“No. Thank you.”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, milord?”
“Young as you used to be. At least at some point. Artificial Beings Crimes Division, wot? Everyone in ABCD is a bio or mech, am I right? Never heard of anyone copying into anything older than his natural.”
“ABCD is staffed by ABs—artificials. When I used the word I, milord, the reference was to my imprint rather than my suit.”
“Suit? Suit?” His thick white eyebrows arched. “A suit is a jacket, man. Trousers, a waistcoat perhaps. God’s truth, man, what you call a suit is a created body—what God in his arrogance once thought was his domain.” The bishop’s eyebrows came together into a frown.
Little profit in bandying souls, minds, mortal remains, and afterlifes with someone who was an obvious bigot. He was also a bishop and presumably could quote me under the table regarding my bandying candidates. Putting temptation aside, I said, “I’m inquiring about an antique gas gun registered to your office well over a century ago. We’ve talked with your secretary and he seems unable to locate it.”
“Gas gun? Gas gun? What rot. I own guns. Fowling pieces, wot? Never owned a ... gas gun, you say?”
“Yes sir.”
“What’s it for?”
“They were originally used by law enforcement in non-lethal riot control. You might say the one we’re looking for now, though, was used as a fowling piece.”
“Fowling piece, you say?” His eyebrows went up again as he pointed a finger at me. “Ah hah! You’re talking about that dead pigeon bio on the telly. Ledge marshal chap.”
“Yes, milord. He was killed by a gas gun shooting a flexible baton.”
“Flex—a what?”
“A beanbag.”
“Beanbag. Damned silliness if you ask me. Pigeons. Beanbags. If that chap’d stayed in his own skin, he’d still be alive, wot?” The bishop took another drink, placed the glass upon the tray, and faced me. “Jaggers, have you any idea how much it costs churches in this country to keep pigeon filth off sills and ledges? Have any idea at all how it’s done?”
“Actually—”
“Cloned pigeon bios, can you believe? All over the sky: Bloody scientific freaks strutting about chasing off real pigeons. Call themselves the bloody Royal Air Force! Ruddy cheek of it. Takes a king’s ransom just to keep filth off buildings. Billions we pay across the entire kingdom. You want to see your money grow, sir, sink a few thousand into that Pureledge.”
“About—”
“You ever see ‘em fly, sir? The pigeon Air Force? See what they do with their wings when they’re up in the sky? I pulled a bell rope or two in my time, sir. I know what they’re up to.”
“About the gas gun, milord.”
“Gas gun? Oh.” He settled back in his chair, pursed his lips, and raised an eyebrow at me. “Murder weapon, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Understand, inspector, my personal possessions are different than things belonging to the bishop’s see. I don’t own this furniture,” he raised a hand, “or any of these books. They all belong to the office.” He frowned again, looked at his knees, and looked again at me. “How old was this contraption?”
“It was manufactured in the twenty-first century. Your secretary said the last mention in your records is one hundred and forty years old.”
“Rubbish. Don’t own any guns that old. Wouldn’t use them if I did. Unreliable. Something that old belongs in a museum, wot?” He placed his hands upon his knees, leaned forward, and stood. Turning, he went to the writing desk and pushed a button disguised in its surface. His face and hair achieved a bluish-white hue and I realized he was looking at the illuminated side of a virtual video screen. “There’s that mention.” He studied the screen, his lips silently moving, then moved his fingers about on the desk’s surface. “Let’s see. There, inspector. Well. What do you make of that? The office owned a Defense Technology 37mm Multi-launcher with folding stock and revolver type motor driven magazine. Here’s an image...” His eyebrows went up. “Formidable looking device. Fired beanbags, you say.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Six rounds in three seconds it says. Bloody hell. You could have a Glorious Twelfth shooting party with one of those things—open the shooting season proper.” He nodded once. “Let’s see. Cathedral groundskeeper then purchased the weapon for pigeon control. Gun was never used.” He glanced at me. “Illegal to shoot pigeons then, I suppose.”
“As it is now, milord.”
“Silly regulation.” He looked back at his screen, muttered some numbers, and fingered his desktop. “Ah. There. I was right. A weapon of that make, model, description, and serial number is among the acquisitions of the Royal Diane Devon & Cornwall Force Museum. You know it? Fore Street next to St. Mary Arches?”
“I know it.” I got up to look at his screen and verify the bishop’s statements. Indeed, the weapon in question resided at the Royal Diane Police Museum. I asked Dr. Koch if I could use his link.
“Feel free, inspector.” He nodded and returned to his chair and beverage.
Clerical error. The serial number of the gun belonging to the bishop’s office had been entered incorrectly when the gun was donated to the law enforcement museum back when its location had been at Middlemoor at the Police College. Because of Parker’s inquiries, the curator at the museum had rechecked the serial number and had made the necessary correction on their site. While I was there, I checked on the bishop’s alibi. At the time when Darcy Flanagan was killed, the Bishop of Exeter was indeed in Starcross being entertained by approximately eighty witnesses at the venerable Oak Meadow Golf Club. The soiree had taken place after a blustery day of attempting unsuccessfully to put little white balls into little round holes for the benefit of notorious anti-AB life organization, Natural Pride. The person writing the article was Alicia Pelletier of Starcross, secretary of the local NP chapter.
“Lord Koch, are you a member of Natural Pride?”
“Natural Pride? Heavens, no,” he said from his chair. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. It’s a sound organization doing vital work.” He turned in his chair and looked at me. “A view unlikely to be shared by artificial beings I suppose.” He turned back, removed the peculiar hat, and placed it on the table next to his drink. “Too controversial, NP. Never do to join in my position. Eight percent of church members in the see are ABs. I have a responsibility.” He shook his head. “Human imprints on animals, sir. God never intended kangaroos to play the banjo, sir, nor apes to sing before the royal family.”
The Parker reference peaked my interest. The bishop shook his head ruefully, noted his glass was empty, and was about to ring for his butler when the door opened and Fedders appeared with a fresh highball. “Bloody gorillas,” he muttered raising the fresh drink to his lips. He glanced back at me. “Conducting your current inquiry I understand.”
“Yes, milord.”
He turned back, muttering to himself. “How long until the future sees a bloody chipmunk as priest?”
I decided to risk a question. “Milord, how would you feel about killing an amdroid?”
“Hah! Me, sir? Kill one, sir? I’m a man of God, sir. How do you think I’d feel about murder?”
“You consider it murder?”
He looked around again. “My objection to amdroids, inspector, is that in copying into an animal suit, as you put it, I believe the soul is copied in as well. Moving the soul in and out of a body is man’s ability, sir, but it is God’s work. If the only imprint of an individual is in an amdroid, bio, or mech, killing that imprint moves that soul out of the body. Again, sir, I say that is God’s work. When men move souls I call it murder. Dread the future, sir. I do.” He shook his head and looked down at the tiny pink umbrella in his fresh drink. “I do,” he repeated.