Fool’s End

By E. F. McMilion

Wisps of charcoal gray wafted on the wind. The smog gave the illusion of ghosts preceding me to the alley. Perhaps it was ghosts, the three murdered souls beckoning me to their killer. I suspected the victims, each desperate for a miracle, were lured here for their money.

A steam-powered carriage careened around the corner, nearly knocking me off my feet.

“Whoa, whoa.” The half-shriek, half-groan escaped me as I struggled to regain my balance.

I turned the corner into a deserted alley and perceived my destination half-way down, obscured in a thick, ominous smog. I picked up my pace, anxious to get to work. All the evidence pointed to this public house.

I paused for a second at the large wooden door, the name scratched off long ago. No respectable person would set foot in such an establishment.

Then again, I wasn’t looking for respectable people. Only a fool would come alone.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself at least the Chief Inspector would know I was here. Why hadn’t he responded to my letters?

The door refused to budge, so I shoved it open with all my weight. It hit the wall with a bang. The smell of rancid meat and musty ale accosted my nose. My vision adjusted to the dim light, and I found all eyes fixed on me. Dodging the crowd, I ducked my head and shuffled to a free seat.

“Spot of tea, dearie?” The barmaid mocked me. Not the first time I hadn’t been taken seriously as a woman.

“Ale, with cheese and bread,” I glared at her. She glowered back and sauntered away. No matter—I didn’t come for the food anyway.

Most of the patrons’ eyes were at half-mast; some heads waved in the breeze as if they’d been plastered since early morning. Didn’t they have employment? Was my murderer feigning drunkenness among them?

A man, most likely the owner, stood in a small opening between the tables and cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gents, one time, one final time, we have the pleasure of enjoying the musical talents of young Hadeon.”

“Two times, two times,” a drunk near him sang.

The man’s gaze bore holes through the drunk until he ceased smiling. “As I was saying, tonight is young Hadeon’s last performance at our very esteemed establishment.”

Esteemed indeed. I sneered, thankful the dim lighting masked the expression.

A woman at the table in front of mine leaned over to her escort. “I heard he sang a good song,” she whispered eagerly, her dark eyes sparkling. Judging by his face, I doubted her escort cared about anything but bedding her.

This young boy, Hadeon, placed a small stool in the open space between tables and sat down, tuning his guitar. I slipped my hand into the leather pouch attached to my belt and retrieved my optic conductors. If he was manipulating the crowd, I was going to catch it. This was just the sort of enterprise where one might run such experiments.

The barmaid returned with my fare, sloshing a bit of ale over the stein’s brim as she slammed it on the table. I took a few sips of the brew. It had a solid dose of bitterness but cooled my parched throat. The fire burned too high for such a small room in early September. My leather bodice clung to my ribs as sweat penetrated my blouse.

Hadeon began his song, strumming the guitar strings with fluid grace. As he sang, I donned the goggles and flipped through the various lenses, searching for any auras or mists–telltale signs of pheromone usage. Each came up empty. Clear of pheromones then. I positioned small, perforated metal pods in my ear canals. He could be creating mass hypnosis through song. The songs were linked to the killings. I should commission an inventor to create a tool to detect hypnosis.

I removed the goggles, replaced them in the leather pouch, and fanned myself with my hand. So hot. Was it getting hotter? I longed to remove my leather boots or tug my long skirt above my knees, but propriety kept me in check.

I took a long draw of the bitter draught, dehydration overruling my taste buds. Something about Hadeon seemed familiar. I willed him to look up as I gulped down the last of the ale, my body flushed with fever. No, flushed with the stifling heat of this room. My thoughts muddled. I should have eaten something. The ale had gone straight to my head.

I stood and wobbled a bit, but I had to know. I took a few unsteady steps towards the musician. Halfway across the room, he glanced up and met my eyes. My heart dropped into my stomach. Those cobalt blue eyes were unmistakable. Hadeon was the same errand boy I paid to take letters to the Chief Inspector!

I lost feeling in my legs, and my feet slid out from under me.

“Softly, now.” The proprietor caught me under my arms. Relief rushed through me as I escaped contact with the floor. “She’s just had a bit much to drink, folks. Nothing to trouble about.”

Wait, no, I haven’t had too much to drink. I only had one pint. But my mouth wouldn’t move. The proprietor shifted me so one arm was draped across his shoulders, his grip on my torso firm.

“We found your letters and read each one, Inspector,” he whispered in my ear as the realization came crashing in on me—too late! I’d been drugged.

I willed my hand to grab the small dagger concealed in my boot, but it wouldn’t respond.

They were killing me.

The proprietor guided me to the kitchen and dropped me on the floor.

“Shame we couldn’t con her out of some bits first,” the barmaid’s voice hovered over me.

“There’s some authentic government-issued equipment in this pouch. That should fetch something,” the proprietor countered.

His face floated above me as the darkness crept in. “Our boy, there, has the best eye for a mark—even you.”

Can you guess which song from the 1990's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

E. F. McMilion is hopelessly hopeful and suffers from chronic daydreaming. Her devoted husband and son support her through delusions of fantasy worlds and imaginary friends. Faith, family and love of food keep her invested in the real world. E.F.’s preferred diversions consist of reading, board games, long walks in nature, and exploring new places.

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