She passed a hand over her face in a gesture that was more weary than tired, and when she spoke, her voice was gentler. “These children lead difficult lives, Inspector. They mostly do all right until they’re about Zach’s age. That’s when they start getting into trouble. They fall in with thugs, get to stealing and such. And then one day they walk out my door and never come back. Usually it’s because they fancy themselves all grown up. They resent the rules around here, having to account for where they’ve been and what they’ve done, and they figure it’s time to make their own way. But sometimes it’s worse. They get into something they can’t handle, or end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve buried more than a few of those children. So when a boy like Zach goes missing, all I can do is pray to the good Lord that he’s one of the ones who decided it was time to make his own way.”
“Alas, I doubt that very much. Zach has his schemes, to be sure, but he is too smart to give up a warm bed and a guaranteed meal to go off and live in a ditch somewhere.”
She grunted. “I’ll give you that.”
“I need to speak with the little boy from last night, the one who came outside to talk to me. He may have an idea where Zach went.”
The nun was shaking her head before he even finished speaking. “He’s asleep, at long last. Come back later.”
“Every hour is precious, madam,” Lenoir said coldly. “I need to speak with the boy now.”
“He’s four years old, and a teller of tales besides. What could he possibly—”
“Now.”
She flushed angrily, and for a moment Lenoir thought she was going to slam the door in his face again. But she spun and disappeared inside, returning a few moments later leading a whimpering little boy, the same child Lenoir had spoken to the night before.
“Well, Adam, I know you’re sleepy and confused, but the inspector here is very important, and he needs to speak with you right now.” She tugged the boy’s hand and dragged him into the sunlight. The child whimpered again, digging his small fist into his eyes, and the nun gave Lenoir a look that was both smug and scathing.
Lenoir squatted so that he was eye level with the boy. “Adam, do you remember me from last night?”
He shook his head.
“You told me you wanted to go with Zach, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you still want to go?”
Adam perked up a little at that. He nodded solemnly.
“I need you to tell me about the rich people you saw. What did they look like?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Try to remember, Adam.”
“I can’t,” he whined, his face collapsing into a scowl. The boy was cranky and tired; Lenoir sensed he was on the verge of tears. He tried a different tack.
“What about the carriage? Was it nice?”
Adam nodded.
“What did it look like?”
“Golden,” said the little boy, with something more like the enthusiasm he had shown the night before.
Lenoir eyed the child skeptically. A teller of tales, the nun had said. He did not need to look up; he could sense the smirk she was directing his way. “Are you sure it was golden, Adam?”
“Yep, and blue.”
“He means green,” the nun interjected. “He gets them mixed up. Don’t you, Adam? You mean green like your blanket?”
Adam furrowed his brow in thought. “Yeah,” he said doubtfully, “green.”
“Can you remember anything else about the carriage?”
“It had angels on it.”
“That’s good, Adam. What else?”
He shook his head. “I’m sleepy.”
The nun took the boy’s hand again. “I think that will do, Inspector,” she said sternly. “A gold and green carriage with angels on it. That ought to be enough for you.”
Reluctantly, Lenoir rose. He did not even have a chance to thank the boy before the nun had dragged him inside and closed the door.
His next stop was the local wheelwright, and it proved to be an excellent move. Lenoir had not gone far in his description of the carriage before the wheelwright began to nod knowingly. “That’s one of them for-hire jobs, Inspector, the kind folks get for special events and the like. I’ve done a lot of work for that company—it’s not far from here, actually.” He walked Lenoir out of the work yard to point him in the right direction.
“And you’re certain that’s where the carriage is from?”
The man nodded again. “They paint all of their carriages that same green and gold, so as they’re easy to recognize. Sort of like advertising, I guess.”
When Lenoir arrived at the company’s front shop, he saw immediately what the wheelwright had meant. A green and gold carriage sat idle in the street, its coachman slouched casually on his perch. It was a distinctive enough contraption, for aside from the garish green of its hood, its faux-gilt frame was so elaborate—with great swooping wings and frescoed door panels—that it was clearly designed to be noticed. From a distance it might pass for something grand, and certainly it was enough to impress a small boy. But up close it was tired-looking and shabby; the cherubim on the panels were badly drawn, and the paint was peeling. The seat cushions looked old and worn. According to the wheelwright, this was the less expensive of the two carriage-for-hire firms in town, and Lenoir could readily see why.
As he approached, a couple was exiting the shop, accompanied by a man wearing the same livery as the coachman. The footman, for so he appeared to be, assisted the lady to climb into the carriage; Lenoir quickened his step to reach them before they departed.
“Hold a moment, please,” he called. The lady leaned out of the window with a quizzical expression, and the three men turned their heads to look at Lenoir.
“What can we do for you, Inspector?” said the footman after Lenoir had introduced himself.
“Actually, it is your coachman I wish to speak with.” Lenoir looked up at the man on the perch. “Sir, were you driving this carriage yesterday afternoon?”
“I was,” said the coachman warily. He looked uncomfortable in his tacky green tunic.
“Did you pick up a young boy in the poor district, sometime in the afternoon?”
The man shook his head. “No children, sir, not yesterday. But you might try the other coachman, Marrick.” His yellow glove gestured in the direction of the shop. “Out back, washing the other carriage, I think.”
Lenoir followed the coachman’s directions through the shop and out to the back, where a man in breeches and an undershirt was mopping the running gear of an identical green and gold carriage. He swore under his breath as he worked, and did not seem to notice Lenoir’s presence until the inspector cleared his throat.
“Oh, excuse me, sir,” Marrick said sheepishly, rising. “It’s only that the paint keeps flaking off when I wash it. Frustrating, you know?”
Lenoir was supremely uninterested in the tribulations of carriage washing, and he hoped his expression conveyed as much. “I am here from the Metropolitan Police, and I would like to ask you a few questions.”
A worried look crossed the coachman’s face. “The police? Is there something wrong?”
“I wonder if you can think back to yesterday, to the people you drove in your carriage. Do you remember a boy, about ten years old? Name of Zach?”
“Oh yeah, yeah,” Marrick said enthusiastically, clearly relieved. “I remember the kid. Filthy little beggar, he was. . . .” He paused, flushing slightly. “Excuse me again. No disrespect intended. . . .”
“Not at all. That is quite helpful, actually. It means we are almost certainly talking about the same child. Was this yesterday afternoon?”