Free From the Charred Remains by Susanna Calkins

the poem again. “Persian,” he mused. “That makes sense, actually. Dr. Larimer thought the victim’s features looked like those of a man from the Near East. He thought he might have been Arabic.”
    Lucy nodded. “Part of the poem, Miss Rivers said, was also written by a poet they both enjoyed. She thought it was a bit of a message for her. Rumi, I think she said his name was.”
    “I’m not familiar with that verse-maker,” Duncan admitted. “Well, truth be told, I only know the Bard and Marlowe. But Miss Rivers didn’t think the second part was from this Rumi fellow?”
    “No, she seemed confused by the poem. If there was a message there, she didn’t know what it was.”
    “Let’s think about this for a moment.” Duncan paused before rereading the first part. ‘ Come to the garden in spring. There’s wine and sweethearts in the pomegranate blossoms. Remember, if you do not come, these do not matter. If you do come, these do not matter. ’”
    “It sounds to me like he’s inviting her to meet him. In a beautiful garden. If she doesn’t come, she won’t see the beauty of the garden, and neither will he, since he will miss her. If she does come—”
    “He will revel in her beauty, and hers alone,” Duncan finished. “No mere flowers will be able to compare, when she is beside him. A lucky man that.” Lucy looked at him in surprise. He looked lost in thought, as if thinking of someone far away. Then, he caught himself. “Well then,” he added brusquely, “a shame the poor fool is dead. He had a romantic soul.”
    “His name was Darius,” Lucy reminded him.
    “So you say.” Duncan sucked in his cheeks. “Well, did you ask her about any of the other things in the bag? Whether they meant anything to her?”
    Lucy felt her moment of triumph rapidly deflate. “No,” she said, hating to disappoint him.
    “Ah, no matter that. I should, of course, like to be able to inform his family, but no one else has come forward. If they’re all in Persia, ’tis hardly likely we will locate his relations.”
    “We could look up the coat of arms on the ring, don’t you think?” Lucy asked. “Darius may have been connected with that family?”
    “I doubt it,” Duncan answered. “I’d wager that’s an English family emblem.”
    For a moment, Lucy looked out the window, watching the men dump buckets of ashes into the waiting carts. Just then a strong breeze came by, causing the top layer to swirl about the air and choke the men standing nearby. Sometimes she wondered if the ashes would ever be gone, whether the ever-present filmy grime could ever be lifted. When some ashes blew inside, Duncan shuttered the window, making the room seem much darker.
    Coughing a bit, Lucy turned back to the constable. “I know we do not know Darius’s last name. However, there cannot be so many scholars at Oxford who study the Persian language. His name could be Rivers, but all we know for sure is that his daughter’s name is Rhonda. Perhaps we could learn who Darius was if we could identify the scholar. I could ask the magistrate?”
    But Duncan was not listening, hearing a clamor at the door of the jail. A bellman popped his head around, tipping his cap. He may have been twice Duncan’s age. Once again, Lucy noticed the respect the constable had garnered in his men.
    “Begging your pardon, sir,” the bellman said. “There’s a doxy, er, a woman outside, demanding to see you, sir. Says you’ve got something of hers. From the Fire.”
    “This is why we need the Fire Courts in place! I can’t look into all these claims!” He half-rose in his chair. “Hey! What do you think you are doing?”
    The woman had burst in, pushing past the bellman as he attempted to block her.
    “Alright, Hank. It’s all right.” He turned to the woman, taking in her wild red hair. “Woman! What do you want?” Duncan asked. Unlike his bellman, who could not keep his eyes from the woman’s rather ample bosom, the constable