The Inspector Stewart Mysteries ... "Written in Blood"

A story loosely based on Daniel Five

By Bob Freye

The palace was already swarming with police when Chief Inspector Stewart arrived. She flashed her badge and was escorted to the murder scene. A young detective followed at her side, but not too close.

When they arrived at the door of the banquet hall, they could smell old wine and fresh vomit. This had been a serious party the night before. The guests and serving staff were still in the room, huddled against a far wall, waiting for someone to tell them to go home.

Stewart signaled to an officer working the crime scene, and he immediately called for silence in the room. As all eyes watched, he drew everyone’s attention to the doorway and waved for the Chief Inspector to come forward.

“Showtime,” Stewart told the detective, who waited a moment before following the Inspector to the center of the room.

 “I want to thank you all for coming today,” Stewart said to the crowd. She flashed a warm and likable smile. “You look like a great team.”

The crowd smiled back.

“We have a really good murder case this morning.” Stewart turned slowly to make eye contact with everyone in the room. “A little later, I’ll show you how to take out stubborn stains in a carpet, like wine.”

She noticed a woman in the front of the crowd. Her dress was speckled with dark spots. 

“And for those of you who were standing too close to the victim at the time of the murder,” the Inspector added, “we’ll work on those blood stains.”

The woman in the speckled dress smiled and nodded.

“But first, I want you to meet my guest detective this morning,” Stweart pushed the young woman to center stage. “This is Sergeant Marina Chandler.”

The crowd extended a polite applause as Detective Chandler swirled around slowly, bowing back graciously to all four corners of the room.

“It’s great to have you here this morning,” Stewart told the detective.

“This is so amazing for me,” Chandler gushed, “because I have followed you for years, ever since I was a little girl!”

“Don’t make me sound too old, now,” Stewart chided, in good fun. “I should mention, before we get into the case, that you have a new video out.”

“That’s right,” Chandler said, turning back to the crowd to acknowledge the polite applause. “I did a police procedure video with patrolman Jason Clay—“

The women in the crowd let out a collective sigh. 

“That’s right, ladies,” Chandler giggled. “He is actually that cute in real life.”

“We’re going to want to talk more about this later in the case,” Stewart told the crowd, “so don’t go away, any of you. When we come back, we’ll ask Marina why this video was so important to her, personally.”

The crowd clapped, and then turned back to their work or to their waiting. Inspector Martha Stewart looked around the room until she found the officer that had handled the initial investigation.

“What have you got?” she asked him.

“We’ve got the usual clutter of dishes and spilled food,” he said, looking at his notes, “plus evidence of some heavy drinking.”

Across a long main table, mismatched dishes lay scattered and tipped over, spilling gravy and wine across fine linen napkins and a richly colored table runner.  

“An interesting mix of styles,” Inspector Stewart noted. She stopped to examine a finely detailed golden bowl filled with ashes and stubbed-out cigarette butts.

“It was a temple piece,” a woman explained as she walked over to join the conversation. Stewart recognized the spattered dress.

“Did it come from Jerusalem?” Detective Marina Chandler asked.

The woman nodded. “Yes, it did. How did you know?”

“I used some Hebrew items in my old apartment,” Marina explained. “My foyer was done in Classic Hebrew Temple.”    

Inspector Stewart picked up the bowl. “This would have made a nice centerpiece,” she suggested, “with dried flowers or some kind of spice.”

“My husband was not interested in style,” the woman in the spattered dress explained. “He just liked to make a big show in front of his friends.”  

“So you were his wife.”

The woman looked around at the wreckage from the party. “He was a pig,” she said, “but he was an important pig.”

Inspector Stewart was surprised by the woman’s casual reaction to her husband’s death. “He was the king,” she said.

“The king of a city under siege,” the woman added. “The whole thing was coming down around his ears, and all he can do is call for a party.”

The officer was eager to move on.

“Nothing much here,” he explained, “other than the mess.” He pointed across the room to a plaster wall filled with engravings. “We’ve got some graffiti on that wall. I think you should see it.”

They had to pass by a tall lamp stand to get to the wall. It was another Hebrew piece, from the old temple in Jerusalem. The lamps were still lit. They cast a glow over a portion of the wall that contained lavish accounts of the successes of the king, now deceased. The printing and occasional pictograms had been scratched into the plaster with a hard stylus.

Inspector Stewart pointed to the position of the lamp. “This is perfect lighting for an etched design. The lamp would cast shadows on the words, which make them almost come alive.”

“That’s the problem,” the officer said. “The victim thought something was alive on this wall.”

“He said he saw a hand,” the wife explained.

“Just a hand?” Chandler asked.

“Just a hand.”

“And this hand wasn’t attached to anything else,” the detective added, “like an arm, or a whole person?”

The wife glared at her. “I know it sounds silly, but no. Just a hand. That’s what he saw.”

“There’s some writing here,” the officer ran his fingers over a series of deep cuts in the plaster, “but no one can make it out.”

“Except,” the wife interrupted, “that man.”

The officer scanned his notes. “Right. Old guy. Works for the government. A Hebrew import. Long history of exemplary service.”

“Hebrew?” Chandler asked. “Is there a Jerusalem connection here?”

The officer shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t tell.”

“Did this Hebrew person see some kind of message on this wall?” Stewart asked.

“He gave us a translation,” the officer admitted.

“He said my husband would die,” the wife said, staring off into the distance. “He was weighed and found to be an empty shell, worthless and hollow. His time was up.”

“Sounds like motive,” Stewart suggested. “Any reason we don’t pull him in right now?”

“It’s okay by me,” the officer told her. “But you might want to talk to those guys over there, before you do anything.”

They stood bunched together, their backs to the wall. The burnished metal of their armor glinted in the faint indoor light. They were big men, bearded and dirty. A few showed evidence of blood spatter on the front of their uniforms. They were armed, except for one. He had apparently come with a weapon, but his scabbard was empty. 

“What happened to his sword?” Stewart asked.

The officer pointed to the body of the victim. A blade was buried in the man’s back, nearly up to the hilt. The sword was the same style the other soldiers carried.

“Persian,” Detective Chandler observed. When they all gave her a look, she explained quickly, “My new kitchen is Persian Contemporary. I have a sword just like that for cutting vegetables.”

“That’s so innovative,” Inspector Stewart told her. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“One slice gets them all,” Chandler explained, swinging her hand like it was cutting through broccoli. 

“Let’s talk to that group,” Stewart told the officer. She set off across the room with the others following close behind. Chief Inspector Stewart pulled up very close to the soldier with the empty scabbard.

“You’re not from around here,” she said, glaring at the man’s disheveled uniform.

“I am now,” the man grunted. “The king is dead, so I am the king now.”

Chandler stood very close to Stewart and hissed in her ear, “Motive.”

“I have some advice for you,” Stewart said.

The man leaned closer, until his beard nearly tickled the Chief Inspector’s nose. 

“Like what?!” His voice was deep and dangerous.

“First, you should wipe your boots before you come into a formal social function.”

The man glared at her. But when he spoke, the hint of danger was gone from his voice. He was almost apologetic.

“We didn’t think it was a formal party. It looked more like a frat party, with everybody drinking and acting like idiots.”

“Still, that’s no excuse,” the Inspector scolded. “You can be civilized, even if no one else is willing to do the same. And those uniforms—”

The men all looked down at their spattered armor.

“It’s going to be so difficult to polish that bronze,” Stewart explained. “Next time, if you think you’re going to be conquering some city, I suggest you wear a light cotton smock over the armor. It won’t add much weight, but it will be much easier to clean.”

“I like that,” one of the soldiers said. “And we could each have a different color.”

Another soldier quickly chimed in. “I’m so tired of looking like everybody else!”

“Now you can have your own individual identity,” Chief Inspector Stewart said.

“We’ll remember that,” the man with the empty scabbard told her. Behind him, the other soldiers nodded.

After exchanging a few more ideas—the soldiers had a recipe for a punch that used fresh fruit juice and frozen yogurt instead of ginger ale and ice cream—Inspector Stewart left the soldiers and wandered back toward the center of the room. Detective Sergeant Marina Chandler joined her there.

“What do you think?” Chandler asked.

“Difficult to say,” Stewart admitted. “I get the feeling something big is happening here. Why would the king be killed here, in a room filled with Hebrew relics? Who can scrawl graffiti on a wall and not be seen? Who can write a message that only one man in the entire city can read?”

She signaled the officer, who stepped to the center of the room and called for quiet. “We’re coming back from the break,” he announced, “so let’s give her a big hand, Chief Inspector Martha Stewart!”

The Inspector waved and smiled, surrounded by eager applause from all sides of the room.

“We’re back, and we’ve got something special for you today. I have some tips for how to care for stolen temple artifacts, plus we just picked up a great idea for a punch,” Inspector Stewart dropped her voice, as if sharing a secret with the crowd, “that uses frozen yogurt.”

The soldiers grinned and poked each other with bronze-covered elbows.

“But first,” the Inspector brought her detective alongside, “Sergeant Chandler has promised to tell us all about—“

She paused.

“Jason Clay!” the Detective answered.

The crowd swooned.

“Plus,” Inspector Stewart added, “I will announce who is responsible for the murder that took place in this room.” 

The crowd grew quiet.

“This has been a complex case,” she said, “but it seems clear to me that the answer to every question is written on that wall.” She pointed to the plaster wall, just past the temple lamp stand. And every eye turned to follow her hand.

“All that in just a moment.” Inspector Martha Stewart turned slowly to survey the crowd.

“But first,” she said, her voice growing very serious, “let’s make a raspberry-yogurt punch!”

 

[-] © 2006