“You are right, Zach,” he said, diving back into his meat. “I apologize. Now, back to our task. A good inspector must be aware of his surroundings, down to the last detail. He must be able to tell certain things about a person just by looking—what he does for a living, for example, or something else about his life that may be important.”
Zach cocked his head. “How?”
Pausing again, Lenoir scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on a couple huddled together in a back corner. They were almost shielded from sight by a beam supporting the ceiling, but even so they stood out, at least to him.
“Do you see the man and woman near the back of the room?”
Zach followed his gaze and nodded. “I see them.”
“She is his mistress. They are having an affair.”
The boy looked at him skeptically. “Says who?”
Lenoir skewered a piece of meat and dragged it through the juices pooled on his plate. “See where they have chosen to sit? It is the worst table in the room. It is too dark, and far enough from the hearth that it is no doubt cold as well. It is difficult to see them behind the beam, so they will probably have trouble getting the barmaid’s attention. And see also how they are dressed?”
“They look rich,” Zach said thoughtfully. This observation, at least, fell squarely within his area of expertise. A street urchin such as he could spot wealth as easily as a hawk finds a snake in short grass. “Too rich to be in a place like this,” he added.
“Exactly,” Lenoir smiled. “They are here because there is little chance of being seen by anyone they know. They are obviously hiding, and from the way they sit so closely together, they are obviously lovers. Yet they are not equals. She looks rich, yes, but that is only because of her gloves and the fur she wears around her neck. Her dress is not up to the same standard. The fur and the gloves are most likely gifts from her lover. A man of his station would never marry so far beneath him, and he is too old to be a bachelor. So . . . an affair.” He popped the forkful of meat into his mouth and waggled his eyebrows at Zach.
The boy laughed, delighted. “Do it again!”
“I think not. It is your turn now.”
Zach looked doubtful, but he sat up, peering over Lenoir’s shoulder at the Courtier’s patrons. His gaze skipped from person to person like a stone skimming the surface of a lake, unable to find anyone he was confident enough to describe. At last, his eyes came to rest on a young man hunched over a bowl of stew. “Him,” Zach said firmly.
When Lenoir merely raised his eyebrows expectantly, Zach said, “He’s got no money, you can tell by his clothes. He’s hungry too—see how fast he eats?” Here he hesitated, waiting for the inspector to pass judgment on his performance so far.
“Go on,” said Lenoir.
Zach was quiet for a moment, watching. Lenoir watched too. The youth was indeed a pathetic sight. He had no cloak, but only a threadbare shirt, surely unequal to the cold outside. His hair was greasy and matted, and every so often he paused from shoveling stew into his mouth to scratch, betraying the lice in his scalp. More than anything, however, it was the look in his eye that gave him away: hunted, darting around the room as though searching for threat or opportunity. Zach had chosen well. He might not know his subject personally, but all the same, the youth was all too familiar.
“He’s going to make a dash for it,” Zach said confidently.
“A dash?”
“He can’t pay, I’d bet a copper on it. When he’s finished eating, he’s going to run.”
As though sensing someone’s eyes on him, the youth looked up from his bowl. It was empty, Lenoir saw. The youth’s gaze flitted around, then locked with Lenoir’s. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and in that moment, Lenoir knew Zach was right. An instant later, just as Zach had predicted, the youth shoved his chair back and bolted.
He had not chosen his table well. The room was too crowded and he was too far from the door. He never made it. By the time he reached the entrance to the Courtier, the barman had vaulted over the bar and was blocking the doorway, meaty fists raised. The youth hesitated, panic etched onto his thin face. He backed away between the tables, but found no comfort there: one of the patrons planted a boot in his backside and propelled him forward, straight into the arms of the barman.
The barman grinned, his great paws seizing the youth by his upper arms. “You picked the wrong place to steal a meal, lad,” he growled. Then, his face contorting with malice, he hurled his captive headfirst into the door. There was a sickening crunch, and the youth collapsed in a heap of rags. But the barman was not finished with him: he grabbed the youth by the top of his britches, hefting him easily, and used his body like a battering ram to open the front door. They disappeared out into the street.
Some of the patrons followed, eager to see the excitement outside. Most continued about their business, as though nothing had happened that they had not seen many times before. Lenoir, for his part, returned to his steak. When he had finished, however, and the barman still had not returned, Lenoir sighed and rose.
“Stay here,” he told Zach, and headed out the front door.
The scene was gruesome. The youth was on his hands and knees, a long, sticky string of blood dangling from his lip to the dirt. His face was split open in several places, and one eye was swelling shut. His drooping eyelids showed him to be moments away from losing consciousness. The barman stood over him, sleeves rolled up, shouting.
“Get up, you piece of filth! We’re not done here!” The small crowd of onlookers jeered their approval.
“All right,” called Lenoir, “that’s enough. You have made your point, Barclay.”
The barman looked up, scowling at the interruption. When he saw Lenoir, the scowl turned from anger to disappointment. “Come on, Inspector—he’s getting his due!”
“You don’t need to kill him. He will not be back.”
“He’s a bloody thief,” Barclay said indignantly, “and if I don’t make an example of him, there’ll be more where he came from! Can’t you at least arrest him or something?”
Lenoir shrugged. “I could, but what would be the point? The man is obviously starving. I can throw him in jail every other day, but he will still steal to survive. So why waste the time and money? It will do no good. The best you can hope for is that he steals from someone else.”
“Then let me finish, Inspector. I’ll see to it you eat for free for the rest of the month.”
Lenoir sighed again, tilting his head to survey the pathetic form hunched in the dirt. The youth might lose consciousness, but he did not appear to be close to death. “All right. Five minutes. But be careful, Barclay—if you kill him, I will have to arrest you.”
The barman grinned. He grabbed the youth’s clothes two-fisted, hauling him up. Lenoir did not wait to see the rest; he turned and went back inside the Courtier. He had no desire to see what had been purchased for a month’s worth of steak.
Stars drift overhead like a slow cascade of sparks. He watches, transfixed. Long has it been since he has seen such beauty. He remembers little of beauty from his life, but he remembers the stars. Like him, they are eternal. They have been with him since the beginning.
The wagon plods along. He is not sure how long the journey has been—he no longer measures time as mortals do—but he knows they have gone far. Wherever the gravedigger is taking his burden, it is a long way from the place the boy was buried. The soil clinging to the body, once black and moist, has dried out; specks of it cling to the left eye. It is like looking through a dirty window. The right eye is still closed, but one is enough. He cannot feel, cannot hear or taste or smell, but he can see. He has seen the gravedigger, through that dirty left eye, and condemned the man to death. He might have struck already, but he knows instinctively there are others involved, and he would see them too.