Murder by Hex
“The dwarf did it,” said Watch Investigator Markstein.
Bertram shook his head and pressed his face into his palm.
“I know, I know, it’s the resolution to every half-baked murder melodrama on the stage, but there is an element of truth in all art and, today, life imitates art.”
“The man was hexed to death,” Bertram said through his fingers.
“So? Anyone can buy a hex.”
Bertram groaned and looked up at Markstein.
“True. But, the dwarf definitely didn’t do it. Let me go over it from the start…”
#
Bertram Artaxes led his team to the door of the tavern. A young watchman in chainmail, clutching a crossbow to his chest, observed them with wide eyes.
“Halt,” he said in a high-pitched voice.
Bertram swung his shield from his back and showed it to the youth.
“Bertram Artaxes, Crime Examination Service; these are my team.”
Wearing, as he did, civilian robes, the shield was solely for identification and a rather bulky example at that.
The watchman looked at it and, then, stepped aside, allowing them to enter the tavern.
Behind Bertram were the scryer, Helga, necromancer, Doctor Festelmann, and alchemist, Professor Edelstein. Following them, hidden beneath a pile of equipment, was the imp, Vananthrax.
They stepped into the bar, which was typical of its kind with a number of tables with chairs and benches and planks of wood laid atop barrels where the barkeep would serve his patrons with heavy steins of pewter or earthenware. It was the sort of bar where adventures began. Only, today, instead, a life had ended – and, not through the usual medium of a bar-room brawl.
“The victim is the barkeep,” said a man in the shaped-leather breastplate of a Watch Investigator. He stepped over to Bertram to shake his hand. “I’m Markstein.”
Bertram introduced his team.
“The victim’s name is Dennald. He’s been the barkeep at the Orc’s Tusk for the last five years. Your stereotypical jolly, fat barkeep – everyone likes him and nobody seems to have a bad word to say about him. No family, so nobody stands to gain on the life insurance. No reason anyone should want him dead.”
“But, he is?” asked Helga.
“Uh-huh. Poisoned.”
“Doesn’t say much for his booze,” muttered Festelmann.
Markstein shrugged. “That’s for you to ascertain. In the meantime, we have some suspects.” He nodded over to the corner of the room where a grizzled old watchman stood guard. “You’re just going to love this one – it’s like one of those awful tavern jokes folk tell. You know: ‘A man walks into a bar and there’s a human, an elf, a dwarf, a halfling, and a gnome…’ Only, today, they’re not a punchline, they’re murder suspects.”
Five figures stood, unhappily, in the corner.
“Ahem.” One, a tall and smartly-dressed elf, raised a hand. “Are we going to be much longer? Only, I do have to get to my office…”
“Shut it!” bawled Markstein. “You’ll be here as long as it takes. And, unless one of you wants to admit your guilt, that could be a while. Well?”
The five shuffled uncomfortably, the dwarf’s chainmail clinking and the human’s leather armour squeaking, but nobody spoke and Markstein turned back to the team.
“They’re not talking,” he said.
“I’m not surprised,” muttered Festelmann.
“So, it’s going to be down to your lot to produce some evidence,” Markstein finished.
“That’s what we’re here for,” said Bertram. He turned to his team. “Helga, see what you can discern from the body and crime scene. Edelstein, take samples from all the opened bottles, tapped barrels, food, and so forth, and check for poison. Festelmann –”
“That all may not be necessary,” interrupted Helga, who was already leaning over the body, running her fingertips gently across the skin of his cheek. “I may be wrong, but he wasn’t poisoned.”
Markstein exploded. “What?!”
“He was hexed.”
Bertram joined her and waved the imp over.
“Spectroscope. Portable thaumatograph. Prism of Ai.”
The imp handed him the items and, as Markstein began to pace, Bertram held a bronze tube to his eye and looked through its lenses at the barman’s corpse. Then, he lifted a silver wand from atop the box of the thaumatograph, to which it was attached by a thread of gold, and ran it across the body. A needle flickered back-and-forth to the accompaniment of a series of loud clicks as he did so. Finally, he held a clear prism above the man’s forehead and nodded as the crystal fogged a deep red.
Markstein halted. “So?”
“Definitely hexed.”
Leaning close to him, Markstein glanced back at the suspects and said, “My money’s on the elf, or maybe the gnome. But, we need evidence, a motive…”
“Well, that’s what we’re here to provide.”
#
With the alchemist’s assistance, Doctor Festelmann had taken the barkeep’s body for examination: not that Bertram expected either an autopsy or a séance to reveal much. Like poison, a hex could take down a victim without them even realising they were one.
“Why would someone kill a beloved barkeep?” said Bertram as they examined the private rooms of the tavern for clues. They were in the man’s bedroom.
“Short measures?” sneered Vananthrax. “Short change? Short-person discrimination, perhaps?”
“That dwarf did seem shifty,” said Markstein.
Bertram laughed. “They all seem shifty. Suspects usually do. Everybody’s got a guilty little secret they’re scared will be uncovered.”
“Really? What’s yours?”
The imp gave a nasty laugh. “Bertram has an unhealthy interest in dryads – and hamadryads…”
“That’s hardly unusual.”
“He wants to know how they… work.”
“Don’t listen to him – he’s an imp of the perverse.”
“If we’re done with the banter,” interrupted Helga, “I may have something.”
Markstein patted her should. “My, you’re being very helpful today, sweetheart.”
She flinched away from his hand.
“I wouldn’t touch her,” said Bertram. “She really can see your guilty little secrets when you do.”
“And, I wouldn’t patronise me, either. But,” Helga patted the dagger that hung from her belt, “that’s for entirely different reasons.”
Vananthrax laughed horribly. “She would, too.”
“You said you had something?” said Bertram.
Helga nodded and turned her glare away from the flushing investigator to look at the wall of the bedroom.
“Gold,” she said. “He kept his gold in a hidden safe behind that wall.” She closed her eyes. “A surprising amount. I think… I think, perhaps, he was a facilitator of quests.” She opened her eyes and looked at Bertram. “It was stolen.”
Markstein leaned in close towards her, careful not to brush against her. “Who? Do you see who?”
“A small figure in the darkness. He knew he kept the gold in here. He took it.”
“Short?” Markstein grinned, wolfishly and chuckled. “Well, I think we can shorten the joke to ‘a dwarf, a halfling, and a gnome,’ eh?”
#
“Couldn’t the customers be a red herring?” Bertram asked. “None of them have the gold – the safe surely held a sackful – and, it’s not on the premises. And, not a one of them admits to seeing another leave the bar, not even to visit the jakes. Maybe, someone else hexed the barman and stole the gold?”
Helga shook her head. “There’s no evidence of it – I don’t sense a break-in.”
“They could’ve climbed out of the yard.”
Markstein shook his head. “They’d have to pass through the bar.”
“True – and, that brings us back to the same issue… and, one shouldn’t multiply suspects unnecessarily. Still,” he glanced at Helga, “it might be best to check the yard, nonetheless. If our killer did scramble out over the wall or one of these five tossed the gold over it to an accomplice, there should be a residue of fear or elation.”
Helga nodded. “I’m on it.”
“Rather her than me,” Markstein said, screwing up his nose. “It’s right next to the jakes and it stinks…”
“Indeed.” Bertram steepled his fingers. “What else? An imp might have manifested and disappeared the gold away, but there’s no trace of one. Vananthrax?”
“Not a sausage. Not a claw clipping.”
“No. Anything more powerful wouldn’t need to hex him.” Bertram sighed. “We just keep coming back to –”
The tavern door opened and Festelmann entered.
“Any news?” asked Bertram, looking up.
“Nothing from the autopsy. Edelstein still has some blood work to complete, but I didn’t see there being anything of relevance. But, the séance – that’s another story…”
“Really?”
The professor smiled, darkly. “Indeed.”
#
“Not the jolly, decent chap we were led to believe… diddling adventurers and all… That he was deep in debt to the Dwarven Banking Clans – all of them – and, preparing to disappear and open a winehouse in Allas combined with our knowledge that the killer was short and the fact that dwarves are addicted to gold… We have the answer.”
Markstein grinned at Bertram in awe of his own deductive reasoning.
“The dwarf did it,” he said.
Bertram shook his head and pressed his face into his palm.
“I know, I know, it’s the resolution to every half-baked murder melodrama on the stage, but there is an element of truth in all art and, today, life imitates art.”
“The man was hexed to death,” Bertram said through his fingers.
“So? Anyone can buy a hex.”
Bertram groaned and looked up at Markstein.
“True. But, the dwarf definitely didn’t do it. Let me go over it from the start…
“Dennald was not the lovable barkeep his demeanour implied, but a conman. Unfortunately, he fooled his clients, adventurers looking for quests, selling them fake contracts or overcharging them fees on legitimate ones.”
Markstein sniffed. “That’s what I said.”
“Yes, yes. Now, as you noted, he was deep in debt to every single Dwarven Banking Clan.”
“And, the dwarf did it – case closed.”
“Will you shut up!” snapped Helga, who had returned from investigating the yard and still wore an expression of disgust.
Bertram smiled at her. “Thank you. You forgot to consider why he was in debt: He lost a lawsuit brought by the brewery because he wasn’t paying his bills.”
Markstein laughed. “You’re not going to claim the elf is an assassin sent to kill him because he didn’t pay up!”
Bertram rubbed his nose. “Actually, that was pretty much what I was going to say. Congratulations.”
“Um, if you hadn’t noticed – the elf is tall and we know the killer is short.”
“Actually, we know no such thing.” Bertram waved the man silent. “An assumption –”
“And, your anti-dwarf sentiments,” interjected Helga.
“– have caused us to look in the wrong direction. Oh, don’t worry, I believe you’ll get to arrest that dwarf, tonight, just not for murder.”
“Now, you are talking nonsense,” huffed Markstein.
“I think you’ll find he has a coin bag of capaciousness or some sort of magical container upon his person, something innocuous in appearance, but full of stolen gold. He took the gold, as Helga detected, and is, I’m certain, a representative of the Banking Clans here to recover their debt, via burglary.” He nodded at the watchman guarding the suspects and he began to pat the dwarf down.
“Oh, and, by the by, the idea that dwarves have a gold addiction is a fallacy. Studies have shown humans to be even more avaricious than dwarves.”
Markstein snorted.
“His wife ran off with a dwarf weaponsmith,” supplied Helga. Returning the man’s glare, she added, “That and, uh, certain parts of my anatomy have been uppermost in his mind throughout our investigation.”
Markstein flushed and Festelmann said, “I suppose we cannot entirely fault him.”
Helga shot him a glare, but Bertram cut off any further words by returning to his explanation: “As I was saying – the dwarf took the gold.”
He paused as the watchman held up a purse and tipped its contents onto the tavern floor, the pile of coins scattering about with a loud clatter.
The dwarf sagged and stared down at the loot, lip trembling.
“Sue the estate,” said Helga.
“But, he is no killer,” said Bertram. “No, our murderer is one who looks out of place here.”
Festelmann gave a nod. “He does look more like a lawyer than an adventurer.”
“I took him for a mage,” said Markstein.
Tugging at his own robes, Bertram said, “No, we don’t usually wear finely-tailored suits like that – and, especially not when contemplating adventures. Quests tend to occur in filthy places and involve swords, arrows, and sharp claws, after all…”
“True,” the investigator admitted. “Fine – he’s out of place. But, what makes you think he’s the killer, not the dwarf – and, why the brewery?”
“For one simple reason: Why kill the barkeep when he already had the gold?”
“Revenge? A warning? I don’t know!”
“Exactly. There isn’t a good reason. They gained nothing from killing him, not if they covered up his involvement. I mean, it’s not like he could complain, not when he owed them and was planning to default whilst running off with a fortune. A fortune that, I’m sure, isn’t quite enough to cover his debt. Is it?”
He looked at the dwarf, who shook his head. “No, sir.”
“But, alive, there was potential to recover more. The brewery, though, did stand to profit by his death. You said it yourself – no family. So, they stand to gain every shilling of his life insurance.”
Bertram looked at the elf. “This fellow, I suspect, is from their accounts department.”
The elf had the decency to look awkward as he said, “I was here on a spot inspection – nothing to do with murder at all.”
Bertram scoffed. “Really? Well, now we know what we’re looking for, it shouldn’t be difficult to trace the hex back to you. I should think that will void the insurance.” He shook his head. “You probably should have gone with poison.
“Oh, and Markstein, I will be writing you up to the chief…”
The investigator grimaced and Helga nodded, satisfied.
Ends
Author’s Biography
DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing, was placed second in the Writing Magazine 'Mid-Story Sentence' competition, and has been widely published in anthologies and magazines around the world, such as The Underdogs Rise Volume II (Underdog Press), The Black Beacon Book of Pirates (Black Beacon), Troubadours and Space Princesses (Hemelein Publications), and Borne in the Blood (Wolfsinger Publications), and issues of Altered Reality Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Swords and Sorcery Magazine, and Tigershark, as well as having a novella available in paperback and on the Kindle, The Yellow House (Dunhams Manor).
DJ Tyrer's website is at https://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/
DJ Tyrer's Facebook page is at https://www.facebook.com/DJTyrerwriter/
The Atlantean Publishing website is at https://atlanteanpublishing.wordpress.com/
