Everyone loves to hate Mother Linton.  I don’t find her evil.  She just has a different set of objectives than our heroes.

All four men stood up as the severe looking woman approached in a black dress.  Her graying hair was pulled tightly back into a long pony tail and her lips were so thin, it seemed as though the pony tail was pulling most of the skin of her face with it.  Her black dress was not a robe, not quite, and as was almost all feminine attire, it was endowed with a prominent bustle, but had no brocade or lace, just a priestly collar at her neck, and a thin strip of white running from each shoulder to the floor.  She had a large and ornate golden cross on a chain around her neck.

“Mother Linton,” said Dechantagne.  “May I introduce Misters Staff, Merchant, and Shannon.”

Mother Linton nodded to each.  “May I speak to you, Mr. Dechantagne?”

He shrugged and stepped away with the priest.

“So what do you say about this weather, Staff?” marveled Shannon.  “Whenever I think of Mallon, I think of the jungle.  I never expected snow.”

“I suppose there is a great deal of Mallon that’s tropical,” replied Staff, “but Birmisia is cool, dry, lots of pine trees.  Even the summers are not too bad.  That’s good from a business perspective, too.  Nobody wants to muck around in swamps.  That’s probably why Enclep isn’t better developed.”

“Good man,” said Merchant.  “Always keeping business in mind.”

Dechantagne returned to the table and sat down.

“What was that all about?” asked Staff.

“It seems Mother Linton has been pegged by the Bishop of Brech as the High Priest of Birmisia.”

“And?”

“And priests are no different than anyone else.  They all want something.”  He waved to the waiter for another drink.

“And what does she want?”

“Oh, it’s all Mother Church this and Mother Church that.”  Dechantagne picked up the cigar that he had left smoldering in the ashtray when he had stepped outside with Mother Linton, and he stubbed it out.  Then he got up and walked out the door, intercepting the waiter for his drink along the way.

Mrs. Melody Lanier was Mrs. Harper’s daughter and looked just as she must have looked in her younger days, with dark hair and a voluptuous figure that would turn any man’s head.  Likewise, her teen-aged daughter Wenda was a young, thin, and happy version of her, before adulthood had put the lines around her eyes or had put the grey in her mother’s hair.  Mrs. Lanier had lost her husband and Miss Lanier her father, when he was killed in a boiler explosion, while working on the Greater Brechalon and Northern Railroad.  Mrs. Harper had encouraged her daughter to come along with her and try to start a new life in Birmisia.

“You’ve heard me speak of them, and here they are,” said Buttermore.

Cady Gertz is one of those characters who just show up in the background all the time.  In a way, those are my favorites, because I have their back stories that only I know completely.  If you read all the books though, you might find yourself starting to know them too.

The temporary City Hall was right next door, and with the exception of the lack of hen mesh over the windows, it looked exactly like the police station.  Saba stepped up two very short steps and into the front office, which was only half the size of his own.  Miss Cadence Gertz sat at the receptionist desk.  Her black hair was pulled back into a severe bun, she had on horn-rimmed glasses, and she wore a plain brown gingham dress.  Saba still thought she was very pretty.

“Good morning, Constable,” she said, smiling shyly.

“Good morning, Miss Gertz.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to see the mayor, if he’s not too busy.”

“Police business?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ll see if he can see you now.”  She got up and walked to the door separating the twenty by twenty five foot reception office from the mayor’s office, knocked on the door, and then went in, leaving Saba for a moment, to stand and contemplate brown gingham in a way that he never had before.  She was gone no more than two minutes.  When she came back out again, she ushered him into the presence of the mayor, closing the door behind him.

“Good morning, Mr. Mayor.”

Zeah Korlann rolled his eyes, and then stood up to shake hands with the young constable.

“If I had known being the mayor meant I was doing essentially all of the Colonial Council’s work, I wouldn’t have accepted the position.”  He waved for Saba to take a chair.

“Somebody has to be the big man in charge,” said Saba, sitting down, crossing his legs, and setting his helmet on his knee.

“How is your mother?  I missed her yesterday, when I was visiting my grandson.”

“She’s fine.  And how is Miss Lusk?”

“The same.  I mean, fine.  Miss Gertz said that you were here on police business?”

“Yes, I need to requisition an item.”

“A revolver or a shotgun?”

“A typewriter.”

“Do you know how to type?”

“I’ll learn.”

“I’ll bet we could get Mr. Collit to find one for us.  Are there any funds in the police budget?”

“No.”

“Alright,” Mayor Korlann sighed.  “We’ll find the money somewhere.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Saba getting up.  “Would you happen to know if Miss Gertz has gone to lunch yet?”

Saba escorted Miss Gertz to lunch at Mrs. Finkler’s Bakery as he had done on six previous occasions.  But just like those other six times, this could not be considered a date, because Miss Gertz insisted upon paying for her own meal.  Mrs. Gertz was of the opinion that her daughter, at nineteen, was too young to be courted, and ought not to be receiving gentlemen who were Kafirites in any case.  Still, the two young people had a lovely lunch and did not mention Miss Gertz’s mother, or religion, or police work.  In fact, later, Saba could not remember what the topic of conversation had been at all.  All he could remember was thick barley soup with onions and large brown eyes.