Dirtshire Detective

It was nearly noon and the smell of the corpse that lay contorted in a mix of mud and horse dung already choked the air in the small village of Dirtshire. Archibald Flemigan sighed as he leaned over for a closer look, the village kids watched with dark interest from a nearby tree. His tired eyes, ringed from sleepless nights, examined a rusty blade used for harvesting in the fields, protruding from the corpse’s head.

“It’s clearly murder. I don’t know what you’re looking for,” nagged a voice beside him.

“Clues,” replied Archibald, trying not to pay any attention.

“Clues? What more do you need? I’m telling you it’s a murder. I witnessed it.”

Archibald stood up and faced the voice, trying not to draw suspicion from onlookers. “I can’t just say it’s a murder, people will ask how I know.”

The ghost of the man looked down at his body and back at Archibald. “How do you think I feel? Last night I was walking home from the tavern and that big bloke who works down by the mill whacked me in the head. Now I’m lying dead in the muck.”

Archibald grinned slightly as he looked through the ghost, trying to act normal. “Yes, yes,” he whispered through his teeth. “But I can’t just go around telling people I’m a wizard and I can see all manner of magical and dead things. I’d be strung up. You know the imperial decree: magic equals death.”

“Not my problem. I’m not the one pretending to be a traveling detective. What’re you going to do about my murder?”

Archibald shot a glance at the kids. They looked amused, watching him talk to himself. He smiled and waved. They kept watching. Archibald knelt back down and examined the weapon.

“There’s initials on the handle, J.M.”

“Yes, yes Johann Messer or is it Mayseener, either way, it’s the guy from the mill,” said the ghost impatiently. “Got a rough look about him and a murderous eye.”

The village elder, Gerald Beezy, a short plump man with gray tufts of hair he combed over in an effort to fein youth, walked through the ghost’s form. The ghostly man grimaced at the indignation and mumbled something about haunting. Gerald cleared his throat to get the detective’s attention.

Archibald stood up, pulling the the tool out of the corpse’s head in one motion, and turned to meet his visitor. “Elder Beezy, a pleasure to see you.”

“Another murder, I see. Are you any closer to catching the killer this time?”

“Ah,” said Archibald hesitating, the ghost glared at him over the elder’s shoulder.

“Yes. I think it’s Johann Messer, from the mill.”

“You mean Mayseener.”

“Yes…his initials are on the handle.” Archibald shook off brain matter that clung to the blade and showed the handle.

The elder squinted as he read the initials. “Very well, I’ll send my men to round him up. About time really.” There was a hint of disappointment in the man’s voice as he eyed Archibald. “Dirtshire will be rid of murders and magicians in no time.” He gave a polite smile, wiped a bit of mud from his shoes off on the corpse, and left.

“What now?” asked the ghost. “I figured the heavens would’ve open up ‘bout now. As much as I gave to the temple, you’d think there would be a bit more fan faire going.”

“Fan faire?” said Archibald, raising an eyebrow.

“Lights, a rainbow staircase, a horn playing a welcoming tune. You know, that bit of nonsense the temple fellows are always running on about.”

Archibald sighed, letting his shoulders droop like a defeated man. “Follow me.”

The two left the crime scene and walked along the main road out of the village to an old windmill, its sails long rotten away.

“You been living in the old Dirtshire windmill,” laughed the ghost. “Its a dump. Never knew why they built that thing. Didn’t work from the start.”

Archibald opened the door and motioned for the ghost to enter without responding. Inside floated two apparitions, an old woman shaped like a pear and a skinny man, arguing over the temperment of forest trolls. Their clamorous conversation audible only to the dead or people of the magical persuasion.

“Oh look who joined us, it’s Jebediah,” said the ghostly woman.

“Milly, you old goat. Didn’t know you were dead.”

Milly ignored the insult. “Wizard boy couldn’t prove who killed me. Wasn’t anything left of my body after the wolves found it.”

“Hard to believe,” snapped the skinny man. “Must have been a whole pack of wolves munching on your bones.” The insult sent the three into an argument.

Archibald said, “Glad you all know each other.”

He shuffled his feet across the rough stone floor over to the cupboard and pulled out a flask of Goblin Whisky, took a swig, and then sat down on the lone stool that furnished his home. The sounds of the quarreling ghosts blared in his mind. He closed his eyes and wished for a better job.