have to ask the other cleaning staff about the maid, then—if she could find an opportunity to do so.

“Thank you,” she told Mistress Anandri. “You've been very helpful.”

“Not at all.” The older woman rose. “I was not close to the governor, but I respected him. I, too, would like to see his murderer brought to justice.” She paused, as though debating with herself. Then she opened the chill-box, took out a bottle of milk, and set it in front of Isaveth.

“It will spoil soon, so you may as well drink it,” she said, and walked out.

*  *  *

Founders' Hall was only a short walk across the green. It was built from the same gray stone as the kitchen but in a far more ornate style, with pointed towers, haughtily arched windows, and a door so heavy Isaveth struggled to open it.

Inside all was quiet—though not deserted, because the porter glanced up and rustled his news-rag as Isaveth passed, and a youngish man in the lake-blue robe of an
undermaster was leaning idly by the foot of the staircase, hands cupped around his baccy pipe. But all the doors she passed were shut, the only voices she heard were murmurs, and as she made her way upstairs, Isaveth cringed at the squeak of her shoes against the stone.

It was equally quiet on the second floor, except here most of the doors stood open. As she tiptoed along, Isaveth glimpsed lecture rooms filled with empty tables and blank slate-boards, tall cabinets displaying trophies and other college memorabilia, and a paneled lounge where two masters sat conversing in low tones. At the far end of the hallway stood a closed door with a window of frosted glass and a brass plate beneath reading
GOVERNOR'S OFFICE
.

There was a bell-button on the wall. Isaveth pressed it, and the door opened.

A drab-looking blond woman rose as Isaveth entered, hastily smoothing her skirt—but when she caught sight of Isaveth's cap and apron, she frowned and sat down again.

“I didn't call for a maid,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

If the governor's secretary was ever in a mood to be friendly, today was not the day. Her mouth was pursed, her eyes narrowed, and the way she glared through her
half-spectacles made Isaveth feel suddenly very small, very young, and very foolish indeed.

How could she have thought she could simply walk into the governor's office and get all the information she needed? She'd been so proud of herself for winning over Mistress Anandri, so glad of the chance to get into the college and look around, that she'd dared to imagine the rest of her task would be easy.

But Isaveth knew better now. Getting this cold, suspicious woman to speak to her, let alone answer her questions—that would be her biggest challenge yet.

“W
ELL?”
M
ASTER
O
RIEN'S
secretary demanded. “What do you want, girl? Speak up, or get out!”

Isaveth's mouth felt dry, and her stomach was churning. She could only be grateful for the excuse Mistress Anandri had given her. “I came to fill the lamps, missus. I was told they were getting dim.”

“Then you can do it later, when you come back to clean. You are the new maid, aren't you?”

“Yes, missus,” Isaveth said, then thought better of it and added, “Or one of them, anyway. I'm sorry I disturbed you, but Mistress Anandri said some of the masters had been complaining, so I thought I'd best get the new tablets put in straightaway.”

“Well, you won't hear any complaints from this master,” said the woman bitterly. “But I suppose that if the spellmistress sent you, it's not my place to argue.” She
pressed a button on her desk, and the inner door swung open. “Go on, then.”

With ornate moldings, studded leather furniture, and a carpet thick enough to sink into, Master Orien's office was every bit as luxurious as Isaveth had expected—after all, the governor of Tarreton College had been one of the most influential nobles in the city. Bookshelves stretched the length of one wall, packed with volumes on law, history, and magical theory, while the opposite wall held gilt-framed portraits of the founders, past governors, and other patrons of the school. In the center hung the largest picture of all—a painting of the Sagelord himself, seated in a wingback chair, with Eryx standing at his shoulder.

Isaveth glanced at the doorway, fearing the secretary's glare. But the door had shut as silently as it had opened, and Isaveth was alone. Daring, she stepped closer to the portrait, her gaze flicking over Lord Arvis's drooping lids and heavy jowls with distaste before focusing on the young man behind him.

The Lording looked younger here, but no less handsome: His blue eyes gleamed with intelligence, and a faint smile warmed his lips. Isaveth could have basked in that smile forever, but she hadn't come here to sigh over a painting. She gave Eryx a wistful parting glance and turned away.

Now to investigate—and she'd better work quickly, before the secretary got suspicious. Isaveth dropped to all fours and squinted along the carpet, groped around the bottom of all the furniture, then jumped up to inspect the bookcase and look beneath the windowsill. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for, but those were the sorts of things Auradia always did, and if she spotted even the smallest detail that the Lawkeepers had missed, it would be worth it.

Yet she found no incriminating documents, no evidence of struggle, not even a footprint besides her own. The desktop and drawers were empty, and the odd smell in the air turned out to be nothing more than wood soap and fresh paint. The room had been thoroughly cleaned since the Lawkeepers inspected it, leaving no evidence that Master Orien—or his murderer—had ever been here. Disappointed, Isaveth filled the lamp slots with fresh tablets, then returned to the outer chamber.

The secretary sat with her back to Isaveth, arms jerking as she punched the keys of her letter-press. She looked fiercely busy, and Isaveth feared to interrupt her again. Still, if she couldn't get at least a few answers out of this woman, all her efforts would be wasted. There had to be some way to coax her into conversation.

Isaveth's eyes slid to the stack of papers and pile of
envelopes on the desk . . . and all at once she had a plan.

“Is there anything else you'd like me to do for you, missus?” Isaveth asked humbly. “You must have a terrible lot of work just now, with what happened to the governor and all. If there's any way I can make it go smoother, I'd be glad to help.”

The woman spun to face her, looking startled—but for the first time not displeased. “Well!” she said. “That's quite an offer, Miss . . .”

“Morra, missus.” Isaveth's former friend probably wouldn't be happy to have her name and mannerisms borrowed this way, but since she wasn't talking to Isaveth anymore, it wasn't likely she'd find out. “What about these letters?” Isaveth went on, setting her jar of tablets down on the corner of the desk. “Shall I fold them up for you? I promise I'll do it neat.”

The secretary hesitated, glancing at the outer door. Then she sat up decisively and said, “Why not? Yes, you can do that much. Fold them, put them in these envelopes, and seal the flaps with this wax stamper. You know how to use one?”

“Yes, missus,” replied Isaveth, pulling up a chair, and she began to fold one near-identical page after another. She worked quickly, not wanting to betray too much interest in the letter's contents, but she was a fast reader
and it took her only a minute to grasp its message. It was addressed to the noble patrons and former students of the college, informing them of Governor Orien's passing and inviting them to attend his memorial next Duesday. It also said that a new governor would be appointed as soon as the Sagelord and the board of masters had met to choose the best candidate.

Which was all very well for the college, but not much help to Isaveth. Yes, Governor Orien had been killed, but how? And who else besides Papa could have had the opportunity to do it? The secretary could surely answer at least one of those questions, but she seemed almost as prickly as Lilet.

Yet even Lilet could be won over with a bit of flattery. Perhaps this woman could too? Isaveth was gathering her nerve when the secretary pulled the last sheet of paper from the letter-press and sat back, flexing her bony fingers. If there was ever a good time to speak, it was now.

“You must be awfully brave, missus,” Isaveth said, still folding. “You ought to get a rise in pay. Working here all alone after finding the governor dead in this very office, without even taking a few days off to calm your nerves!”

The secretary blinked. “Oh. Well, I wasn't the one who
found him,” she said, and privately Isaveth exulted: She
was
like Lilet, unable to resist correcting other people's mistakes. “I didn't learn of his death until the next morning. But yes, it was quite a shock.”

“Was he a good master, then? Treated you kindly and all?”

“Certainly. Master Orien was always a fair and decent man. That's why I can't believe anyone would . . .” She cleared her throat. “Well, never mind that. But it was dreadful, what happened to him.”

“I heard he was killed with magic,” Isaveth said, seizing on the first idea she could think of that was plausible but almost certain to be wrong. “Some nasty 'coction they put in his drink.”

The secretary sniffed. “Nasty! I'll say. But it wasn't a decoction. It was a power-tablet.”

“The kind that drive spell-carriages?” Isaveth was baffled; she couldn't imagine how that would work.

“No. The kind that . . . explode.”

Isaveth's stomach jumped, and she was glad she'd kept her head down. Common Magic or not, exploding-tablets were too dangerous to bake at home and nearly impossible to buy without a license; you had to be a miner, a demolisher . . .

Or a stoneworker, like Papa.

“In his
drink
?” she blurted out, to hide her all too real dismay.

“Of course not! It would have exploded long before he could swallow it. But there's no question it was the tablet that killed him.” The secretary touched a hand to her chest, her expression haunted. Then she shook herself and snapped, “Are you here to work or not?”

Isaveth scooped up another pile of papers. “Sorry, missus. I was surprised, that's all.” She pressed the remaining pages into neat thirds, then began tucking them into the envelopes. The wax in the stamper was cold, but a tap of the fire-tablet in its head would soon fix that. Though she had to be careful not to press too hard, or the tablet would crack and all its heat would come rushing out at once.

Which must be what had happened to Governor Orien. The murderer had fired the power-tablet at him with a slingshot, or perhaps a modified gun, and it had exploded on impact.

“So that's why they think that Breck fellow did the murder?” she asked, when the secretary's scowl had faded and she dared to speak again. “Because he was a builder?”

The woman flung up her hands. “How should I know? I'd had such a busy day with the new charmery project—patrons and architects and workers stopping in every half
hour, it seemed, and no end in sight. So when the master told me he could manage the last few visitors on his own, I was glad enough to get away. If I'd known it was the last time I'd ever see him . . .” She whipped out a handkerchief and began dabbing her eyes furiously.

Isaveth quickened her pace with the envelopes. If the secretary lost patience and threw her out, at least it would be for the right reason. “I'm so sorry, missus! I didn't mean to upset you. I just couldn't help but think . . .”

She let the sentence hang, hoping the woman's curiosity would get the better of her—and it did. “Think what?”

“Well, wouldn't it be dreadful if the Lawkeepers had the wrong man? That builder might be innocent as a lamb, for all we know, and the real murderer still here in the college!”

“Nonsense,” said the secretary, but she sounded uneasy. Was she thinking of someone she knew with a grudge against Governor Orien?

“I hope you're right, missus,” said Isaveth, picking up the stamper. “But I can't think why a workman would want to kill the governor. Are you sure there's nobody else saw the master that day who might have wished him harm?”