Mermaid Pirate Dispatch

[This story is part of the Soothfinder Series.]

Thomas watched Isabel carefully as she paced around the body in the middle of the entry room of the inn. He didn’t like how many dead bodies this apprenticeship had already exposed her to. He didn’t like that she had to set aside her pre-teen emotions and inspect a corpse dispassionately, as a matter of business and duty. But he had to admit, she was a fast learner and a worthy student.

“Well,” she began. “I don’t think he died here.”

Thomas smiled. “Why not?”

“No blood on the ground,” she said, gesturing to the wooden floor on which his heavy, wool-laden body lay.

The man was large, with a thick bristly beard and eyebrows as bushy as a hairy caterpillar. His jet black hair was as wild and unkempt as the wolf pelts he wore as a cloak. He lay on his back with a pair of tailor’s shears sticking conspicuously out of his left breast, stabbed clean through his linen shirt without a drop of blood staining the clothing.

“And I don’t think the shears killed him either,” she said, pointing at them. “No blood around the stab wound.”

“Excellent work,” Thomas said, holding back a proud smile. “This scene is obviously staged.”

She stepped back and peered at the man and Thomas could almost feel the breeze from the storm of questions brewing in her head.

“Where is all his blood?” she asked, gazing into the blue lips floating on his ashen face.

Bartholomew, head of the castle guard, cleared his throat. “I think I know who has it,” he said firmly. “Those are the tailor’s shears. We should arrest her.”

Thomas’s heart jumped. Joan? Under arrest? He gasped audibly and turned sharply to the onlooking knight. “Did you not hear Isabel? Those shears are not the murder weapon. We will not be making any arrests until we’ve positively identified the killer.”

Bartholomew grunted.

Focusing back on the body, something nagged at Thomas. Where had all the blood gone? Other than the shears sticking out of the chest, there were no visible wounds.

Isabel was hunched down on her haunches, peering at a spot on the man’s right sleeve.

“What do you see?” Thomas asked.

She furrowed her brow and leaned closer. “I thought it was just some mud,” she mused, “but I think it’s blood. It’s just… weird. Come look.”

Thomas walked over and knelt by her side. Sure enough, up and down the sleeve there were distinct stripes of dried blood, faint and brown as though someone had tried to wash away the stains.

“Interesting.” Thomas pulled up the sleeve, exposing a powerful, hairy forearm. Rolling the limb until the palm was up, he stopped. “There,” he said. “That is how he died.”

Nestled in a series of small scars below the crook of his elbow there was a long, deep cut surrounded by pale, bloodstained flesh.

“What are all the scars from?” Isabel asked.

“Bloodletting,” Thomas said.

“Oh…” Isabel said softly.

Thomas leaned in closer and took a long whiff, getting the faint remains of something alcoholic on the man’s clothes. He got to his feet and looked around. Brenna, the innkeeper’s wife, was staring at him with wide eyes.

“Did you know him?” Thomas asked her.

She blinked, gently shook her head, and blinked again. “Um, yes,” she muttered. “He would often stay here when he was in town. Said he couldn’t stand his wife.” She smiled weakly.

“Who was he?”

“Maurin, the luparius. He would go out on hunts, sometimes a fortnight at a time, then come and stay with me, er, at the inn, for a few days.” She winced and shrugged. “Kept to himself most of the time, but much of the town couldn’t stand him. Probably for the best that he avoided his wife. Honestly I think she’ll be glad he’s gone.”

“Do you know of anyone else who would have wanted him dead?” Thomas asked.

A loud laugh leapt involuntarily from her chest. “Oh my,” she said. “Who didn’t want him dead? He was absolutely insufferable to deal with.”

“Oh?”

“Well, he was rude and nobody ever did right in his eyes. If I made his bed for him, it wasn’t good enough. My pottage was never the right temperature, never seasoned properly… he complained endlessly about everything. And he was rude about it. Had to stop sending the chambermaids to clean up after him because they always ran out in tears. Don’t think he laid a hand on them, but they were just as torn up as though he’d beat them senseless.”

“How about you?” Thomas asked. “How did you get on with him?”

“Me?” She blushed. “Well he…” she hesitated. “I mean, I couldn’t do any better in his eyes than anybody else, if that’s what you’re asking. He complained endlessly about my work and my cooking.”

“Was he rude to you though? Did he yell at you?”

She grinned painfully. “I suppose not. I guess you could say we had an understanding.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she searched for the words. “I showed him I’m nobody to trifle with a few times, and he held his tongue around me.” She shrugged.

“Show us to his room,” Thomas instructed.

“Yes, my lord,” Brenna said.

Thomas shuddered and glanced angrily down at Isabel, who was smiling deviously.

“Just Thomas,” he insisted wearily.

She led them up the stairs and to a room, ushering them inside. It was small and unremarkable. There was a bed and a table. Beside the table the man’s pack sat undisturbed. The room smelled of ale but there were no signs of blood on the bed or floor.

Thomas knelt by the pack and opened it, finding a bundle of yellow shirts wrapped around a threaded needle. The thread was yellow and horribly frayed at one end. Obviously the man was not a skilled tailor.

Isabel cleared her throat and tapped the floor with her foot. Thomas turned to look and saw a ring of mud on the floor by the bed. He stood and pointed it out to Brenna. “Looks like there was a bucket by the bed recently?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “He got quite drunk and had me fetch the bucket… just in case. Didn’t hear from him after that though.”

“That’s unusual?”

“Well…” she began. “He was often up late. He would come downstairs and keep me company while I cleaned.” She shrugged. “Guess he put himself to sleep with all that ale though. Didn’t hear from him all evening. Then this morning I found his body downstairs.” She shuddered, her lungs quivering as she breathed in sharply.

“Where’s your husband?” Thomas asked. “I’d like to talk to him.”

Brenna shrugged. “Beats me. I never know where that fat scoundrel runs off to. Left early in the morning, muttered something about heading out to the fields.”

Thomas chuckled to himself. Arne may be fat, but she wasn’t doing much better. Their inn at Riverwood did good business and they wore their wealth around their waists. “Remind me,” Thomas said, “what did Arne do before you opened the inn here?”

She smiled. “He was a barber,” she said. “Best barber in all the land if you ask me.” She swooned, looking up at the heavens with fluttering eyes and a dreamy smile. “A good surgeon too. Lots of repeat customers.” She smiled wide, showing off some of his dental handiwork.

---

Thomas handed Joan the shears. “Are these yours?” he asked.

“Oh my,” she gasped. “Yes! They went missing just yesterday evening, while I was out at market.”

“Did you, by chance, have any business with Maurin the luparius yesterday as well?”

“As a matter of fact I did,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Why?”

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Well, he came by to pick up some lovely yellow shirts he’d left with me for repair. I had done the best I could to match the color with my patchwork, but he flew off the handle! The man was so fiercely wroth that I had to shoo him out before he’d paid. Wasted my time he did!” She scowled angrily and folded her arms.

“And what did you do next?” Thomas asked, glancing up at the loft where he slept every night. He really didn’t think Joan would have killed the man, but she did have a fiery side of her own…

“Nothing!” she insisted. “I went for a walk to cool off. That’s why I went to the market so late in the evening. But when I got home the shears were gone.”

“Was anything else missing?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t think so. Would you like to take a look?” She walked Thomas and Isabel over to her sewing supplies. She had a nearly endless collection of colored threads, needles of various sizes and shapes, measuring guides, thimbles, and several tools Thomas couldn’t name.

“You don’t see anything else missing? Not even a needle or a pin?” Thomas asked, scanning the work area.

Joan laughed. “I suppose if a needle or some pins were missing I might not notice. But all of the important tools are still here.”

Several of the spools of thread had a bit hanging down, but one spool in particular stood out to him. The end of the yellow thread hanging down was badly frayed. Thomas pointed it out. “Is that normally how the end of the thread looks when you cut it?”

She chuckled. “Well I hadn’t noticed that. Seems like someone tried to cut the thread without knowing how to use the shears properly.”

“So at the very least, your thief made off with some yellow thread.” Thomas looked at Isabel who smiled knowingly.

---

Thomas and Isabel stood outside Maurin’s home and knocked. Thomas hadn’t known the man well, but he had met his unfortunate wife a few times. Homely and quiet, she only went out when absolutely necessary and Thomas didn’t know much more about her as a result.

The door creaked open a crack and they saw a single eyeball peering out at them.

“Honora?” Thomas asked. “May we come inside?”

The eyeball darted around between them, carefully evaluating the query in silence. After an uncomfortable moment, the door opened a little more and Honora awkwardly turned and walked away.

Thomas and Isabel looked at each other, laughed quietly, and went inside.

“We’d like to talk to you about your husband.” Thomas began.

Honora looked blankly at him, then sat on a stool by a table along the wall. Her home was small and simple. No fire burned inside, but plenty of afternoon light came in through the open windows. A dog barked behind the house, soon joined by several aggressive and eager growls before pandemonium erupted. The barking was incessant for a minute, then it stopped.

Thomas laughed. “Are those your dogs?”

Honora shrugged and turned her head toward a door in the back of the room. “No,” she said softly. “They belong to my husband. He comes to drop them off for me to feed while he sleeps in another woman’s bed.”

Isabel glanced at Thomas, raising her eyebrows.

“He was having an affair?” Thomas asked.

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” Honora shrugged. “I’m ugly and he never wants to see me. So he doesn’t come home. It’s better this way though,” she half smiled. “He’s never been kind to me. I don’t want him around. I pity the other woman.”

“Do you know who he…” Thomas hesitated, catching himself on the verge of referring to the man in the past tense. “Who is his mistress?”

“If I had to guess? I’d say it was the innkeeper’s wife. He likes big women.” Honora looked down at her scrawny, petite frame. “He said I wasn’t enough woman for him.” Her eyes remained downcast and she took a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly.

Thomas waited a beat. “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your husband?” he asked.

Honora looked up, a twisted smirk on her hollow, bony face. “Everybody,” she said flatly. “I thought you two were coming to complain about him at first. That’s what everyone does. He goes around yelling at everyone and they all come to me with their complaints.” She shrugged. “I can’t tell you how many people have threatened to kill him since we married.”

“Do you remember anyone in particular coming in the last day or two?” Thomas asked.

She shook her head. “He just came into town two days ago. Like I said, he dropped off the dogs and left. Nobody came by since then ’till you two.” She paused, glancing up at Thomas. “You… aren’t here to complain about him?”

Thomas tried to smile, but he winced instead. “Actually,” he said, “we’re trying to find out who killed him.”

One of her lanky, knobby hands shot to her mouth and her eyes went wide as she breathed in sharply. Slowly, her eyes fell and she visibly relaxed, her posture melting into a state of tentative comfort. She took slow, deep breaths while her eyes bounced around wildly. Finally she looked squarely at Thomas and smiled apologetically. “If you find the one who killed him, will you send my thanks?”

Isabel shot a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle and Thomas smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Can we look around the house for a minute?”

“Be my guest,” Honora said, swelling with confidence. A new warmth was radiating from her eyes. She had an air of relief that reminded Thomas of the feeling of quenching a powerful thirst.

---

“My house?” Isabel asked incredulously.

“We need to have a little talk with your mother,” Thomas said, smiling.

“You think my mother killed Maurin?”

Thomas shrugged. “It seems everyone wanted to kill him, everyone is a little relieved that he’s gone.” He smiled. “But no, I don’t think she killed him. I just want to know more about all those bloodletting scars.”

Isabel opened the door and walked in. “Mom?” she called out.

Colette entered the main room and smiled, glancing curiously at Thomas before giving Isabel a big hug. “Sir Thomas! What can I do for you two?” she asked, eying Thomas again.

He winced at the title and Isabel smirked. “What can you tell us about Maurin the luparius?” Thomas asked.

Colette raised her eyebrows. “He often calls on me when he’s in town,” she admitted. “He is a melancholy fellow, and especially in the spring-time he requires regular bloodletting.” She looked outside at the late afternoon sky where chattering birds and a gentle breeze heralded the season of excess blood.

“When did you see him last?” Thomas asked.

Colette thought, glancing up at the timbers overhead. “I suppose it would have been a couple weeks ago. He was heading west, beyond the dark Thornburn forest to hunt wolves for that wicked king. I performed the operation on his right arm, as is customary in spring and summer, and he left the next day.”

“You haven’t heard from him in the last couple nights?” Thomas asked.

“No,” Colette said, surprised. “Has he returned already?” Her eyes darted about as she performed some mental calculations. “I suppose it has been about a fortnight and he should be due back any day.”

“He has returned,” Thomas said, “and he was murdered.”

“Oh my…” Colette gasped, staring intensely down at Thomas’s feet. “Who could have done it?” She met his gaze easily.

“I was hoping you might have some ideas,” Thomas said. “From what I’ve gathered, nearly everyone in town wanted him dead.”

Colette smiled warily. “He wasn’t easy to work with,” she admitted. “Of course, when you’re holding a small knife to his arm he can be surprisingly docile.” She shrugged. “Well, that was always my experience. Though I’m surprised I didn’t hear from him. He usually reaches out to me right away when he gets into town.”

“Was he normally pleased with your work?”

She raised her eyebrows and took a deep breath. “I’d say he complained a little less to me than he did to others, but he always found something about my work that was unsatisfactory.” She sighed. “He only ever yelled at me once though and I told him if he did it again he’d have to find someone else to perform the bloodletting.”

“When was that?”

“Oh,” she hummed. “Years ago.”

Thomas smiled. “Thank you Colette, I don’t think I have any more questions.” He looked to Isabel.

“I’ve got one!” Isabel blurted. She looked at her mom. “If you were going to drain all the blood out of a body, what would you do with the blood afterwards?”

Colette frowned. “I’m not sure. I suppose I’d collect it in a bucket and dump it in the river.”

---

“So we didn’t find anything at Honora’s house,” Isabel recounted, thinking aloud. “And I don’t think she is strong enough to drag that man’s body around anyway.”

Thomas smiled silently, leading the way through the fields west of town.

“And my mom definitely didn’t kill him,” she said, with an air of defiance. “So who are the suspects? Who do you think did it sir Thomas?” She wore a wicked grin.

“First of all,” Thomas said, “you have got to stop using those stupid titles with me. I’m tired of hearing ‘your lordship,’ ‘my lord,’ or ‘sir Thomas.’ Just stop it. Please.’

She giggled. “Yes, my lord.”

He glared at her.

“Fine, fine. I won’t do it anymore.”

Thomas peered suspiciously at her, then continued. “Next, you’re ruling out people that could still be suspects. Honora may have found the strength to drag the body if she was scared enough. And as much as I don’t want to believe your mother did it, she could have been lying.”

Isabel scowled.

“People lie,” Thomas shrugged. He smiled again. “But, I don’t really think your mom did it. We can’t rule it out, but for now we’re still investigating other people.”

They entered the flock of sheep grazing in the grass beyond the planting fields and began to climb the hill where the shepherd boy sat.

“Why are we talking to the shepherd boy?” Isabel asked.

Thomas grinned. “Because nobody ever notices him.” He looked up and waved. “Ho there!” he called.

The boy perked up and waved back. “Good afternoon,” he yelled.

Thomas and Isabel completed the climb and Thomas looked over his shoulder at the river. “How often do you see people from in town come out to the river?” He asked.

The boy shrugged. “I suspect most folks use the well in town. It’s mostly just us tent dwellers using the river for water.”

“Have you seen anyone from in town come out to the river with a pail recently?” he asked.

The boy looked toward the south gate where the mill bridge spanned the river. “Yeah,” he said. “Just this morning I saw someone hauling a heavy bucket. I was getting ready to take the flock out to graze and he ducked behind the bridge on the other side of the river. I remember because he was acting strange, like he didn’t want me to see him.”

“Interesting,” Thomas said, winking at Isabel. “Can you describe him to me?”

The boy whistled. “Sorry,” he said. “He was wearing a cloak and I didn’t get a good look at his face.”

“But you know it was a man?” Thomas asked.

“Well yeah,” the boy said indignantly. “His long beard was clear as day. And he was fat, but without the normal bumps a woman’s got.” He glanced nervously at Isabel and shrugged. “Had to be a man,” he said.

“What color was his beard?” Thomas asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Kind of hard to see for sure, but I’d say it was light brown, maybe blonde.”

Thomas smiled. “Thank you very much,” he said, and they turned to leave.

---

Isabel followed Thomas, Joan, and Bartholomew back into the inn. Brenna was sweeping and Arne was sitting at the table sipping on a bowl of soup. The windows were drawn shut, blocking out the evening’s final painterly rays of sunset. Fires burned around the room, giving it a warm, comforting glow.

“Alright,” Bartholomew said, scowling at Thomas, “you asked me to meet you here. I hope you are not wasting my time.”

Thomas greeted Brenna with a smile. “Good evening,” he said. Glancing at her husband, he added, “good to see you Arne. You’ve been hard to track down today.”

He grunted, blowing on a spoonful of his dinner. “Busy day,” he grumbled.

“Well I won’t waste anyone’s time,” Thomas said. “We’ve had some crimes committed and everyone here deserves to know the truth.” He turned to Joan. “First, the theft of your shears.” Looking to Isabel, he said, “would you care to point out the thief?”

Isabel stared at him, furrowing her brow. “I can’t.” She said. “He’s not here.”

“Why not?” Joan asked, shocked. She looked at Thomas. “I thought you said you could apprehend all of the criminals. Are you saying that you can’t catch the thief who came into our home and stole my shears?”

Isabel continued. “He’s not here because he’s dead.” She turned to Joan. “Maurin was convinced he could do a better job than you at repairing his shirts. So after you left he snuck into the house and stole some supplies, including the shears. He took them up to his room and put everything away except the shears. After failing to cut the thread cleanly, he realized he needed practice with them, so he kept them handy.” She smiled and looked to Thomas.

“Good,” he said, smiling with a hint of pride.

Bartholomew shook his head. “So how did they end up being used to attack him?”

Arne cried out and dropped his spoon, splattering hot soup in his beard. He cursed and slammed his fists on the table, toppling the bowl. Leaping to his feet and grumbling like a thunder cloud he made his way to the stairs.

“Arne,” Thomas called out. “I must insist you stick around. This next part of the story involves you.”

He whipped around, soup dripping from his long whiskers. “Impossible,” he said. “I never interact with guests. My wife takes care of all that.”

Thomas shrugged. “So you wouldn’t know if your wife was bedding any of the guests then?”

“Excuse me!” Brenna cried, gasping indignantly.

Arne ground his teeth and growled. “Of course I knew she was sleeping with Maurin. Everybody knew.”

She stared at him with wide eyes, aghast and clutching her chest.

“I didn’t know,” Bartholomew sighed.

“I bet you were pretty surprised when you found out,” Thomas said, cocking a raised eyebrow at the fat innkeeper.

He stood still, defiantly staring at Thomas. “Nah,” he said at last. “We’ve been cold to each other for years. I figured she was getting attention from someone else.”

Thomas smiled. “But you didn’t like it.”

Arne grumbled, his lips fluttering angrily behind his thick beard and moustache. “Of course not,” he mumbled.

“And I bet Maurin was surprised when he arrived and you offered to do the bloodletting for him for free.” Thomas raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“What?” Arne spat. “How did you know?” He gaped at Thomas, looked around, then folded his arms. “I mean, you don’t know that.”

Thomas shrugged. “I hear you used to be an excellent surgeon. And after buttering Maurin up with all that ale I bet he was more than happy to accept your offer. Of course, just as you hoped, he passed out before you could perform the operation, which made it easy to cut his arm open and drain all his blood into the bucket by the side of his bed.”

“That’s absurd!” Arne roared. “I…” he halted, his eyes wide with fear.

“Then you dragged him down the stairs after everyone had gone to sleep but not before finding the shears and stabbing them into his chest, hoping they’d point at someone else being the killer. In the morning you took the bucket of blood out to the river to dump it.” Thomas nodded to Bartholomew. “Arrest him.”

“How can you possibly know these things?” Arne shrieked while the head guard grabbed him and began dragging him outside. “Nobody saw me do any of it! Are you a demon?”

Brenna was clasping a hand to her mouth, hyperventilating. “What have you done?” she breathed, watching her husband as he was carried away for the dungeon.

Thomas turned to Joan. “I hate to ask you to do this,” he started, “but could you stay with Brenna and…”

Joan put a warm hand on his arm. “Of course,” she said softly. She smiled. “You did well, Thomas.” She looked down at Isabel. “You too dear.”

Isabel smiled and Thomas walked her down the street to her house.

They paused at the door.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said.

She looked up at him, confused. “Why?”

“You shouldn’t have to…” he started. Frustrated, he began again. “You’re just a kid,” he said. “You shouldn’t be dealing with dead bodies and murderers. You should be playing and…”

She smiled and threw her arms around him. She rested her cheek against his chest and held him tightly. When she was done she took a step back and looked up at him. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I love helping you find the truth. I’m proud to be your apprentice.”

A cockeyed grin settled on his face and he sighed. “Nice job noticing where the bucket had been by the bed.”

She nodded. “Thanks.” Lingering a moment longer, leaving a heap of unsaid words at Thomas’s feet, she smiled and slipped through the door.