Chapter 19

Chapter 19: Mondieu

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains,and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

-          Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The inspector sat down heavily in the police station as the Doctor left with Evelyn. Who was this Robinson fellow? A new shadowy figure in this city of once-sunlight? Another suspect worthy of his suspicions. And what if he hadn’t even met the villain? An entire city, and he’d met, what? A bare handful of people? Why should he assume that the villain, after already leaving clues and crushing the city day by day, would even bother introducing himself to the inspector, or allowing himself to be known? Somehow, the inspector knew it must be, or someone he might meet soon.

                This was not a good week.

                Turners and Seth both stood near the wall opposite Mondieu, shifting on their feet anxiously. Mondieu sat some moments, elbows on his knees and hands cupping his chin, deep in introspection. So what was his next move? Robinson? The machine itself? See if he could learn more from the books he’d left at Marie’s? No, it was too late for books.

                “Turners? Can you fix the weather controller?”

                Turners reached up to scratch at his neck, his heavy eyebrows thick in concentration. “No. I’m not very advanced in technology, sir. And that weather controller, well, that’s another echelon entirely. I’m not even certain I wouldn’t make things worse.”

                The inspector nodded, expecting this. “Can anyone? Is there anyone in this city with the technological expertise for fixing the weather controller?”

                “Not that I know of, sir,” replied Turners, toying with a screwdriver and avoiding the inspector’s fiery glance.

                Seth raised a finger as if to speak, as though waiting on the inspector’s permission. “You may speak, Seth,” the inspector said drily.

                “Inspector, sir, the machine wasn’t constructed by anyone in this city. It was built outside and shipped here, when the city was first under construction.”

                “So what happens if the weather machine fails? Who would normally be sent to fix it?”

                Both Seth and Turners appeared to have no answer for this.

                “Has the weather controller never failed? No tiny malfunctions? No technological mishaps?” the inspector asked, incredulous. Had this city always been doomed? No one in the entire city had the expertise to fix this thing? What a mess.

                “Not since the city was built,” replied Seth.

                Well, that settles that. This city was built on a prayer, and the entire creation was falling into shambles at the dastardly work of one man. Why couldn’t he have just destroyed the weather controller and been done with it? This wasn’t just destruction, it was an artistic destruction – a symbolic destruction.

                The inspector glanced around and noticed the door to the prison cell ajar in the back room.

                “What? Did Simon Temple escape? Someone, sound the alarm!” the inspector shouted, standing up suddenly.

                Seth turned red, suddenly.

                “What is it, Simon? Why aren’t you moving?”

                “Uh, inspector, sir,” Simon began, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I let Simon go.”

                “You what?” the inspector replied, his voice turning icy.

                “I don’t believe that Simon is our murderer, sir. And even if he is, we don’t have any evidence except his appearance at the information tower, which wasn’t even where the crime happened, as you’ve seen.”

                The inspector’s face darkened. “Very well, Seth. But you may not act so again without my consent, intuition or no. It is not your decision to release prisoners.”

                Seth said nothing, looking at his feet.

                “Enough,” said the inspector. “There is a murdered to find. Seth, tell Vespars and DuMont we no longer require a guard on the information tower. Have them get some rest, and be prepared come this evening. Turners, return to the tower and see if you can glean anything useful about getting this under control. Or see if you can call in assistance, anything. Am I clear, gentlemen? This is not the time for idle shame. If we do not act, this city will fall.”

                Both Turners and Seth nodded, hurriedly, and exploded into action, ready to be doing something, anything, other than standing around, fearing the inspector’s wrath.

                The inspector left moments after Turners, and set off towards the arboretum, mindlessly wandering. Was he to find Robinson next? Or Marie? Or should he seek out the Doctor and Evelyn and have them specifically look for Robinson, as he’d no idea what Robinson even looked like.

                The inspector checked his timepiece, marching along the empty streets. How was it an hour past noon already? And where was everyone? Probably huddling at home, conserving what heat they had. No one was prepared for this weather, and it may very well kill them. He suspected the Doctor would be burdened with patients before long.

                Inspector Mondieu arrived at the arboretum, and saw the snow piling up around the edges, where it slid down from the top of the dome. The condensation from the inside had dropped, and the plants were freezing, as dreary as those outside buried under a layer of snow. A crystal globe, filled with snow, shake it – a winter wonderland. What was a winter wonderland somewhere was a hellish nightmare elsewhere.

                A figure detached from a bench to the inspector’s left and walked towards the inspector.

                “Inspector Mondieu?”  

                “Simon?” the inspector turned. “I still consider you a prime suspect, whatever the crime,” the inspector stated coldly.

                Simon’s beamed in reply. “Of course, inspector, of course. I cannot disavow your suspicious so easily. However, I am here because I received a premonitory vision – someone, DeMarc I suspect, will be leaving the arboretum in a hurry very shortly.”

                “And what makes you think this mysterious individual is DeMarc, if you have never seen him?”

                Simon shrugged. “In my vision, the figure was fleeing with a piece of the tree, a sapling, perhaps. And what better for a thief to steal than a seedling from the tree of life itself?”

                The inspector’s eyes narrowed, but as he started to say something, a figure exited from the arboretum, and hurriedly began fleeing to the north at a rapid walk.

                “Robinson?” Simon whispered, and he took off at a sprint after the figure.

                “Wait!” the inspector shouted feebly, but didn’t pursue. Should he have pursued? No, perhaps not. And that was Robinson? He hadn’t gotten the best of looks, but he might have seen enough to recognize the man. Maybe he would pursue after all…

                As the inspector deliberated over pursuit, he saw Marie walking towards from the arboretum. The inspector shook his head in confusion.

                Marie was wearing his cloak, still, the inspector noticed, and she carried a bag brimming with fruit. She’s always in a rush. Though today, perhaps, the cold justifies that. Who wants to stay outside in this cold?

                “Inspector Mondieu, fancy seeing you here,” Marie said with a smile. “Do you want your coat back?” she asked, noticing him eyeing it.

                The inspector waved the question away. “No need – keep it. Marie, have you been stealing more fruit?”

                “Why, of course inspector. I’m learning so much about this tree. It’s really quite fascinating. And it’s not really stealing, is it?”

                Mondieu shrugged. “Anything I should know?”

                “Perhaps. I haven’t had time to study the samples, but we could discuss more over dinner. Tomorrow night perhaps, Mondieu?”

                “Very well,” the inspector replied, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “Did you see anyone in the arboretum?”

                Marie looked taken aback by the question.  “Why, yes actually. Or, someone found me there. It’s the Doctor’s butler, I believe: Robinson?”

                The inspector’s eyes widened. Who was this Robinson figure? He probably was the one running away from the dome, after all. But why? What did anyone have to run away from in Garden?

                “Is something wrong, Mondieu?” Marie asked, noticing the inspector’s sudden surprise and silence.

                “No, no. Nothing. Tomorrow at dinner, then,” the inspector replied. Marie looked like she wanted to say something more, but just bit her lip, and whispered a goodbye-for-now before slipping past the inspector, heading back to residential.

                The inspector strolled around the outside of the doom, looking for any clear sight of Robinson or Simon. Simon was chasing the legendary DeMarc – would he know him once he found him? What would such a figure be in Garden for in the first place. And what reason would such a character, or anyone, have for scampering out of the arboretum in such a hurry?

                Robinson clearly had displayed almost preternatural insight regarding the previous crime –the freezing of all floral life was not readily obvious, to the inspector’s mind. Was Robinson the murderer? The Doctor seemed reluctant to believe that, and so far the Doctor had possessed fairly good judgment, though he’d acted suspiciously himself, with the tower incident. Could the doctor even be trusted?

                Could anyone be trusted at all?

                The inspector meandered around town, letting his thoughts seep into the soil of his subconscious and take root. The marketplace was a barren, snow-white, a sleeping beauty devoid of pedestrians, and the inspector crunched on between the empty stalls, pennants whipping in the gusts of wind.

                Mondieu tightened his cloak, shivering despite its warmth. As cold as it is, the citizens of this city have every reason to be inside rather than out in the market. And none of them were so cozily dressed as the inspector himself. The inspector checked his timepiece: 4pm. His stomach growled at him. Have I eaten anything all day? I can’t even remember, so it must be time for something.

                The inspector slowly began the long walk back to the inn. He considered, briefly, visiting Pavloh and seeing if he knew anything more about the history of the city, but decided he should eat first. Before long, he’d have to go back to the police station and get Vespars, DuMont and Seth patrolling overnight. Hopefully they had gotten plenty of rest during the day. And what was the next crime going to be?

                The inspector reached the inn a bare half-hour later, and it seemed that more than the usual number of patrons were present, this evening. That was an understatement; the place was packed beyond belief, with countless people all nestled in to every nook and cranny, people sharing chairs or standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

                Mondieu stuttered as he entered the room, seeing The Bear hurrying around, providing drinks and bringing platters of food. There was clearly more drinking than eating, though many a portion of steaming soup or hot entrees were served.

                Perhaps I’ll order dinner up to my room instead, Mondieu thought, turning towards the stairs.

                “Inspector Mondieu! Come in, come in!” The Bear bellowed over the noise in the barroom. “I’ll find you a place to sit, right away. You weren’t thinking of hiding out in your room, were you?”

                The Bear came over and clapped the inspector heartily on the back. “Why, we’ve almost been waiting for you. I’ll get a table cleared right away, right away!” The Bear scampered off, returning with a wet cloth and, after shooing a couple of            people away, beckoned Mondieu over to a seat near the back, a booth with a little privacy, no less.

                The inspector sat down timidly, with a nod of thanks to the couple who had vacated, and they simply smiled in return, walking over to stand near the bar. The room was loud, but a nervous, antsy noise, covering up fear, anxiety, uncertainty. This was a frightened group, and frightened groups can be the most boisterous – and the most dangerous.

                The Bear brought out a steaming platter of vegetables, a tomato broth, and some dark, nutty bread.

                “Sorry, Mondieu. It is not our greatest, but it’s warm. I’ll bring you out a beer in a moment.”

                Whether it was the hunger, the warmth of a meal, or the food itself, by the time The Bear returned with a frothy, wooden mug, the inspector was nearly finished.

                “Hungry, Mondieu?” The Bear laughed, a deep, belly laugh. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”

                “Actually,” replied the inspector, patting his mouth with his napkin. “There is something else.”

                “Ask and it will be yours,” The Bear replied, a broad smile on his face. “Within my power, of course.”

                “Is there anyone in this city who has been here since the beginning? Who remembers the construction of the city and each of its elements, and has been here since?”

                “There may be such a man,” pondered The Bear, rubbing at the shadow hairs on his chin. “What is it you are looking for?”

                “Information, mostly. Who would know? Do you know anyone?”

                “Well, yes, actually. Me. I’ve been the proud owner of this inn almost thirty-five years, and I lived here longer.” The Bear exhibited a clear pride at this fact, and sat down across from the inspector. “Ask any questions you like and, if I may, I will answer,” said The Bear, with a sweep of his arm and a seated bow.

                “I’m not even sure what to ask, to be honest, Fredrik. Do you remember how the tree arrived? What the importance of that is?”

                “I remember it very clearly, for it caused quite a commotion. This city began around the same time the tree arrived, in fact, and I was one of the laborers working at transplanting it. It was quite an event, and many people were against the idea.”

                “Why? What caused the stir?”

                The Bear waggled a finger as though he’d baited the question, and he grinned broadly in his eagerness to respond. “They heralded it as the Tree of Life, a monumental scientific achievement. They were going to recreate the Garden of Eden itself. The tree was a scientific creation – don’t ask me how, I’m not scientist – and contains countless medicinal and healing properties in the fruit it bears: healing simple ailments, dreams, stronger hearts, better blood flow, better eyesight, increased cognitive processing, and longevity. Some of these may be falsified, but, as you can see, I’m still quite young, though I can say with no small matter of pride that I am over half a century old.”

                The inspector gawped, looking at The Bear again, through new eyes. He doesn’t look scarcely thirty. How can this be?

                “So were people against this?”

                The Bear swatted the question like a pesky fly. “Of course, of course. There are always naysayers, saying: ‘this is the same ego as the tower of babel’ or ‘this is why God sent the flood’ or, mostly, ‘pride comes before fall’ and such ridiculous sentiments. The point is, the tree worked. It has created an Eden, see? Until now, no crime, longevity, and perfect weather.”

                Interesting. I wonder if there are still any of these naysayers around, people who’ve sustained this sentiment for this long. But why would any such person strike now, almost forty years later?

                “Right, the perfect weather,” the inspector replied carefully. “But that’s not created by the tree.”

                “No. That’s the work of the weather controller. But the tree became fruitful because of the controller, and the controller created the perfect environment for the rest of the Garden to exist.”

                “So who built the weather controller?”

                The Bear shrugged. “Same scientists who developed the tree, perhaps. Or maybe it is a corporation. I don’t think anyone knows, or maybe remembers, at this point. They arrived near the same time, and it worked.”

                “Are there any other specimens of the tree of life?”

                The Bear shook his head, almost sadly, but with a subtle pride. “This was the only one, and the scientists never could figure out what they had done to produce this one in the first place. They tried everything, even recreating the exact conditions under which the first was made, but it was an accident, a freak mistake of an experiment. And, to make things worse, the tree is sterile.”          

                “Sterile?”

                “Well, not exactly,” The Bear continued, thoughtfully. “More, it requires a mate, a female tree, but one never existed in the first place. That’s what the scientists guessed. But they couldn’t fertilize any seeds, regardless, so when the tree dies, there won’t be another. Scientists frequented our location for the first decade, and even into the second, but the numbers dwindled when no one could duplicate. Perhaps they grew tired of trying.”

                The Bear excused himself to get back to serving the rest of the room, and the inspector sat, contemplating. So there could still be naysayers, people against the original introduction of the Garden of Eden and the Tree itself, and maybe even the weather controller. Would The Bear know anyone else who had been around that long? Could they possibly have been harboring a resentment that ran so deep? And what would trigger that anger now?

                The worst part about this was, the inspector only had two days left, as far as he could tell, until this was over. The second day of creation was the separation of land and water. What could that mean? A flood? The land was already covered with snow, would it really rain so much? And the weather controller was already destroyed, so controller the weather to bring rain seemed out of the question. Generally, it seemed, the criminal used symbolic, creative ways of exacting his anti-creation.

                And day one? Creation of life and time? Seemed a little ambiguous,  maybe a bit lofty, thinking you could destroy those, right?

                It was almost eight when the inspector finally left the common room, having gathered a collection of notes. He headed straight for the police station, hoping to catch Seth.

                Seth was snoring on the desk when the inspector arrived, and groggily glanced up when the door banged shut.

                “Inspector? What is it?”

                “Seth, I believe we need to send out patrols again tonight. I’d like to send someone over to the information tower as well, to monitor the water systems. I think that is where our villain may strike tonight.”

                “Very well, sir. Have you received the clue as yet?” Seth asked, rubbing at his red-rimmed eyes, heavy with baggage.

                “Not yet. Maybe there won’t”

                A knock sounded at the door, and the postman entered.

                “Letter for you, Mondieu. Appears to be our mysterious customer again.” The postman handed Mondieu a letter and, tipping his hat, dissolved back out into the night.

                “How does he keep finding me?” mused the inspector, and Seth gave Mondieu a confused look.

                Mondieu pulled up the wax seal and pulled the letter free.

               

WHO CLOSED THE FLOOD GATES

AS THE SEA GUSHED FROM THE WOMB

WHEN I MADE THE CLOUDS ITS GARMENT

AND WRAPPED IT IN THICK DARKNESS

WHEN I FIXED LIMITS FOR IT

AND SET ITS DOORS AND BARS IN PLACE

WHEN I SAID, 'THIS FAR YOU MAY COME AND NO FARTHER;

HERE IS WHERE YOUR PROUD WAVES HALT'?

~Job

                “What does it mean?” asked Seth, staring over the inspector’s shoulder, a look of worry crossing his face.

                “It’s from the Bible, it would seem. References to the sea and waves – our villain means to flood the city. Get Vespars and have him go, as I said before, to the information tower. Is there any other way to flood the city that you can think of?”

                “He could melt all this snow,” mumbled Seth.

                “Well, if there are any entrances of water into the city, make sure he can’t release a dam. I want this stopped, tonight,” said the inspector, nearly yelling as he reached the end of his tirade.

                Seth was stiff and shocked as the vehemence of the inspector’s voice. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Seth replied, and hurried to perform the inspector’s instructions.

                And I’m going to get some sleep. I don’t think there is anything more I can do here, tired as I am.

                Mondieu read the note once more before crumpling it up and placing it in his pocket. Was our villain playing God or the devil? Was it the tree of life, or knowledge of good and evil? Did the villain think himself, or herself, evil? Or hero?

                The lamps were unlit on the streets, and the path dark, as the inspector stumbled through the dark back to the inn. Winter had truly come.