Season of Sunlight

Fifth Month

Lower Mainland Station

The City of Trylla, The Cronia Region

2325

8 Years Later

The only thing left on the train was a pocket watch, a leather bag, and three drops of blood by the window.

Detective Inspector Henri Fraser surveyed the scene. He stretched out a gloved hand and touched the blood, which cracked beneath his fingertip.

With a distinct frown, Henri craned his neck and looked out the window at the setting sun. Dusk gripped the metro station, and the pink horizon kissed the rooftops of the nearby buildings as the stars and moon faded into existence.

Henri stood up tall, studying his finger.

"The blood is dry," he said, adjusting the long beige trench coat that clung to his body.

"Which suggests that the murder was committed in transit, at least an hour before arrival," said a youthful voice.

Henri turned to meet the eyes of a young man standing a few feet behind him with a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. He wore a standard indigo TDB novice uniform with golden buttons securing a jacket over his torso and a black helmet fastened on the top of his head.

"Impressive, Constable Abbott," Henri said, rolling the name amusingly off his tongue.

They stood in a first-class passenger cabin, the constable having arrived from a narrow corridor that linked the dining car to the conductor's post at the front of the train. Henri paced the room, waving a finger. "It can take up to one hour for blood to dry at a room temperature of at least twenty degrees Celsius."

Abbott dipped his chin, scribbling down the note at the top of a new page. He blinked. "The train left its origin at five o'clock, and a maid discovered the body at nine. That is a four-hour time bracket."

A singular brown hair curl dropped down the center of Henri's forehead as he adjusted his red fedora. "The victim couldn't have been asleep."

"Indeed, sir. Twenty degrees is uncomfortably hot in bed," said Abbott.

Henri smiled. "Do you have experience?"

Abbott blushed. "No, sir, just speculating."

Henri nodded, dismissing the thought. "Regardless, I agree."

Henri walked towards the window and snatched the pocket watch. His dark eyes were fixated on the time of day. "How peculiar."

Abbott perked up. "Find anything, sir?"

"According to this watch, it is four o'clock in the morning."

"It could be broken."

"Perhaps," Henri said, biting his lower lip. He reached out and slid his fingers into the leather bag. He searched diligently, Constable Abbott standing by to record any findings with a pen stroke.

Suddenly Henri grasped an object and pulled a hardcover book into view.

"What is it, sir?"

"That's strange," Henri said, studying the book's front cover. "It is the Holy Book of El Olam."

Abbott swallowed. "Are you sure, sir?"

Henri looked at him. The constable was pale, his dark skin a shade lighter than before. The black helmet cast an opaque shadow over his eyes, dimming their bright green colour.

"Yes, it has the cross imprinted on the cover," Henri said, scratching the back of his head. "Check back a few weeks when the bodies of Laureni Stock, Helena Bard, and Nigel Grimsby were found. If I recall correctly, they also carried a copy."

Abbott flipped through his previous pages, sweating profusely. "G-Give me a moment."

"Abbott," Henri said.

The constable jumped at his name. "Y-Yes, sir?"

"Focus."

"Sorry, sir."

"Well?"

Abbott stopped on a page, scrolling down with his index finger. "Uh, Miss Stock had the book." He flipped back a couple of pages. "Mrs. Bard owned the book." Abbott's hand trembled as he flipped back a few more pages. He wiped his forehead, taking a quick breath before speaking. "Mr. Grimsby as well."

Henri held his chin, looking around the cabin. Now things had gotten interesting. "Alright," he said, deepening his voice. "Time to get some answers."

For the next hour, Henri questioned the train staff, starting with the conductor, Jim Rudolf, who claimed to have known nothing of the incident or the victim. Thankfully Mrs. Bellesprout, the head maid, offered a lead.

"Gracious," she said, holding her chest. "I don't believe it. Murder on my train!"

"Did you notice anything strange when you began your voyage?" Henri asked, interlacing his fingers. "Anything at all?"

Mrs. Bellesprout wrinkled her chin. "Now that you mention it, there was one girl. She was a maid picked up by the service for the trip just before we left. A last-minute hire. Pretty, dark hair, piercing eyes, fair skin. Come to think of it, I have not seen her since we departed Kaleno."

Abbott recorded the description, but Henri sighed, disappointed. There were hundreds of fair-skinned, dark-haired girls in Trylla, let alone Cronia. He would require a little more information. However, that was all Mrs. Bellsprout could tell him. She bowed respectfully and left, returning to her other maids who skulked outside the servant quarters.

It was nearly midnight, and Henri found himself stumped as he watched the billions of stars dot the dark canvas above him through a window. His feet were sore, and his back ached.

At only thirty, this investigation, which had started nearly two weeks ago, had aged Henri by twenty years. Richard Copperfield was the fourth victim in a chain of similar deaths that he suspected could only be categorized as serial killings.

Only one option remained.

Henri desired one final challenge before retiring for the night. As he walked through the cramped passenger cabins, he suddenly turned to Constable Abbott, who jumped in surprise.

"Show me the body."

***

Henri returned to the victim's first-class cabin and entered the bedroom. The floor was layered in rich indigo carpet, etched with silver diamonds. The walls were panelled with wood slabs, running from the arched roof down into the seams of the carpet.

The train was named the Benevolent Countess, making her maiden voyage from the inland city of Kaleno to the coast. Trylla had been its final destination, and regrettably, the same for Mr. Copperfield.

Henri eyed the king-size bed that stood before him. A body lay face-up on the duvet, its dead black eyes staring intensely into the ceiling.

Copperfield was considered a healthy middle-aged man before his accident. The ID in his bag said he was an investigative reporter and, according to his choice of carry-on possessions, a religious one.

Henri knelt and examined the pale, dull face. Richard Copperfield had been a wealthy man but one of charity. He had been married to a lovely woman with three teenage children and was considered a prestigious individual—sleek greying black hair, a well-sculpted face and dark brown eyes.

The collar of his white button-up shirt was undone, his black trousers wrinkled, and his feet bare.

Henri flinched at the sudden tremor of boots approaching.

"Find anything, sir?" Abbott asked.

He had. "Look at this." Henri peeled back the collar of Copperfield's shirt to reveal red scars lining the base of his throat. Abbott leaned forward, balancing on the soles of his feet.

"Strangulation, sir?"

"It appears to be the appropriate cause of death, but how do you explain the blood? There are no cuts, lashes, or open wounds. Our man Copperfield was choked to death, not savagely killed."

"Strangulation is quite savage, sir," Abbott said, clearing his throat. His voice trailed off as the inspector gave him a narrow look.

"I work with dead people every week, Constable Abbott," Henri said, "and now and then, I need to be optimistic to maintain my sanity. Murder is murder, but an intact corpse is better than finding one in pieces."

Abbott bowed his head. "Right, sorry, sir."

"Is this your first day on the job, Constable?" Henri asked, standing up straight.

Abbott fidgeted with his notebook and pen and wrinkled his nose. "Second day, sir," he mumbled.

"Speak up, son. I can't hear you."

"Second day, sir," Abbott said, projecting his voice. It echoed off the walls for an instant before dissipating.

"Who assigned you to me?"

"Commissioner Valco, sir," Abbott said. "I just graduated from the academy, and she thought it would be best to assign me to this case."

Henri was growing curious. He decided to push the young man for more questions. "Did you want to be a detective constable, Abbott?"

Abbott lowered his head. The muscles in his throat tightened as he gazed at the body. "It was a last-minute decision, sir."

"Have you ever seen a dead body before?"

"No," he replied rather quickly, his cheeks flushed. Abbott suddenly spun around and vomited onto the carpet. His body violently jerked forward.

After gulping air, Abbott wiped his lips and stood tall as he faced the inspector. "Sorry, sir."

Henri smiled. Not long ago, he had been the one in uniform overlooking his first crime scene. It, however, revolved around a theft at a local bakery without a dead body in sight. James Abbott had been plunged into the deep end. His resilience was commendable.

"Get some air. I'll call for you shortly," Henri said.

"Thank you, sir."

Abbott left the cabin and pushed open the emergency exit door via the corridor. His presence was denounced with a sharp shriek.

Henri shivered as a brief gust of cold wind blew into the train, focused on the body and picked his brain for answers. The holy book in the leather bag, the three drops of dry blood near the window, the pocket watch set to four in the morning.

The pocket watch appeared random, a possible red herring, but he could not make sense of the blood. Henri noticed a faint bloodstain on the victim's chin. Did Copperfield bite his tongue in the struggle?

Henri examined the marks around the neck. Hands had killed Richard Copperfield, of that he was certain, but if the mystery maid from Mrs. Bellesprout's confession was to be taken seriously, the young girl's strength alone could not bring down a large man twice her size.

Train maids were selected for their petite stature to fit comfortably in-between tables when serving guests or small compartments.

Perhaps regulations had changed, but Henri's mother had given him that inside information herself, and who was he to argue with the words of a retired train maid?

Henri broke the tangent thought and returned to his inquiry. Yes, she must have had help. The more Henri thought about it, the more it made sense. The murderer could be a union of murderers. He had to get Abbott back to record the speculation.

As if on cue, Henri heard the emergency door open.

"Constable!" he called, looking around mindlessly at the bedroom décor. An antique desk posed against the back wall, and emerald curtains stitched with gold swirls covered the only window in the room. After no response, Henri furrowed his thick brows and glanced at the door. "Abbott?"

Leisure footsteps strode into the cabin and approached him, their source hidden. Henri reached a hand under his trenchcoat and prepared to draw his weapon. Something was wrong.

"Constable Abbott?"

"The constable will not be joining us."

A blue and white floral-patterned high heel teased Henri's gaze, and a woman with long red hair and pale skin entered the bedroom. She wore a white shawl made of soft cotton over her shoulders and walked upright in an aristocratic manner.

Henri took a cautious breath. "Why not?"

The woman ran her hands down her knee-length blue dress. "Well, because I got rid of him."

In a swift one-hand maneuver, Henri pulled out a copper pistol and aimed at the woman's chest. His finger grazed the trigger.

"Where is he!"

"At ease, detective!" said the woman, who raised her hands in protest. "The young constable is unharmed, attending to a fight I staged in front of the station."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I beg you to spare a moment and listen to what I have to say," she said. The woman lifted her arms above her head. "I carry no weapon."

Henri frisked her with his free hand while maintaining a tight grip on the pistol. The woman's breath quickened as she stared down the gun barrel.

Finding nothing, Henri lowered the pistol while his mind continued to process the encounter. Only in dreams had a beautiful woman disarmed him with one look. Tonight it was real, and he had to be careful. She wasn't a dream but a possible threat.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Let me show you something."

The woman left his side and sat on the bed next to Richard Copperfield's head. Then, without restraint, she slid her gloved index finger into the victim's mouth.

Henri was appalled. He had to reinforce his control over the situation or risk losing it entirely.

"What the hell are you doing? This is a crime scene, not a playground. I am Inspector Henri Fraser of the Trylla Detective Bureau, and I want you to leave immediately."

The woman ignored him and dragged her finger along Copperfield's gumline. "No teeth."

Henri had expected a different answer. "What?"

"Reduced facial muscle support and dry blood on the lips and chin. Look." The woman lifted the victim's upper lip. Henri grew nauseous. She was telling the truth. Instead of a white smile, Richard's mouth was hollow, and his gums were ravaged like a piece of abstract art.

"Who are you?"

The woman's sapphire eyes glistened beneath the chandelier that hung over the bed. "My name is Elza Parks, and I know who killed this man. I know who killed them all."