The Lord of Misrule

40 -- Boulders Displaced by Water

The events of the day, while Godric was at home and asleep, later reinforced his decision that he was right to have delivered his six weeks notice. There had been a death at the museum.

Not only that, but one that came at the hands of a disturbance—or so it seemed. This left everyone with a touch of solemn quietude—even the remaining janitors—though Godric was perhaps the least surprised as he entered the building.

Apparently, at seven minutes past two in the afternoon a bizarre accident claimed the life of one Mr. Basilio Sala—a vacationing university student from Spain. On the second floor of the museum. If the report was accurate—and he knew it was—then Sala died when one of the museums numerous marble statues fell on him.

When Durst arrived at work—almost late—a harried and distressed Davis MacLeod gave more information,

"All happened very fast..." said MacLeod as he led Durst to the room at a fast walk. He wanted to be gone. "And of bloody course the cameras didn't catch it..."

"I'd expect not," said Godric.

"Why on earth do you say that?" snapped MacLeod. It dawned on Durst then this was possibly Davis's first time experiencing the disturbances firsthand.

"Nothing ever happens on camera around here," said Durst. "Especially when you'd particularly like to know what happened. Like something's avoiding them on purpose."

"Bollocks," muttered MacLeod. "Wexler simply didn't want to pay for that many cameras. It's mere coincidence that this is where things are most likely to happen. That policy shall be brought up in the next meeting."

Durst shrugged.

"Anyway," said MacLeod before unlocking the door. Had to unstick police tape first, and when the door was open both men remained silent.

This room had only ever held one statue—now shattered and removed. The rest of the it held a bookshelf and small reading area against one wall among other minor artefacts in a case.

A brass placard sat the statues inscribed pedestal.

"For the good of the Republic we must Act!"

Sala died at a reading table—he'd been dabbling in local history, and the thing had toppled over and landed upon him. Where Sala had been crushed was now a mere bloodstain on the already red rug accompanied by large splinters and a dent beneath the carpet. Two chairs stood near to this, practically untouched except for a wide gouge on each arm where the collapsing table-top struck down upon them.

"A Roman orator," said MacLeod.

"Come again?"

"That's what the statue was. Seven feet tall and holding a big scroll to his chest with his hand outstretched," MacLeod imitated the pose. "Police think it toppled on its own but can't explain how. The face collided with the top of Sala's skull—fully crushed his head. Saw it myself. Internals were displaced and all over the floor. If that wasn't enough the force of it coming down on him also shattered his neck—I mean shattered it—and broke his spine in three places. Flattened his ribcage out and essentially exploded the chair and table for good measure. All in the slice of time it took for the stone to find ground. His body offered no resistance."

While he listened Godric turned to face the pedestal, and then said, when MacLeod was finished, "Excuse my asking, but isn't that pedestal about twelve feet from where his chair was?"

"And the statue was only seven tall," said MacLeod, gravely. "I raised that point to the police myself. They didn't have a good answer."

"What about the cameras in the hallway?"