The Lynchman’s Owl
by
B. Y. Yan
#2 LEGEND OF THE HOUR
THE LYNCHMAN’S OWL: LEGEND OF THE HOUR by B.Y. Yan Copyright © B.Y. Yan 2016 Book and Cover Copyright © by B.Y. Yan 2016 All Rights Reserved.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
Follow B.Y. Yan (twitter @B_Y_Yan) at https://bigbinofideas.wordpress.com
ISBN: 978-0-9950516-3-8
Legend of the Hour
“What did you mean I’ve got the Lynchman’s Owl?”
They were the two of them sitting at either end of a modest dining table covered by a snow-white cloth, with a filling spread put out before them beneath a bright lamp. Outside a moderate gale whipped through the street, whipping heaps of rain to patter heavily upon the windowpanes. It has been a week or thereabouts since they left the crime scene in the capable hands of the local authorities, and in that time little enough light had been shed on the matter beyond what was already understood or obvious. During those days, the detective from Pegging, Bailey, had accepted the invitation of Breakerfast, that erstwhile patrolman whose service he had enlisted on a whim in the matter of the investigation of the Lynchman’s Owl, and to whom he owed his life afterwards when things took a decidedly sour turn. He lodged willingly at the patrolman’s home, and for his part Breakerfast was overjoyed at the illustrious company he was now keeping beneath his roof, begging every comfort from his wife of twelve long years to be placed at his disposal in order to win the enduring affections of his honored guest.
It was this exquisite creature of wry humors who answered in place of her husband now. “But you don’t have him anymore, do you, my lord?” she said to him in defense of her husband as she settled into a third chair at the table between them, following her own question with a gay peal of laughter like silver-bells merrily ringing. “After all, you gave him up yourself.”
Breakerfast’s wife was a handsome woman closer to forty than thirty years of age, with a queenly complexion seemingly unsuited to the muted surroundings of her habits. But let it be known that the simple frocks and aprons she put on could not hope to conceal that awe inspiring visage of beauty, intelligence and wisdom which she possessed in equal measures, so much so that for a time the guest beneath her roof was much taken aback, and in her presence often took upon himself to show the grace and manners of a royal courtier. There could not be a more mismatched pair to the imagination of men, had she not graced the haggard, almost doglike visage of her husband with the loving countenance of complete satisfaction and long affections at every turn of her noble head.
“Forgive me, madam,” said Bailey graciously to her. “But I still don’t see how having a fake does me any good. Though I will give you that I too, am thinking I acted too hastily, for now I am left with nothing at all for my troubles.”
“Why Mr. Bailey,” she said with a curt look in his direction, “I should think the matter would have been settled already. They took him away unmasked and that was the end of him, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied, “But without anyone the wiser as to whom he was. It was a strange and unfamiliar man who peered back up at us when we turned him over, for me as well as others present, who could not put a name to his face.”
The woman, with all her regal bearing, offered a placating if disbelieving smile, and put the matter into her husband’s hands with one uplifted eyebrow in his direction. He in turn glowered darkly at her, seemingly to take some offense at her interruption of their conversation, and mumbled something beneath his breath.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Bailey from across the table.
“He said there are some promising leads at present,” offered the patrolman’s wife helpfully.
“Thank you,” he replied politely, “But that I knew already.”
In reply she gave up a noncommittal shrug.
“My lord,” her husband piped up, “It really could not have been anybody else. We found a tattoo on his hand, and your own testimony has lent credit to this supposition. It has long been rumored that the Lynchman’s Owl was nothing more than a crazed vigilante, an anarchist of the highest order whose mischief really amounted to little more than broken bones and the hangman’s rope, widely blown out of proportion by the imagination of the populace. Our man fits that bill perfectly.”
“Except you have plainly told me that it is your custom to brand anybody and everybody arrested as such for the sake of a few more pretty pennies from your liege lord.”
“Ah,” said Breakerfast with an embarrassed flush, “Well that is what it is, sir.”
“It certainly explains why I have not been able to get anywhere with my investigation since I came down. And,” Bailey added darkly, “why they were all laughing at me inside that parlor—not the first eatery, public house or tavern I’ve been to here, mind you—when I put the question to them.”
“Well that’s as plain as day, isn’t it?” said Breakerfast’s wife with a bemused smile. “They anyone of them could become the Owl at the slightest provocation. The smallest disturbance, and the matter would have been out of their hands. You couldn’t avoid being given that moniker if you tried. And here was this smart looking fellow, an adventurer by any stretch of the imagination, asking about the identity of that fiend in such an open and frank manner. You were either a spy looking to incriminate somebody in the least-subtle manner imaginable, or else you were somebody who didn’t know any better about to step into a terrible mess for your troubles. If you ask me, my dear Bailey, you’re lucky you only got off with a misunderstanding.”
“What you’re really saying so kindly, madam,” said Bailey with a half-grin of self-depreciation, “is that I am lucky to be ridiculed for my ignorance and stupidity by your locals instead of something more serious.”
“Oh not at all, my lord!” cried Breakerfast from over the table. “In your defense how could you have known?”
“But everybody else does, do they not? In fact, I am surprised this entire metropolis has been able to keep up the ruse for so long. You and your Owls are something else. And surely they must also be in on it in Pegging?”
Breakerfast made some unintelligible noises, and again it was his wife who answered in his place.
“But there you might enlighten us, Mr. Bailey. If Parliament knows, why should they keep you, their trusted agent, in the dark? Why would your masters send you at all on this fool’s errand chasing down a legend of the past?”
It was plain that she was very much interested in hearing an answer, but here Bailey became withdrawn, and slammed shut his mouth. You couldn’t get two words out of him on the subject of his handlers, which, considering the sensitivity of the Handymen’s work, should come as little surprise.
“In any case I daresay you’ve found out enough to make a full report of it, and escaped dangers by a hair’s breadth that you shouldn’t pursue the matter further. It’s not just the gang I am referring to, Mr. Bailey, but the authorities as well.” She cast a sidelong glance at her husband. “Asking questions like you were doing in that parlor, by your own admission, it was only a matter of time before you drew some unwanted attentions. And had you not that badge in your possession to protect you, it is as likely as not the police would have happily called you an Owl too, and strung you up like all the rest under that name
.”
Bailey, for his part, looked towards Breakerfast. He found the man positively mortified by the unflattering picture his wife painted of his profession, but we will do justice to the character of the man that he did not deny these charges. He nodded slowly, gravely.
“Likely as not, my lord, it would have happened that way. But it is the Lynchman’s Owl you are looking for, after all, and we’ve given you one already—and a big one he was, at that. But you didn’t want him.”
“Was he unquestionable the Lynchman’s Owl? The terror of the Coast, and twenty-years ago the bane of the nation?”
“Well,” said Breakerfast uncertainly, “Who’s to say he was not?”
Bailey laughed, “But, my good man, there you reach for something beyond your grasp. This man was by you own conclusions much too young. He cannot be the legend of decades past if he is barely twenty-years old himself. A giant he may be in stature, but he is only a child at heart.”
“Ah!” cried his host. “I should have never put your mind on that notion.”
The detective drummed his fingers against the tablecloth thoughtfully, chewing on the end of his pipe. He was coming around to his third barrelful of the best Breakerfast had to offer, and to hear him tell of