“Tell me more, please,” I said. “Where was he found?”
Eyes on the road, Fairfax said, “Under a bridge along Muddy Way. A couple found him early this morning.”
I knew the area. “Why would they be walking along Muddy Way in the early morning? The place is devoid of anything of note. Other than trees, mud and the risk of being robbed by bandits.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “We can ask them.”
“No, you can ask them,” I said. “You are the acting detective now, after all. With Oswall gone, you are next in seniority.”
Fairfax took a moment to digest this. He said, “I thought you would assist with the investigation.”
“I said I would take a look, nothing more. If I can help with the initial survey, then I will. But I am through with detective work.”
Quiet now, Fairfax gripped the wheel a little tighter.
“Oh, I’m sorry Fairfax,” I said. “But I cannot let myself get dragged into another case. Not again.”
Fairfax glanced at me, his expression unreadable. I sensed his frustration. From what I knew he only started his detective training and trial period. It would be a good year before he would earn a Detective Constable’s badge.
I felt sorry for him. I did. By refusing to help I put him in a lurch. The pressure to solve Oswall’s murder, or any murders, would be all his. But I refused to get involved any more. That part of my life was finished. Now I rescued stranded children, which suited me fine.
“I understand, ma’am,” Fairfax said. “And I respect it. Thank you for coming, anyway.”
Inspecting the murder scene was the most I wanted to do. I tried to not let a swell of guilt overcome me but failed. This would not be easy.
“Here we are,” Fairfax said, indicating the road ahead.
There were several police buggies parked along the road side next to the entrance of a bridge. The bridge itself was of a stone construction from an era long gone. A rickety wooden roof covered its length and looked to be in severe disrepair.
Fairfax parked us next to the other buggies. I felt a fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. Whenever I arrived at a crime scene, murder or otherwise, it always gave me a shot of energy. I tried to ignore it.
When I exited the vehicle another constable approached me with a grin. “Miss Beeweather. Glad to see you’re here. How are you doing these days?”
“Fit and fine, Constable Webster, thank you,” I said. Better than Detective Oswall, I thought, then frowned. When had I become such a bitter old fool?
A man and woman skulked nearby in the shade of a tree and were talking with a constable who scribbled notes on a pad. The couple shot concerned glances in our direction.
“They are the ones who found Oswall?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Webster said.
“They look nervous,” I said.
Webster looked at them. “Yes, but I don’t think they have the ability to have done it.”
“Why is that, Constable?” First rule at the start of a murder investigation is that everyone is a suspect. Everyone.
“Only that I don’t know who or what could have killed Oswall in such an… odd manner.”
Intrigued now, I said, “Lead the way, please, if you will.”
I followed the constables to the river embankment. From its edge I looked down at the sluggish river rippling past. Its slate gray water reflected the morning sun.
“He’s under there,” Fairfax said, pointing toward the bank below the bridge. From this angle nothing appeared amiss.
As we climbed down the rocky embankment Fairfax offered me his hand. I declined with a polite smile and made it to the bottom on my own without tumbling fanny-over-teakettle.
We crossed the shadowed terminus of the bridge, and I spotted Detective Oswall.
I stopped, agog.
It was Oswall. He stood upright which, for a dead body, indicated something obviously strange. Cloaked in shadow and facing away from me I saw one arm extended before him.
I took a few steps closer. Stock still, the man made no movement. The breeze here did not so much as disturb a hair on his head, nor did it ruffle his pullover coat.
As I drew up to him I gasped in disbelief.
“He’s been turned to stone!” I said, amazed.
“So it would appear,” Fairfax said.
I looked closer, and nodded. Definitely Oswall, right done to the last detail. If I didn’t know that he was solid stone I would have sworn he had been completely painted a rocky brownish color. Even his eyes, wide in shock, had been affected.
For several moments I only stared at him. I knew him, I’d worked with him, and I helped train him. But now?
He was a statue. Caught in a pose of warding someone or something away. His other hand gripped the pistol at his hip, still holstered, and all stone.
“I have a strong dislike for these magic cases,” Webster said, keeping his distance from Oswall.
“They can be challenging,” Fairfax said. I sensed he disapproved of the younger constable a little. Then he said, “Oh, Chief Constable’s direct order is that no one is to mention what has befallen Oswall. Not without his say so. Doesn’t want to create a panic.”
I nodded, then said, “Someone caught him off guard,” noting Oswall’s stance.
“Snuck up on him,” Webster said.
I shook my head and tried to figure the angle of Oswall’s eyes. “It doesn’t appear so. See how he is facing directly ahead. Not toward the edge of the bridge foundation where a person might jump out. It looks like he was perhaps speaking with someone. Or someone approached him from along the river bank.”
The two constables mumbled their agreement.
I blinked out of my thoughts and realized I had forgotten to ask the obvious. “We are certain this is Oswall, yes? Not a carved statue placed here as a joke? Oswall is not at home sick in bed while we fiddle about in the mud?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fairfax said. “I went to speak with his wife just before coming to you. She’d been beside herself with worry as Oswall had not returned home last night, or this morning. She thought he was on an extended stake out, but upon seeing me coming up the walk she started to cry.” He frowned.
I nodded. To tell a person that a loved one was dead had always been the worst part of working this job.
I wanted to ask Fairfax how he explained Oswall’s manner of death to his wife, but refrained. Not my affair. Instead, I asked, “When was the last time anyone saw him?”
Webster said, “Maginhart said he left the Constabulary shortly after seven last night, as best he can remember.”
“His wife last saw him yesterday morning, before leaving for work,” said Fairfax.
My eyes roamed up and down Oswall’s rocky figure. One hand on his pistol, the other held out in front of him, its palm up and flat as if trying to deflect something. Eyes wide in fear? Shock? Horror?
I noticed a thick little spiral bound note pad sticking out of the exposed inside jacket pocket of his coat. It, too, was complete stone.
“There’s his case book.”
“Yes,” Fairfax said. “Won’t be much help to us now, unfortunately.”
That was an understatement. As a detective worked a case he scribbled notes in a notebook which was almost always on his person. If Oswall met someone here, which is how it appeared, he might have written the name in his case book.
Struck with a thought, I looked at Oswall’s shoes. The stone soles of them did not appear to be fused with muddy ground beneath them. Whatever occurred here only effected Oswall.
Then I saw something else and knelt closer.
“What is it?” Fairfax said.
“Look,” I said and pointed. “See how the mud under his feet is pushed outward?” A little trough of mud ringed the base of both shoes.