“So the caretaker’s keys are gone now?” I asked.
“Yes, unfortunately. I have a locksmith coming from the Capital to replace everything. After this nonsense I cannot trust a local one to do it.”
“And who else has the combination for the vault?”
“Just myself here, and it’s recorded back at the Capital.”
“Is there any way someone might have obtained the vault combination from you?”
Aubert looked indignant. “Of course not. I have it memorized only. Other than at the Capital Museum there is no other written record of it.”
I looked at the vault closer. It was an older model, but sturdy. From what I could see it had not been forced open. Physically, anyways.
“It might be possible that magic had been invoked to open it,” I said.
“I considered that,” said Aubert. “It is always a risk when trying to keep these items secure. Mundane methods are too basic a security measure when magic is a factor. Almost impossible. I’m at a point where I must hire a full time Warding Master to live on the premises to keep spell-casting burglars away.” He looked forlorn.
I took the case folder out of my satchel and opened it to the trunk’s item list. “Do you know off hand the value of these items?”
Aubert shrugged. “That is subjective. For collectors, historians and museums they have a value, but from a historical perspective. For the average layman they are just old trinkets.”
“Do they have magical properties?”
“Some do, to varying degrees but that point is moot.”
“How so?”
“Well, they are soul-bound relics. Meaning no one else other than their original owners can use them. And the owners of these items have been dead for centuries. Millennia, even. So, as far as magical worth, they have none. Mere curiosities than anything.”
I knew first hand that this statement was not entirely true. “Yes, but couldn’t a descendant use them? There have been instances of relics passed down for generations.”
Aubert waved a dismissive hand. “To a limited extent that is correct. A direct descendant might bring forth the magical element of the item. But unless you knew first hand who that descendant was, it would be almost impossible to find out. And even then, the item may do nothing at all. Which is why they are relegated to mere curiosities.”
“Why is that?”
The curator raised his hands at the items around us. “These are so old and the cataloguing of them so poor that finding even the original owner’s identity is difficult. So how is it possible to track the descendants of a person when that person is unknown to begin with?”
I looked at the list. “The names of these items denote their magical properties?”
“Yes, as far as research can figure out. No one can know what their true properties are anymore. We use historical records to learn more about them. Many may not even be what they are listed as because so little information is available. So, to answer your original question, they are, for all intents and purposes, worthless.”
“So why would someone steal them and leave these valuable items alone?”
Aubert shrugged. “That is your job to find out, detective.”
True, I thought. Then I looked at the trunk’s item list again. One stood out.
“Curator Othmar, I see a ‘Gunther’s Kaggik Talon?’ listed.”
“Yes, so?”
“What does Kaggik mean?” I had my suspicions.
“Well, Kaggik derives from the ancient language of Sennia. Its general meaning is rock or stone.”
“Gunther’s Stone Talon,” I said, with a sense of dread growing in my gut. “And what did this Stone Talon do?”
“Well, detective, according to myth,” Aubert said, “it turned people to stone.”
I looked to Fairfax who arched a brow. Then to Aubert I asked, “Turned people to stone? Are you certain?”
Aubert nodded. “It is one of the few myths for which we have multiple sources. Gunther the Ungrateful had created it from the talon of a gorgon. Then he ran around turning the legions of the Gods to stone. Even turned some of the Ancient Ones to stone, too, if that is to be believed.”
Fairfax asked, “But only Gunther’s descendants can use the magic in the talon, correct?”
“Well, yes, but the talon can never be used ever again. It’s inert as the others.”
“But Gunther’s descendants -”, Fairfax said but Aubert held up a hand.
“Gunther was a eunuch from a very young age. It was a necessary requirement to create magical artifacts. So, no. No descendants of Gunther’s could ever exist. And, as a result, the Talon has never been used since his death, thousands of years ago.”
Until this morning, I wanted to say but didn’t. With this revelation I needed time to think.
We took our leave and told the curator we’d return later. He did not look convinced but said nothing more as he closed the Museum’s front door behind us.
For a few moments, Fairfax and I just stood on the top step, taking in the view below of the gardens.
“Gunther’s Stone Talon,” Fairfax said. “You were right and that cat was right. This case is directly connected to Oswall’s death.”
“But how can the Talon be used now after all this time?” I said.
“Perhaps the myths were wrong. The ones regarding Gunther being a eunuch. Or he’s been resurrected by some arcane means?”
I sighed. “Well, we now know what the potential murder weapon is. And regardless of whether the person using it has anything to do with Gunther, the fact remains they are out there now and they might use it again.”
Fairfax asked, “So where to next?”
“I’m curious as to why Oswall had an interest in Elicia Ipthorn,” I said.
“Maybe he took a liking to her. Wanted to court her,” Fairfax said with a wry grin.
I grinned back. “Then let us go ask her.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Hearts District, one of the poorest areas of town, was filled with dilapidated buildings which stood as a testament to its poverty.
The address Rousset had given took us to its eastern most edge. Any more further and we’d end up in the town dump.
Fairfax parked the buggy in front of the end unit of a cramped row of townhouses. All the curtains were drawn, and windows closed. It may have been my suspicious mind, but that seemed unusual on such a warm day.
“Maybe she’s out?” Fairfax said.
“Only one way to be sure, Constable,” I said and got out of the buggy.
A large woman leaned out of a window of the townhouse next to Elicia’s. Her long blonde hair wrapped in a bun and with arms like giant hams, pink and sweaty as she stirred a huge bowl of dough.
As we climbed the stairs to the little alcove, which protected the front door from rain, Fairfax tipped his cap to the large woman. “Good afternoon,” he said.
“Afternoon,” she said and watched us intently.
I exchanged a glance with Fairfax who kept his expression neutral. Once we had stepped into the alcove Fairfax knocked on the door. After several minutes, he did so again. I tried peering through the nearest window but the curtains blocked my view.
Still no answer. Fairfax tried the doorknob, but found it locked.
“We should try back later,” I suggested and Fairfax nodded.
As we descended the stairs the large woman in the window said, “Looking for Elicia?”
“Yes, do you know if she is home?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” she said. Her stirring never stopped. “Might want to try at her work. It’s a bookstore.”
“We did. The owner said Elicia had sent word yesterday morning she had taken ill.”