And Now a Word From the Great God Ra

Finn hears the voice of God. Well, a god.

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Author’s note: This story is Episode 3 of “A Game of Corpse and Robbers”. Here’s the full index so you can catch up on the story.

Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash

I was lost in an unending sea of black, a formless, shapeless presence floating in the void. Out of that oppressive night came a crimson moon, rising from the darkness like Venus from the ocean. Transfixed, I watched as a golden dragon appeared, wrapping itself around the moon, a shimmering ouroboros around its scarlet brilliance.

Then the world trembled. There came a voice, and I knew instinctively, the way you know things in a dream, that it was the voice of the great god Ra, the first king of the Egyptian gods and lord of the Sun. And the voice said:

“AAAAAAAAAUUOOUH!”

As it turns out it wasn’t the voice of a god at all but my ringtone. The ungodly scream shook me out of my stupor and I found myself lying on a diwan in a cluttered but well-appointed office. A black Scottish terrier was barking at me from one corner of the room, leashed to a floor lamp. A friendly, clean-shaven man hovered into view.

“That’s enough, Anubis,” he told the dog. “So sorry, sir, Freddy mistook you for a burglar. He owns a security firm you see and he’s always been a paranoid one, our Freddy. I do hope you’ll forgive him.”

“Freddy”, I assumed, was the man who’d knocked me out.

“Is he here?” I asked. “I’d like to forgive him in person.”

“No, he was called away by a client.”

“AAAAAAAAAUUOOUH!” My phone rang again, prompting Anubis to launch another barrage of barks. It was a call from Faiza, and I could see that she’d already tried me three times. The man asked me if I needed to take the call but I just shrugged and put the phone on vibrate. Whatever it was, it could wait.

“Where are my manners,” the man said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Oscar de Laurent, of the De Laurent Group.”

“The jewellers? You’re one of the richest men in the country, aren’t you?”

Oscar gave a bashful smile and waved me off as if to say “Oh, you’re too kind”. I don’t know why; it was an observation, not a compliment.

“Are you a friend of Mr Roger Walters?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Oscar. “Roger, Freddy, and I, our families founded this club. We’ve been friends all our lives. We even sit on the board together. Why, is he alright?”

I reminded myself that Mr de Laurent probably didn’t know Walters was dead yet. I wasn’t about to be the one to break the news so I lied and said I was a reporter doing a story on him. Oscar seemed surprised.

“The way you’re dressed, I almost thought you were a funeral director,” he said. “I’ve never seen a reporter who looked so…”

“Formal?” I suggested.

“Grim, I was thinking.”

To keep up the ruse, I asked him a few standard questions: what Walters was like, fond childhood memories, etc. Nothing really important. Then, once it seemed like he was nice and comfortable, I popped the real question.

“I heard Mr Walters put the club in his will,” I said. “He must have been very dedicated to this place. Is that standard practice for members or was it just him?”

“I’m surprised you know about that,” said Oscar. “It was his idea to begin with but all of us senior members followed his lead. This club is very important to us, you see, and we want to make sure it’s taken care of even when we’re gone.”

That made sense. I hadn’t placed much faith in Freya’s theory about the club killing her husband anyway, and now it was obvious that they had no real motive at all. With a short bow, I thanked de Laurent for his time and made for the door. I was half out of the office when I remembered something else.

I turned back to Mr de Laurent. “One other thing,” I said. “You said you’re all on the board, you, Mr Walters, and… Freddy, was it? Would you mind telling me what positions you hold? Just to flesh out the details.”

“Oh, of course,” said Oscar. “I’m the secretary, Freddy King is head of the dining committee, and Roger was the treasurer.”

That was all I needed. I thanked him again and took my leave.

As I exited the club, I found myself mulling over the vision I’d seen in my unconsciousness. I’m not an idiot; I knew it was my mind pointing to the statuette but I couldn’t see why. I’d caught another glance at it on my way out, being careful not to show too much interest. It was a common faux Egyptian figurine, the sort you expect to see in a museum gift shop. And yet, there was something about it that seemed familiar, that called to me.

Freya picked me up in her limo five minutes later.

“What on earth were you doing?” she demanded to know. “We’ve been waiting for hours. Did you take a nap or something?”

“Yes, actually.”

I told her everything that had happened. Her nostrils flared when I mentioned Oscar de Laurent.

“He did it,” she decided. “I’m sure. He was always poisoning Roger against me, saying I’m just a golddigger.”

“But Freya,” I said. “You are a golddigger.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t get to poison my husband. Only I get to do that.”

At that point, it occurred to me that Freya might have been poisoning her husband already. I could see it all, the small doses of arsenic building up over time. The symptoms could easily be dismissed as everyday ailments, a stomachache or something. Of course, she’d have to be pretty stupid to then shoot him. If he really was shot, that is.

I told Freya I wanted to see the body.

“Are you sure?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “I thought you wouldn’t need to.”

“I need to.”

She hesitated, then turned around and knocked on the partition, which her driver promptly opened. This was the first time I had seen Freya’s driver and for a moment, I thought I was looking at a child. She was a short, petite woman with hair like a stray cat. Her name’s Rachel and she’s quite nice once you get to know her.

“What’s up, boss?” she asked Freya through a mouthful of gum.

“Rachel, Thorfinn wants to see Mr Walters.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, half turning in her seat and arching both her eyebrows. “I thought you said he wouldn’t need to.”

“He needs to.”

Photo by Rodion Kutsaiev on Unsplash

Before we get to the body, there’s something you need to know about me. Faiza likes to joke that I’m like a storybook detective, the way things that others miss are so obvious to me. “You play the violin too,” she always says (it’s a cello). But I’m no Holmes or Poirot or Basil. Unlike those people, I’m the victim of a terrible curse.

Growing up, I loved those brilliant detectives, and my dearest wish was to be just like them. Then my beloved father and mother were accused of electrocuting my eccentric uncle, Father’s older brother. It was my first case. I was nine.

All these years later, I can still remember how I felt as I marched into that courtroom and proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that my parents couldn’t have murdered my uncle because they were on the other side of the country when he died, committing a completely different murder. Since then, I’ve never come across a case I couldn’t solve, and faced with a mystery, I can’t stop until I see it through. But it rarely ever works out for me.

Rachel took us up the highway for a few hours, then pulled off the road, drove up to a secluded cluster of yew trees, and parked the car. I asked Freya what was going on. I’d assumed we were heading to the colossal mansion she’d told me about, not the beginning of a horror movie.

“You wanted to see the body,” she said, getting out of the car. I followed her around to the back, where Rachel was already waiting for us with the boot open. I knew what was waiting, but I still had to look.

Speaking with as much nonchalance as I could muster, I asked, “Freya, why are we driving around with your husband’s corpse?”

“Well, I couldn’t just leave it,” she said. “Take a look.”

Now, I’m not particularly bothered by dead bodies, but I have to admit, I found my late brother-in-law particularly repulsive. He was dressed all in black, which highlighted the pallor of his skin and covered up the stains from whatever it was that had evacuated his bowels when he died. My guess was a whole bushel of garlic. Ignoring the stench as best I could, I focused on finding evidence. He had been shot, that much was true.

“Looks like it was buckshot,” I said. “From a shotgun. Probably pierced a lung, some arteries. He bled to death. But you said, there wasn’t a lot of blood, right?”

Freya shook her head. As I examined the corpse’s clothes, I noticed something else. There were small black-brown splotches on his palms. I found the same splotches on the soles of his feet. “No, no, no,” I muttered to myself as I pulled down his pants and found the same discolouration on his groin. I couldn’t believe it. She really was poisoning him.

“I used to put the arsenic in his orange juice.” Freya sighed wistfully. “Roger loved fresh orange juice in the morning.”

Photo by Mateusz Feliksik on Unsplash

I didn’t know what to say to that. Before I could think of a response, my phone began to ring. It was Faiza again.

“What’s the matter with you?” she yelled as soon as I picked up. “I’ve been calling all day. I thought you were dead.”

I said, “I’m sorry, Faiz, can we talk later? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” she said. “The Carmichael Ruby has been stolen.”

It had been a long day but this news still threw me off. I had an eerie feeling of déjà vu.

“Didn’t we just do this?” I asked Faiza. “The cemetery, the drunk caretaker, me playing a ghost, all that happened, right?”

The inspector said, “Of course it did. Mr Carmichael personally came to the station last night and picked up the jewel. Then a few hours later, someone stole it again. Look, where are you? I’m coming over.”

To Be Continued