The Case of the Carmichael Ruby
Grave Robbery, Police Politics, and Older Sisters.
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The cemetery was cold and quiet, just the way I like it, with a bright full moon hanging low in the sky. The smell of grave dirt and rotting flowers took me right back to my childhood, to when my sister and I would play Corpse and Robbers in the family crypt. Ah, sweet memories.
I was in the cemetery because of a certain grave from the 19th century. Back then, people still fortified their final resting places against the likes of me. This one had a heavy concrete lid. Luckily, I’d brought my sledgehammer. I was mid-swing when I was interrupted by a loud voice that cried, “Hey, stop that.” It was the caretaker, and he looked like he’d been drinking.
“Good eve-en-ing,” I said, drawing out the eve-en-ing. The caretaker demanded to know who the hell I was. I told him my name was Ferdinand Braganza. Puzzled, he glanced at the headstone and then back at me.
“Are you trying to say you’re the man whose grave this is?” he asked. “That’s a 300-year-old grave, mister.”
“Indeed,” I said, putting on my best Dracula voice. “Many moons have I slumbered here. Yet now I find my sacred earth defiled.”
He started to say something, but I cut him off with a booming “Silence!”
“There is a jewel,” I said. “Stolen from a great champion of industry. The thief was caught but the jewel was not found. It was hidden away by his accomplice. By you.”
He protested. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t…”
“Do not lie to me, you cur,” I thundered, standing as tall as I could. I imagine I must have looked quite impressive, silhouetted against the moon with my coat flapping in the wind behind me like batwings.
“Know ye not who I am?” I said. “You speak to a Dark Priest of the Secret Gods, the chosen envoy of the Dead. They whisper your sins to me, even now. You hid it in my grave, is! That! Not! So!?”
It was more than he could take.
“Yes, lord,” he wailed, falling to his knees. “Yes, it was me. Please forgive me, I didn’t know!”
That was good enough. I dropped the voice and said, “You hear that, Faiza?”
Inspector Faiza Ahmed stepped out from her hiding place behind a headstone, flanked by two burly constables, with a gun in her hand and handcuffs at the ready. One constable led the confused caretaker away. The other one smashed the grave open and retrieved a large red stone from the mortal remains of Ferdinand Braganza: the famous and much-sought-after Carmichael Ruby.
Later, Faiza asked me how I’d solved it. She had suspected the caretaker for some time but couldn’t figure out where he’d hidden the goods. I told her it was simple: the grave was 300 years old but the concrete top was brand-new.
“The grave was 300 years old but the concrete top was brand-new.”
Unfortunately, the Case of the Carmichael Ruby ended on a sour note. The next day, the news reported that the police had solved the case. I wasn’t even mentioned. I confronted Faiza about this at her favourite coffee shop, a quaint little hole in the wall on the corner of 7th and 42nd. She shrugged off my complaints and pointed out that she hadn’t been given any credit either. The commissioner had swooped in at the last second and stolen our spotlight.
“That’s the way of the world, man,” she said, blowing on her coffee. “Nobody cares who does the work. They just see the clickbait quote and the photos on their socials. I’m telling you…”
I think there was more, but I wasn’t listening. I’d just noticed a car idling outside the shop. I made up an excuse and got out as quickly as I could. The car was still there. It was a black limousine with a silver dog adorning its hood. The tinted windows were all rolled up and the engine was running. A door opened as I approached.
I ducked in and drew a sharp breath, finding myself face to face with my greatest rival, my ultimate nemesis, my worst enemy.
“Hello, brother dear,” Freya said with a glittering smile. “It’s been a while.”
I reread the first chapter and liked it as much as ever. I wanted to refresh my memory before delving into the next.
Remus, I delighted in this story. My guess is that you've read Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, but if you haven't, your story has some of the same suprise qualities that he so brilliantly uses with Mr. Holmes. Thank you for writing this.