Churchwarden

By A. C. Williams

“What a perfectly splendid location to attempt new and exciting crime!” Finneas Churchwarden—private investigator—straightened his blue argyle bow-tie. “Don’t you agree, Leon?”

“It’s Lionel, sir.”

“That’s what I meant.” Churchwarden jabbed his clay pipe between his teeth, chewing on the stem as he spoke. “Come, beloved colleague. Let us do the work of justice!”

Churchwarden led the way into the dilapidated tavern at the center of the floating island. Pity the place wasn’t in better shape. Then it might attract a higher class of clientele, and Churchwarden and his loyal constable wouldn’t have to venture inside.

The warmth inside the tavern wrapped suffocating arms around Churchwarden’s trench-coated shoulders, and his head began to sweat beneath his houndstooth deerstalker cap.

“Look at this appalling assemblage of scurrilous individuals, Lester!”

“Lionel, sir.”

“Lionel, of course.” Churchwarden plucked his cap off and smoothed down his brown hair. “This would make a magnificent hideaway for our shape-shifting friend.”

The constable cleared his throat. “Sir, do you actually think the skinwalker will still be here? It seems more likely that she would have continued—”

“Ah, you see, Lincoln—”

“Lionel.”

“—that’s why I’m the detective, and you are the constable.” Churchwarden handed him the sweaty deerstalker. “Find a place for that, dear boy, and I’ll investigate.”

The constable wrinkled his nose at the cap and pinched it between his fingers.

Bless. He’s the best apprentice a brilliant detective like myself could ask for, but he does tend toward naiveté.

Churchwarden tightened the belt of his trench coat and flopped at a table near the center of the tavern, sitting heavily. He chewed on his pipe and breathed deeply the scent of roasting meats and buttery pastries.

The Emberstone Tavern was known throughout the realms as the only safe harbor for travelers, and even if he couldn’t find the skinwalker, at least he’d have a decent meal. Word in the Ways had it that their chicken pot pies were to die for.

A woman with hair somewhere between brown and blond stopped at his elbow, her long skirts swishing around her ankles.

“Welcome to the Emberstone.” She reached down and brushed some crumbs off the tabletop. “What can I get for you?”

Churchwarden sat back in his chair and regarded the woman. She wasn’t bad to look at. Plain. An average sort of woman who could easily blend in with those around her.

Could it be her?

He narrowed his eyes, squinting at her until her figure blurred.

“Would you like a drink?” the waitress asked slowly, raising thin eyebrows at him.

Churchwarden puffed on his pipe, and the woman choked at the clouds of smoke rising into her face.

Yes, I think it is.

How fortuitous that his instincts had led him directly to his target. After this, his superiors would have to admit he was the best detective on the force.

Now to prove it.

“I’d like a glass of water, my dear.” He offered her the brightest smile he could fit on his face. “The largest tankard you have.”

“Water?”

“Please. And a pint of your house bitters for my associate, Ladislav.” He pointed his pipe at the constable, who had struck up a conversation with a fellow in the back corner.

“Ladislav?”

“Yes, of course. You don’t think I know my own constable’s name?”

One eyebrow still arched suspiciously, the woman twirled away to the bar. The constable pulled the chair next to him out and sat down.

“Finneas,” the constable said, “I spoke to the owner. I think the skinwalker has moved on.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ludlow.” Churchwarden reached for the tin of various seasonings at the center of the table. “The skinwalker is here.”

“With all due respect, Inspector,” the constable said between clenched teeth, “the tavern’s owner informed me that their security personnel recently discovered a murder victim. Killed the same way as Governor Carrington.”

“As I said, Leonardo, this wretched den of wickedness breeds violence.” Churchwarden picked the salt out of the tin and began unscrewing the cap.

The constable expelled a long, slow breath.

Good lad. I always say officers of the law must be calm at all times. My influence must be rubbing off.

“Sir, I believe the skinwalker has fled to the Fourth World.”

“Nonsense, Lawrence. The skinwalker is right here.”

The waitress returned with a pint of bitters and a giant tankard of water. Bless. She’d delivered her own doom. Churchwarden dumped the entire container of salt into it and stirred with a knife from the table.

The waitress eyed him curiously but didn’t comment. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Ladislav?” She turned to the constable.

He sighed. “It’s Lionel, Miss. And no, thank you.” He frowned. “Finneas, what are you doing?”

“Proving a point.” Churchwarden smiled at the huge tankard of salt water and then at the waitress. “Saltwater is your downfall, wretched beast!”

“What—?”

He splashed the entire tankard of water in her face.

The whole tavern went silent.

The constable slumped his face into his hands, and the waitress—still solid, still looking exactly the same—blinked in growing fury as saltwater dripped off her chin.

Oh.

What an unfortunate miscalculation.

“Finneas,” the constable groaned.

A harsh cackle at the back of the room set off a rowdy chorus of laughter rippling through the tavern. The soaked waitress fumed and snatched the tankard out of his hand.

“Now, young lady, let’s not do anything—”

The tankard impacted with the side of his head. He toppled out of the chair to sprawl on the sticky floorboards. Churchwarden blinked at the waitress’s sensible flats, peeping out from beneath her saltwater-drenched skirts.

Behold, what ugly shoes! The skinwalker would never wear something so appallingly unfashionable.

“Lombardo?”

The constable sighed again. “Sir?”

“I believe the evidence is directing us to pursue the skinwalker to the Fourth World.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Have you got my hat?”

Churchwarden’s sweaty deerstalker cap landed on his face.

“Cheers, Lewis.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A. C. Williams is a coffee-drinking, sushi-eating, story-telling nerd who loves cats, country living, and all things Japanese. She’d rather be barefoot, and if isn’t, her socks will never match. She likes her road trips with rock music, her superheroes with snark, and her blankets extra fuzzy, but her first love is stories and the authors who are passionate about telling them. Learn more about her book coaching services and follow her adventures on social media or on her website.

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