His step was brisk as he headed down the stairs to ground level, where the bulk of the Metropolitan Police went about its business. The second floor was reserved for men of rank such as Lenoir; the rest of the men shared a single open space on the ground floor, an area affectionately known as “the kennel.” Today, as always, it was a hive of activity, for a city as large as Kennian had more than enough crime to keep its six-hundred-odd hounds busy. Most of the sergeants, watchmen, scribes, and others who milled about the kennel were occupied with petty crimes, for more serious affairs were reserved for the inspectors. Even so, Lenoir occasionally envied the lower ranks the simplicity of their work. He remembered fondly his days on the streets of Serles, how the citizenry looked to him as a symbol of justice, a chivalric figure to whom they could run when they were in distress. Chasing down thieves, breaking up duels—so satisfying, so uncomplicated. The life of an inspector was not so. Not in Serles, and not in Kennian.
“Inspector,” said a voice, breaking into Lenoir’s thoughts. A young watchman approached him at the foot of the stairs. “Sergeant Innes sent me to find you, sir. He’s at Merriton’s place.”
“Merriton?” Lenoir frowned, riffling through his memory for the name. “The surgeon?”
“Yes, sir. He’s with some nobleman—I think he said his name was Arleas? Anyway, he’s been beaten pretty bad. Unconscious, face like a heap of plum preserve.”
Sighing, Lenoir nodded. Visiting a surgery was reliably unpleasant. At best it was a place of pain; at worst it offered up some of the most gruesome sights ever beheld. Lenoir would rather watch an autopsy than the work of a barber or surgeon. At least with an autopsy, the poor soul having bits of him sawn off was already dead. Still, he should be grateful for something to do that did not involve listening to Kody drone on about the corpse thief, so he thanked the watchman and headed out.
He arrived at Merriton’s to find the situation just as the watchman had described it. On a slab in the middle of the room lay a finely dressed man of middle age, or so Lenoir judged; in truth it was difficult to tell, for he had been beaten to the point of being virtually unrecognizable. His face was grotesquely swollen: thick fleshy eyelids the size of a child’s fist, cracked lips, skin a palette of vivid purples and blues. The surgeon, Merriton, hovered above him, whistling softly to himself as he draped leeches across the unconscious man’s bruises. A short distance away, Sergeant Innes loomed over the scene like a gargoyle.
Innes inclined his head in acknowledgment as Lenoir approached. “Morning, Inspector. Thought you’d better see this, seeing as this fella’s a nobleman and all.”
“Arleas is his name,” Merriton supplied cheerfully. “I told you that already. I know his chambermaid quite well.” He resumed his whistling.
Tempted as he was to comment on that detail, Lenoir focused on the task at hand. “Why didn’t you take him to a proper physician?” he asked Innes. Merriton glanced up sharply, but decided to hold his tongue.
Innes, a great ogre of a man, shrugged his massive shoulders. “Dunno, Inspector. Only I found him not far from here, and he looked in pretty bad shape, so I just figured I’d better get him seen to quick.”
“And quite right too,” said Merriton. “These wounds need bleeding right away, or the dark blood will infect him.”
Lenoir suppressed a shudder. He had grown accustomed to living in Braeland over the past decade or so, even if it was considerably less advanced than Arrènes and the other civilized nations to the south. But occasionally he was reminded that this little country was scarcely more than a land bridge to the savage lands beyond, and nothing called that to mind quite so forcibly as medical matters. Situations such as these made it seem as though he had stepped back through time to the dark days before the Age of Awakening.
The surgery looked more like a torture chamber than a place of healing. The tools of Merriton’s trade were laid out on a long table like an exhibit in a museum of the macabre: saws, carving knives, rasps, and even more sinister-looking devices whose purposes Lenoir could not even begin to guess at. A putrid smell hung in the air, vaguely reminiscent of a butcher’s on a hot day, as though the reek of rotting flesh had somehow seeped into the very floorboards. Or perhaps the smell came from the bloodstained rushes strewn beneath the patient’s slab. The thought caused Lenoir’s stomach to twist over itself.
He turned to Innes, who was idly swatting at the flies buzzing near his ear. “Has he been unconscious since you found him, Sergeant, or did he say anything?”
“Nothing, sir, but I found this on him.” Innes held out a letter, unsealed, which Lenoir took. It read simply, This afternoon, tea time. Lenoir turned it over and examined the seal. He recognized the family crest immediately, even though he had been half-drunk the last time he saw it.
“Very well, Sergeant, stay with him. If he wakes within the next two hours, find out who did this to him. If he doesn’t, fetch a goddamn physician, will you?”
Innes grunted again as Lenoir shouldered past the surgeon, who was admiring his handiwork with a disturbingly satisfied grin.
Lord Feine kept Lenoir waiting for nearly an hour. It was possible he knew why the inspector had come and sought to avoid the interview altogether, but Lenoir thought it equally likely that Feine simply took pleasure in reminding his guests of his superior rank. In any case, his expression when he finally arrived showed neither nervousness nor smugness, but merely the sour look he always wore, as though nothing around him were quite to his liking.
“How good to see you, Inspector,” said Feine, his inflection utterly flat. He strode across the room to a handsome wingback chair near the hearth, his hand fluttering at Lenoir in an anemic invitation to sit. “Can I offer you some lunch?”
“Very kind, sir, but no, thank you. I’m afraid that I am not paying a social call.”
Feine arched a single finely trimmed eyebrow. “Indeed? Official business, then? How disturbing.” Lenoir judged that His Lordship would sound more disturbed if he had just located a hangnail. Feine produced his pipe, and Lenoir found himself staring for the second time at the family crest that ostentatiously adorned the bowl.
“There was a man beaten in the streets this morning, savagely so,” said Lenoir, studying Feine’s expression carefully.
The eyebrow leapt again. “Awful.”
“I believe you know the victim, since if I am not mistaken, he is a fellow parliamentarian. Arleas is his name.”
“Ah, yes,” said Feine, as though Lenoir had just correctly identified a species of plant. “I know him well. Splendid fellow.” He held Lenoir’s eye and said nothing more.
Lenoir knew already where all this would lead. Feine had not even bothered to inquire what any of this had to do with him, the way an innocent man, or a man inclined to pretend innocence, would do. Such confidence in a suspect could mean only one thing: he considered himself untouchable. Sometimes this was because the suspect believed there was no evidence to condemn him. More often, however, when it came to the nobility, it was because they were simply not afraid of whatever evidence there might be.
“I would like to show you something, Lord Feine,” said Lenoir, rising. “May I?” He took Feine’s silence for permission and approached. “This letter was found on the victim. It bears your seal, but I think it must have been written by someone else in the household. The handwriting is quite . . . feminine, wouldn’t you agree?”
Feine looked over the letter, and for the first time, his expression cracked. It was subtle—lips slightly pursed, nostrils flared almost imperceptibly—and it was gone in an instant. But it was enough for Lenoir. “I wonder, sir, if you are the sort of man to allow himself to be humiliated. I must say you do not seem to me such a man.”