“Here it is, Inspector,” the scribe said, laying a sheaf of parchment on Lenoir’s desk.
“At last,” Lenoir said coolly. It had taken the scribe all morning and the better part of the afternoon to find it.
“Sorry, Inspector,” the youth said, flushing. “But without a name . . . I had to go to the city clerk’s office to look through the marriage records, and—”
“That will be all,” Lenoir said. The scribe swallowed, nodded, and vanished.
Lenoir pulled the dusty pile of papers toward him. It was a healthy stack, nearly half an inch thick, bound together with twine. Zach’s uncle was obviously no stranger to the Kennian Metropolitan Police. Lenoir loosened the twine and scanned the writing at the top of the uppermost page. “Thad Eccle,” he murmured aloud. Thirty-two years of age, six foot two, approximately two hundred ten pounds. Scar on the left cheek. Definitely our man, Lenoir thought. The scribe had done his job well.
Second-degree theft, the charge on the topmost page read. Approximately two hundred crowns’ worth of goods recovered from Eccle’s premises, including forty pounds of silverware, two pewter door knockers, sundry items of jewelry, and a gilt mirror. Sentence: not less than two years to be served in Fort Hald. A comparatively light sentence. Too light, in Lenoir’s view. The incident was dated three years ago. That meant Zach had been living on the streets since the age of six. Lenoir had more or less known that, but his mouth still took a sour twist.
He thumbed through several random places in the pile. First-degree theft. Battery. Attempted battery. Each one carried a prison term. Thad Eccle seemed to have spent as much of his life in prison as out, going back to . . . Lenoir pulled out the bottom page. Battery, the charge read. Eccle had been eight years old. A lifelong criminal, irredeemable. He was fortunate to have escaped the hangman’s noose. Perhaps he had a patron, someone who paid off the magistrate for a more lenient sentence. The more talented thieves often had such protection, provided they turned a consistent profit for the crime lord they served. The moment they became too inconvenient, they were cut loose, or worse. Judging from Eccle’s record, he was one charge away from the gallows. He should remember that, Lenoir thought. And if he does not, I shall have to remind him.
Lenoir ate an early supper before heading for the orphanage. He wanted to get a head start on the evening, for Zera’s patience was wearing thin. She had pressed him terribly last time, demanding an update on Zach’s progress. The rumors had only gained momentum in the intervening days, growing not only more frequent, but more outrageous as well. Zera was now said to have a den of misfits that she kept as slaves to serve at the pleasure of her salon guests. Talk would have it that she kept them caged until evening, subjecting them to opium and other mind-numbing substances to keep them docile. Lenoir could not imagine how anyone could believe such nonsense. He would have found it amusing were it not for Zera’s outrage.
The sun had just sunk behind the tiled rooftops when Lenoir arrived at the orphanage. He knocked, and when the door swung open, he found himself looking down at a tiny nun of vaguely shrewlike appearance, her beady eyes and upturned nose contriving to give her a mistrustful look.
“What has he done this time?” she snapped.
Lenoir blinked, taken aback. “I am sorry, Sister—you misunderstand. I am looking for Zach.”
“I know who you’re looking for. What’s he done?”
Lenoir could not suppress a smile. “Any number of things, perhaps, but I am not here to take him away. I would just like to speak with him, if you please. He . . . owes me a favor.”
“I’ll bet he does,” she said sourly. “But he’s not here. Haven’t seen him since this morning.”
Lenoir frowned. “Is that normal?”
“I’m lucky if I see some of these kids three times a week. Zach’s usually around, though, at least at mealtimes.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
“You’re an inspector, Inspector. Why don’t you go and find Zach, and when you do, you can tell him that the next time he skips out on his chores, there’ll be a licking waiting for him when he gets back!” And with that, she slammed the door in Lenoir’s face.
He stood on the threshold for a moment, staring at the closed door in astonishment. Then he turned to go. He was halfway down the street when he heard the door open again, followed by the patter of bare feet against stone. He turned to find a small boy scampering after him wearing nothing but a nightshirt.
“Go back inside, boy. You will catch your death of cold.”
The child seemed not to hear. “Mister,” he said breathlessly, “are you looking for Zach?”
“Yes.”
“If you find him, can you ask him if I can come too?”
Lenoir looked pityingly at the boy. “Why do you want to go with him? You are well taken care of in the orphanage, no? Whatever Zach is doing, I am sure it is not as much fun as you think.”
“But I want to go with the rich people,” the boy whined. He gave an exasperated little stamp of his foot, wringing a corner of his nightshirt in his hands.
Lenoir narrowed his eyes. “The rich people?”
“The ones Zach went away with. I want them to take me too.”
“What do you mean? Who did Zach go away with?”
“I don’t know, but they had a carriage, the big fancy kind. He got into the carriage and they took him away.”
A strange feeling was creeping up Lenoir’s neck, the prickling sense he always got when something was wrong. “Did Zach know these people?”
The little boy shrugged his thin shoulders. Lenoir could see he was shivering. “Tell Zach I want to come too,” he said again, then turned and ran back to the orphanage.
A hand shot out of the open door and grabbed the little boy by the sleeve, dragging him inside, and the door slammed shut on stern words. Lenoir watched without really seeing. A cold weight had settled in his stomach. He could think of a hundred reasons why Zach would want to ride in a carriage with strangers. He could not, however, think of a single reason why anyone would want Zach in their carriage.
CHAPTER 8
By the next morning, Lenoir was convinced that something terrible had befallen Zach. He had passed a sleepless night thinking about the boy, turning the possibilities over and over in his mind. The rational part of him said this was paranoia, that drink and nightmares and sleeplessness were a potent elixir for fevered imaginings. But that same part of him, the part that had guided him through more than twenty years of police work, also told him that he would be foolish to ignore his instincts.
It was the carriage that sealed it. Few could afford such a luxurious mode of transport, and people like that did not go around picking up stray orphans—at least not with good intentions. Unlikely as it seemed, therefore, Lenoir had to treat Zach’s disappearance as a kidnapping.
The uncle was an obvious place to start. Thad Eccle had not even troubled to mask his ill intentions the other night; he had gone after the boy in full view of everyone at the Hobbled Hound, including an inspector of the Metropolitan Police. He could easily have followed Lenoir and Zach out of the tavern and trailed the boy back to the orphanage. Admittedly, the carriage was harder to explain. A man of Eccle’s means could not afford a horse, let alone a carriage. He could have stolen it, Lenoir supposed. Or perhaps, if Lenoir’s hunch was right, and Eccle was under the patronage of a wealthy crime lord, he might have access to a carriage that way. But why bother? If Eccle was tailing the boy, he could easily have snatched Zach without subterfuge. Why go to the trouble of procuring a carriage? For that matter, why snatch the boy at all? He could have dealt with Zach right there in the street.