Pascal Hunter has barely started investigating Lord Pankov’s murder and already he’s sorry he ever took the case. Forced to leave his body behind, he possesses a young woman he knows nothing about. He must hide his true identity while searching for a killer. And he must prevent the memories and personality of the body he occupies from overwhelming him. There’s a reason he hates possessing people.

Three footmen and the towering butler were waiting by the front door when the coach rode over one of the picturesque bridges. It was a big difference from Pascal’s unceremonious departure. The footmen rushed forward as they disembarked in the courtyard.

“Welcome back, Lady Sofiya,” intoned the butler. Feodor Menschikov was completely bald and had a long nose. With his great height he had to look down to speak to people, making him resemble nothing so much as a perching vulture. “I am glad you made the trip safely too, Miss Gray,” he added. Pascal suspected his graciousness was more for Sofiya’s benefit than her own.

“Thank you, Fedya Illyitch,” Sofiya responded as he gave her his hand to help her out of the carriage. She introduced Brynn and asked the butler to find him a position in the kitchens.

“Of course, Lady Sofiya. I will inform Raisa Irinova.”

Just like that, Brynn was on the staff, without delay or argument. So that, at least, was done.

“Go on ahead,” Sofiya said to Pascal while Brynn went off with one of the footmen. “I want to get everything unpacked first.” She turned back to her conversation with the butler.

The light streamed through the doors behind her and illuminated the grand entrance hall. A throng of iron lamps hanging on the walls failed to do more than vainly attack the deep shadows. The dark paneled walls soaked up the light, but the polished brass rails of the double curved staircase drew the eye by reflecting all the light that remained. The ground floor pretended to defense, so was nearly windowless. The entrance hall was designed to focus all attention on the stairs leading to the more welcoming spaces above.

A stick figure appeared at the top of the stairs and came down to greet her. “Simcha, darling, how nice to see you back. Come, get cleaned up and let’s have some tea together.” The woman was average height, though that was still taller than Pascal at the moment, but she seemed even taller due to her painful thinness. Her long blond hair and watery eyes added to her wispiness and made her look more the ghost than Pascal.

She struggled to work out the woman’s identity without dipping into Simza’s memories. The woman wore a flowing black dress, so was either a family member or guest. Since Pascal was the only guest this must be Boris’s wife, Dunyasha. “Certainly,” she answered simply.

By the standards she’d faced so far, after all, Dunyasha was positively brimming with friendliness.

Her room had already been cleaned and made up. Back in the Freezer she made her bed regularly at least once a month and her clothes were kept within easy reach on top of whatever surface she could find. A clean room was a novelty.

The lamps were uncovered and glowing without any fire burning within. They took advantage of the shard’s sympathetic magic, with all the lamps in the house cast from the same iron. They could light one lamp and all of them would glow. It also explained why they had lamp covers above them. Extinguishing the master lamp turned off all the lamps in the house, but covers would darken a single room.

Now that she understood how things worked, she looked in the mirror and said, “I’d like to change for tea, please.”

A few moments later a maid appeared at the door. It was not the same maid she had that morning, but a mousy middle-aged woman with short brown hair.

Pascal stripped off her riding gear and washed herself from a basin the maid provided. She had to remind herself not to pay undue attention to her body despite the temptation. The maid brought out a long black skirt and blouse. She wasn’t sure if a skirt was better or worse than the dress she had to wear in the morning. Pants were far preferable, but she’d have limited opportunities for that.

Her maid took one of the fine perfume bottles from the vanity and put a few drops on her neck and wrists, one of the few concessions to femininity permitted during mourning.

“Those bottles are beautiful,” Pascal blurted despite herself. The five bottles on the vanity were tinted glass blown into intricate and fanciful patterns. Light reflected from the facets into other faces so they seemed to shine from within. They were all sealed with gold stoppers.

“Yes, Miss Gray. They’re part of the Egyptian collection,” her maid answered. “Old Lord Pankov’s grandmother collected them. They’re only used for prominent guests now.” She even smiled. The maid’s pride in the house overcame her distaste for Pascal. Since all the servants seemed to share that distaste, she was glad to find a way through it.

“I forgot to ask,” Pascal put in since she had an opening, “Do you know where I am to take tea with–?”

As hoped, the maid filled in the pause, though with a trace of contempt, “Lady Dunyasha Ivatsovna? In the sitting room, of course.”

She found the sitting room easily. It was in the front of the house with a magnificent view of the lawns through a wide window. Chairs and divans were artfully arranged to give each person a view of all others while not concealing any of the statuary or paintings lovingly scattered about the room. An intricate crown molding drew the eye to a tremendously detailed wooden ceiling.

“Good afternoon, Dunyasha Ivatsovna,” she said with a slight bow when she came into the room.

“Oh please, Simcha dear, don’t be so formal. We’re going to be the two outsiders married into this family. We must stick together, no?” She blinked distractingly during this otherwise friendly speech, her eyes constantly watering.

And that began a rambling discourse in which Pascal had no opportunity to speak. She could nod agreement, or shake her head, but Dunyasha’s torrent of words would brook no interruption. Pascal suspected she could jump up and down, scream, and strip naked without interrupting the woman’s stream of gossip and innuendo.

So while drinking overly sweet tea and nibbling on some iced fruits the maids brought in, she heard details about the travel plans of people she didn’t know. The Alexsayivs were moving to their summer home near the lake, but leaving the father behind to manage the farming. The Minkins, or at least the younger ones, were to spend a month in their hunting lodge, and wasn’t that suspicious? Pascal had no idea whether it was suspicious or not.

She perked up briefly when Dunyasha started talking about a recent death in town even as she cursed herself for her ghoulishness. But it was just a rant that “with Mr. Chernov dead that little Jew Goldstein will be running the law office until we get back home,” and how much of a disgrace that was. Pascal keyed in on the part about getting back home. If she understood correctly, Brodjach went to the same place each time it left Fall of Night. Dunyasha seemed to consider that place her true home, rather than the city.

It was only when Dunyasha said, “So with Boris spending all his time preparing for his Assumption, I will join Yulia Radkovna for a few days. We must continue to fulfill our social obligations, mustn’t we? I’ll be sure to let you know all about it and I’m so sorry you won’t be able to join me,” that Pascal got an opportunity to jump in on the conversation.

“So you’ll be leaving? When will you be back?” Pascal couldn’t imagine this woman staying quiet long enough to kill anyone, but leaving the scene was grounds for suspicion.

“I’ll be back for Boris’s Assumption when mourning is over. I’m so tired of wearing black I couldn’t bear it for another week. Besides, it’s good to show Boris I have an independent streak. Keep him wanting me, don’t you know?”

She paused briefly instead of continuing with her lecture, so Pascal decided to take a chance. Even the most direct questions would not make this woman suspicious. If she gossiped this much with everyone, she might even know something interesting.

“Aren’t you worried that the killer might strike again, when Boris is the new Lord Pankov?”

“Not at all Simcha dear,” she said while patting Pascal’s arm and blinking rapidly.

“No, that valet, what was his name again? Yakim something or other? Yes, that was it. Dreadful little man, I don’t know what Poppa Pankov saw in him. He’d kept the man on for years, even though he was clearly unsuited. Always had a red nose, looked like he’d had too much to drink every time I saw him, most unsuitable. But then, that was Poppa for you, loyal to his people to a fault. You can be sure I will not let Boris tolerate such loose standards.”

She took a breath, and Pascal almost managed to get a word in when she started up again.

“But the gendarmes have him, and he’s no danger to anyone anymore. Wouldn’t hurt my Boris even if he was free again. It was a crime of passion for him, you see.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “He’d tried to get his nephew hired as a stable boy. Had it all set up, the boy was ready to go and everything, when Poppa Pankov stopped it and said no. Not a word of explanation, but it’s obvious enough he thought the boy would be as unsuitable as the man. Poor Yakim just couldn’t take it, that’s all there is to it. The lower classes are not as stable as we are, you know how it is. You must always keep an eye on them, Simcha. Never forget.”

Dunyasha paused to take a sip of tea. It was the first time she’d touched her tea since they sat down, Pascal noted with amusement.

“My tea is cold,” she proclaimed with annoyance. “Who served me cold tea?”

She ran off without another word. Pascal took a moment to enjoy the blessed silence before moving on herself.

- ♇ -

The scene of the crime.

Did she really hope to find anything, Pascal had to ask herself. Almost two months had passed since the crime. Her odds of learning anything were pretty close to zero. And of course, she was not supposed to be in Lord Pankov’s room.

She did it anyway.

She’d gotten lucky before. Besides, she just wouldn’t be a private eye if she didn’t investigate the crime scene. It’s just one of those things you have to do, she told herself.

I am Pascal Hunter. I investigate crime scenes.

She also hoped to learn a little bit about Lord Pankov by seeing his private room. Like finding clues to the murder, her odds were not good. This was a manor, and she could never be certain how much the neatness or decor reflected the man and how much the servants. It was still worth a try.

At least she wouldn’t have to stumble about in the dark. With all the wall lamps linked to a master downstairs, the ubiquitous lights were shining away. Being seen through windows might have been a problem, but the curtains were drawn during mourning.

A thick rug with intricate patterns covered most of the floor and muffled her footfalls. While the curtain and rug minimized the risk of detection, she had to watch out for the mirror. A large mirror sat on the dresser and was almost certainly linked to another, just like the one in her room.

The bed was made. It was the first thing she looked at. The corners were intact. They had changed the quilt and probably the sheets too. She figured they would have. Seeing the torn sheet had been a long shot at best.

An easel with a large drawing pad on it sat at the far end of the room. A charcoal drawing of the house gardens was on the front. The small table nearby was dark cherry with a pale white edge. It held charcoals, pencils, and gum erasers laid out evenly about it. The pencils were all the same size and lined up perfectly. If Lord Pankov organized it himself, the man was anal.

She had never heard anyone suggest Lord Pankov had an artistic side so she had to take a look at the other drawings. They were workmanlike sketches, good but far from brilliant. Mostly landscapes, with a few architectural drawings scattered about. He had many drawings of his own gardens in different lights. There were a few scenes she recognized from Fall of Night, though none of the Freezer. Lord Pankov liked to patronize the higher tech areas, or at least to sketch them. There were were several seascapes, high cliffs with waves crashing beneath, that she didn’t recognize.

Each drawing was in triplicate. There were always two rough copies before the finished product. In two cases she found rough copies with no finished drawing.

Near the easel sat a glass display case with a collection of clocks and watches. If this was not an inherited collection, the old man did not like the gaudy, but the intricate. None of the pocket watches were jeweled or ornamented. Instead they featured detailed etching or a fine painting on the face.

She thought she had a feel for the man. He was interested, even fascinated, by art. While he tried his hand at drawing, he didn’t try to put it forward as more than it was. He was organized, maybe even regimented.

That didn’t mesh with Dunyasha’s story that Lord Pankov turned away Yakim’s nephew on a whim. She had painted a very different picture, of a man set in his ways and willful. Both pictures were limited. Pascal was guessing at the man’s character from his room, and Dunyasha was eagerly gossiping. Both impressions were probably incomplete.

She turned to the bed. She had to be careful, as the dresser and its large mirror stood next to it.

The bed had a large dark hardwood headboard carved with an intricate moonscape. The moon was an inlay of light colored wood. The footboard was a lighter wood and carved with a rising sun. Most beds with a sun and moonscape would have the Sun on the headboard. She wondered if the bed was inherited, or if Lord Pankov liked the art or the reversal.

The mattress was large, but was only made up for a single person. One large pillow was centered in front of the headboard. The room was supposed to be stay untouched until the Assumption, so she took it as read that Lord Pankov slept alone. Lady Pankov had her own room. No feminine items were in his chambers.

“Are you looking for something in particular, Miss Gray?”

She wheeled around, hair snapping about her face.

The butler, the ominously named Feodor Illyitch Menschikov, towered in the doorway. His giant sized frame almost blocked the light from the hall. His tone was level, but his face was unforgiving.

Honesty, or at least something in the same general neighborhood, might serve her well. She tried to seem shy by peering at the ground, and said quietly, “I was looking for anything the police might have missed. To see if it really was Yakim.”

“The gendarmes have said so, and so it is,” he pronounced with finality. “It is not your place to second guess the authorities, Miss Gray. That is not your role.”

He left her an opening and she took it. “Is it your role, Feodor Illyitch?”

“Most certainly not,” he humphed. “Nor would I even if it were. Yakim Sergeyin must be held for his crime. Now, I will not presume to give orders to Lord Andrei’s guest,” he said with that slight twitch Pascal was getting used to seeing, “but I shall call for Lady Pankov if you do not remove yourself from the Old Lord’s bedroom.”

It was a long shot to begin with. She’d gotten all the feel for the victim she could hope for, little though it was, so she left without complaint. “Why do you believe the valet was guilty? Sonya doesn’t seem as sure.”

The butler raised an eyebrow in surprise at the name Sonya, but didn’t comment. “Lady Sofiya is a kind girl with an unfortunate childhood attachment to her father’s valet. I remember that morning with shame. Yakim Sergeyin approached me in the breakfast hall when he should have been dressing Lord Pankov. He calmly pulled me aside to whisper that there was something wrong, and I should come immediately.”

Pascal nodded encouragingly, “That seems–”

“Wrong,” the butler exploded. He took a deep breath and continued, “An innocent man who served Lord Pankov so long would have been panicked or worried. Instead he calmly collected witnesses to muddy the waters.”

He took another deep breath with his eyes closed. When he opened them he took a step forward so Pascal had to crick her neck to see his face.

“Miss Gray, the gendarmes have assured me that the man who discovers the deed is the culprit more often than not. There is no doubt that Yakim Sergeyin discovered Lord Pankov’s corpse, and you’ll excuse the indelicate term.” He eyed her crosswise, and said sub rosa, “Of course you will.”

Still unsure of her footing, she smiled grimly and let him continue.

“It is a matter of some embarrassment to me, as you may have noticed.” His outburst had displaced his anger at finding her in Lord Pankov’s room. “I was responsible for hiring Yakim Sergeyin those years ago. It was a favor to an infantry officer of my acquaintance who was seeking a position for his former aide de camp. If there were a suitable replacement among the staff I would offer Lord Boris my resignation on his Assumption. Sadly there is not and I must continue.”

“I’m sure that’s what he would want,” she said consolingly. It was the obvious response.

“Yes, well, that’s kind of you to say,” he replied after a start. Recovering himself, “I trust we will see no repeats of this behavior, Miss Gray. Lord Andrei has taken considerable pains to bring you here, and it would be a shame to see his efforts so poorly repaid.”

“I will do my best not to embarrass him,” she promised. “Although I do not share your confidence in the authorities.”

He stared down at her. “Try harder, Miss Gray.”

The butler thought for a moment before continuing. “Lord Andrei has– changed for the better since meeting you. He was a rebellious child and yet it hurt Old Lord Pankov badly when he left. He won his father’s blessing not just by returning, but by convincing him he’d matured. He did that for you, Miss Gray, and he struggled against his father’s anger to keep that blessing. Do not risk losing it.

“I hate to admit this,” he continued, “but at one point I’d feared the fighting had gotten to Lord Andrei and he attacked his father. He had been out so late the night before– well, I was relieved when the gendarmes pointed to Yakim Sergeyin. Lord Andrei has done much to win you. You may be Rom– well, that’s not your fault.”

The butler took another deep breath. “You have been good for him.”

With her mouth hanging open, he seemed to feel his job was done, and left her alone.