Writing and Stuff by Anthony Chatfield

I took the advice of my parents and left the city for a fortnight – spending the time in a country cottage owned by my grandparents on an island south of here. I relaxed, listened to the nimble fingers of a bard chosen for me by a dear friend, and read. It was a relaxing holiday, but it did not last nearly long enough. I returned to the city just a few days ago and I learned just how dangerous that man had been…or at least how dangerous someone assumed him to be.

When I returned from my trip, I found that something had happened in my absence. While I was away, the dirty man with the amulet had managed to get himself killed. But, he hadn’t just been killed – his body had been found in the confines of the dungeons in the Sacred Cathedral, deep within the bowels of the church. A stricken acolyte is probably still in prayer, trying to scrub away the imagery of what he saw there.

I never did see the body, but I heard enough stories of what was found there. He was strung up by his palms, massive hooks, like those used to skewer meat used to grip his flesh and hold it. His body had been burned in many places with strange symbols and characters that few if any knew the true meaning of. The churchmen I talked to told me it was the work of a dark cult – the city guards said it looked as though he had done it to himself, the sloppiness of the marks.

Nothing would have been thought of myself if it were not for the note the man held, a banker’s note of patronage rewarding him with the three hundred coin I promised for his silence. Alongside the note, wrapped around his throat, was the amulet he claimed my father had stolen. I have tried since then to find the amulet but it was taken from the body when it was found and has not been seen since. I hope only that my father was the man whose hands it is in..I also fear that he might have been behind the death of the explorer. I do not know, and I would not push the issue if it were not for the marks left on my bill of patronage – a series of red markings, drawn in the man’s blood. They are surely a threat. I have no idea who they are from or what they mean, but I spent the next two days hidden away in my rooms, a deep chill set in my bones.

Two days later, I left my chambers for the first time to get some fresh air and found myself in the depths of my family’s courtyards, enjoying the cool, crisp air of the final days of summer. I turned a particular corner and stopped nearby the next to last place I would have ever expected to see a small child – beside the thorn bushes and in rags with a small package in her hands.

“Are you Sarina McConnell?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is for you.”

The girl threw a small package at me, no larger than the size of her fist and then ran, to where I have no idea. She had no place to have come from and yet away she went, a tattered young thing. I was afraid at first to open the package but did not want to let such things so thoroughly run my life so in an hour I succumbed to my temptation and tore it open to find a small letter, within a box.

It was this latter that told me to go and see Reggie, who warned me that if I wanted to continue living, I would come to see you, the only detective in this city who would have no idea who I was and no political agenda. So, here I am and I hope more than anything that you are the man your friend claims you are. 

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