'Your friend's still dead,' she reminded me.
I sat back. 'He liked to live well. Good food, fine wines. He could drink Nayl under the table.'
'No!'
'I'm not joking. Five years ago, at the wedding of Aen's daughter. I was invited and I took Harlon along as… as I don't know what, actually. You weren't around and I didn't want to go alone. Harlon started bending his lordship's ear with tales of bounty hunting and the last I saw of them they were sprinting their way down their fourth bottle of anise at five in the morning. Aen was up at nine the next day to see his daughter off. Nayl was still asleep at nine the following day.'
She grinned. 'So a life of great appetites may have just caught up with him?'
'Perhaps. Though you'd think that would have shown up on the med-icae mortus's report.'
'So you do suspect foul play?'
'I can't shake that idea.'
I was silent for a few minutes, and Alizebeth scrolled her way through several of the slates.
'House Froigre's main income was from mercantile dealings. They hold a twelve point stock in Brade ent Cie and a fifteen per cent share in Heli-can SubSid Shipping. What about trade rivals?'
'We'd have to expand our scope off-planet. I suppose assassination is possible, but that's a strange way to hit back at a trade rival. I'll have to examine their records. If we can turn up signs of a clandestine trade fight, then maybe assassination is the answer.'
'Your friend spoke out against the Ophidian Campaign/
'So did his father. Neither believed it was appropriate to divert funds and manpower into a war of reconquest in the sub-sector next door when there was so much to put in order on the home front/
'I was just wondering../ she said.
'Wonder away, but I think that's a dead end. The Ophidian War's long since over and done with and I don't think anyone cares what Aen thought about it/
'So have you got a theory?'
'Only the obvious ones. None of them with any substantiating data. An internecine feud, targeting Aen from inside the family. A murder driven by some secret affair of the heart. A darker conspiracy that remains quite invisible for now. Or../
'Or?'
'Too much good living, in which case we'll be home before nightfall/
Froigre Hall, the ancestral pile of the noble House Froigre, was a splendid stack of ivy-swathed ouslite and copper tiles overlooking the Vale of Fiegg, ten kilometres south of Menizerre. Water meadows sloped back from the river, becoming wildflower pastures that climbed through spinneys of larch and fintle to hem the magnificent planned gardens of the house; geometric designs of box-hedge, trim lawn, flowering beds and symmetrical ponds. Beyond the sandy drive, darkened woods came right down to skirt the back of the great hall, except for where a near-perfect sulleq lawn had been laid. Aen and I had spent several diverting afternoons there, playing against each other. A kilometre north of the house, the gnarled stone finger of the Folly rose from the ascending woods.
Where to put down, sir?' Gabon asked over the intercom.
'On the drive in front of the portico, if you'd be so kind/
What's been going on here?' Alizebeth asked as we came in lower. She pointed. The lawn areas nearest to the hall were littered with scraps of rubbish – paper waste and glittery bits of foil. Some sections of grass were flat and yellow as if compressed and starved of light.
Tiny stones, whipped up by our downwash, ticked off the car's bodywork as we settled in to land.
'Oh, my dear Gregor!' Lady Freyl Froigre almost fell into my arms. I held her in a comforting embrace for a few patient moments as she sobbed against my chest.
'Forgive me!' she said suddenly, pulling away and dabbing her eyes with a black lace handkerchief. This is all so very terrible. So very, very terrible/
'My deepest sympathies for your loss, lady/ I said, feeling awkward.
A houseman, his arm banded in black, had led us into a stateroom off the main hall where Lady Froigre was waiting. The blinds were drawn, and mourning tapers had been lit, filling the air with a feeble light and a sickly perfume. Freyl Froigre was a stunning woman in her late sixties, her lush red hair, almost flame-pink it was so bright, pulled back and pinned down under a veil coiff of jet scamiscoire. Her grief- gown was slate epinchire, the sleeves ending in delicate interwoven gloves so that not one speck of her flesh was uncovered.
I introduced Alizebeth, who murmured her condolences, and Lady Froi-gre nodded. Then she suddenly looked flustered.
'Oh, my. Where are my manners? I should have the staff bring refreshments for you and-'
'Hush, lady/1 said, taking her arm and walking her down the long room into the soft shade of the shutters. 'You have enough on your mind. Grief is enough. Tell me what you know and I will do the rest.'
'You're a good man, sir. I knew I could trust you.' She paused and waited while her current wracks subsided.
'Aen died just before midnight last night. A seizure. It was quick, the physician said.'
'What else did he say, lady?'
She drew a data-wand from her sleeve and handed it to me. 'It's all here.' I plucked out my slate and plugged it in. The display lit up with the stored files.
Death by tremorous palpitations of the heart and mind. A dysfunction of the spirit. According the the medicae's report, Aen Froigre had died because of a spasm in his anima.
'This means…' I paused, '…nothing. Who is your physician?'
'Genorus Notil of Menizerre. He has been the family medicae since the time of Aen's grandfather.'
'His report is rather… non-specific, lady. Could I present the body for a further examination?'
'I've already done that/ she said softly. The surgeon at Menizerre General who attended said the same. My husband died of terror/
Terror?'
Yes, inquisitor. Now tell me that isn't the work of the infernal powers?'
There had, she told me, been a celebration. A Grand Fete. Aen's eldest son, Rinton, had returned home two weeks before, having mustered out of his service in the Imperial Guard. Rinton Froigre had been a captain in the Fiftieth Gudrunite and seen six years' service in the Ophidean sub-sector. Such was his father's delight on his return, a fete was called. A carnival feast. Travelling players from all around the canton had attended, along with troupes of musicians, acrobats, armies of stall holders, entertainers, and hundreds of folk from the town. That explained the litter and faded patches on the lawn. Tent pitches. The scars of marques.
'Had he any enemies?' I asked, pacing the shuttered room.
'None that I know of/
'I would like to review his correspondence. Diaries too, if he kept them/
'I'll see. I don't believe he kept a diary, but our rubricator will have a list of correspondence/
