Lenoir considered. Vincent had said that the corpse thieves were trying to resurrect the soul of a boy long dead, a boy who had been murdered approximately ten years ago by his father. Here was a clue about motive, which Lenoir had brushed aside in favor of the more direct route of interrogation. It was time to reexamine the evidence.
He turned to the spirit, who still hovered silently in the shadows like a veiled threat. “Vincent, what can you tell me about the murdered boy? Was he Adali?”
Vincent cocked his head, remembering. “No.”
“With the exception of the gravedigger, all the corpse thieves have been Adali. Assuming the rest of them are also Adali, we must conclude that whoever is trying to resurrect the boy is not a family member. Although they could be working for a family member, I suppose.”
Lenoir recalled Merden’s words about meddling with corpses. It was foolhardy to attempt such magic, because doing so invited retribution from beyond. “Every Adal knows this,” the soothsayer had said.
“If the corpse thieves are risking so much to resurrect this boy, they must be demanding a heavy price in return.” An idea was forming in Lenoir’s head. “Was the father a rich man?”
Vincent frowned. “I know nothing of that.”
“Think,” Lenoir pressed, too absorbed in his own thoughts to worry about angering the spirit. “Remember what you saw. Where did the boy live? What sort of clothing did his father wear?”
Vincent reflected on this. “Yes,” he said eventually, “perhaps he was rich. His clothes were very fine, and he lived in a large estate.”
Something rammed into place, like a ball and powder being loaded into the empty chamber of Lenoir’s mind. “I know where we must go next.”
Vincent glanced toward the window, its pane glowing softly with the growing dawn. “I cannot.”
Lenoir cursed; then he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. For ten years, the spirit had been his only dread, his only terror. He had even avoided sleep, so fearful was he of encountering the spirit in his dreams. Now he was disappointed that Vincent could not accompany him. No one would admit having a hand in kidnapping a child, not without being put under considerable duress. The man Lenoir intended to see was powerful and would not be intimidated easily. Vincent’s presence gave him leverage that he did not otherwise have. But he could not afford to wait until nightfall, for that would give the kidnappers a full day to proceed with their plans.
“I must go alone, then,” Lenoir said. “We do not have the luxury of losing more time.”
Lenoir reined his horse in at the gate, glancing at the flag snapping smartly in the breeze at the far end of the drive. Theoretically, the Duke of Warrick was in residence. Whether he would acquiesce to an interview was another matter. Belatedly, it occurred to Lenoir that he knew little of Braelish law in circumstances such as these, and specifically whether he had the authority to interrogate a man of such rank without express permission from the king. What would he do if the duke refused him entry? There was no time to pursue the matter through bureaucratic channels.
A guard emerged from the gatehouse. “Can I help you?”
“I am Inspector Nicolas Lenoir of the Metropolitan Police,” he announced in what he hoped was an impressive manner. “I am here to see His Grace on a matter of official business.”
The guard frowned. He looked Lenoir up and down before retreating to the gatehouse to confer with one of his fellows. He reappeared a moment later, the second guard in tow. “Wait here,” he said. He slung himself onto a horse and cantered up the drive. Lenoir was left in the care of the second guard. He did not bother to dismount. Getting on and off a horse was simply too much work to undertake any more than was necessary.
He waited, his gaze drifting over the harsh lines of Castle Warrick. He had never seen it from so close a vantage before, and the proximity was not flattering. It was an irregular-shaped creature with a rib cage of towers, rugged flanks and tiny, suspicious eyes barely wide enough to permit the sight of an archer. It hunkered behind a stinking moat, a vestige of a bloodier age when noble residences were required to serve as fortresses against would-be invaders. The drive seemed somehow to lead away from the castle, rather than toward, and the iron gates bristled with spikes. Lenoir had never seen a less welcoming structure in all his life. How fitting, he thought dryly.
“You a friend of His Grace’s?” the second guard asked, interrupting Lenoir’s thoughts.
Lenoir shook his head, and the guard snickered to himself. Lenoir realized the question had been sarcastic. “Something is amusing?” he asked coldly.
The guard smirked. “If His Grace has any friends, I don’t know ’em. We haven’t had a caller in weeks, and the last one was a messenger from the lord mayor.” He dropped his voice. “The duke is not the most social of chaps, in case you haven’t heard.”
“I am surprised you feel at your ease to express such an opinion.” Lenoir said it approvingly, in a manner designed to coax further offerings. The more he learned about his interview subject, the better.
“Have you ever met him?” the guard asked, as though that should explain it all.
“Once, at the inauguration of the new Metropolitan Police Station. We did not converse.” The rare appearance had been quite an honor for the chief. Lenoir recalled with no small amusement the sight of his superior strutting and mincing like a parade pony, simultaneously proud and deferential. The guest of honor, meanwhile, had been perfectly indifferent to the chief’s attentions. The duke had stood impassively while the lord mayor and the chief delivered their speeches, then retreated without so much as a farewell. His rudeness would have been remarked upon, had it been in any way remarkable for him.
“In that case,” said the guard, “you probably know him as well as anyone.”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“Not much. I’ve only met the man a handful of times myself. He never goes anywhere.” The guard jerked his thumb in a vaguely southerly direction. “I used to work over at Kirring Manor. You know the place?”
Lenoir nodded.
“Never a quiet moment over there. Balls, banquets, luncheons. When they wasn’t coming, they was going—ballet and opera and God knows what else. That’s how the highborn are supposed to live, you know?”
“Perhaps. But every man, no matter how ill-tempered, has friends, or at least business associates. You must have noticed people coming and going from here.” Adali, perhaps?
“Like I said, not many.” Dropping his voice conspiratorially, the guard added, “The duke’s got something of a stink on him, you know. That whole business with his family and whatnot.”
Lenoir did indeed know. The whole of the Five Villages knew. The Duke of Warrick was widely believed to have murdered his own wife in the heat of a jealous rage. So inflamed were his passions that he went on to murder his son, only to mourn the boy fiercely after the deed was done. Nothing had ever been proven, but the duke had hardly given the townsfolk reason to dismiss the tale. If anything, his reclusiveness, and his cold manner, only sealed his reputation as an antisocial creature capable of most anything. It was precisely those rumors that had drawn Lenoir to the duke’s gates.