Amanda pulled at a thread on her handkerchief, half unraveling the hem. "Why haven't they come back? It has been so long."
She must have spoken aloud because Nanny looked up from her knitting. "Long? It has only been an hour, dearie."
The Bow Street building was crowded, noisy, dirty, and the people there were more discourteous than Rex was used to as a dignified gentleman or as a military officer. No one dropped what he was doing to rush to Rex's assistance. No one stood or saluted. Everyone seemed too busy solving crimes or planning new ways to commit them. Rex appreciated the industriousness of the office, if not the wait until someone directed him toward the back of the long room.
He tried to close his mind to the clashing colors of outright lies and half-truths as he walked past rows of pickpockets and prostitutes to where Harrison's friend, Inspector Dimm, rated a private cubbyhole. A very young assistant working at a battered desk outside the door directed Rex to knock, then enter the tiny office that contained two chairs, a desk, and files and folders stacked floor to ceiling.
Inspector Dimm was old, with no pretense of being anything else. What hair he had was grizzled gray, his hands had age spots, and his face was creased with lines of experience. His body had lost its shape to good eating and a lot of sitting.
Dimm took his stockinged feet off the desk, the unlit pipe out of his mouth, and heaved himself out of his chair to welcome Rex. As soon as he heard Rex's name, before reading Harrison's letter, he was beaming like a boy with a new pony on Christmas morning. His eyes twinkled, and Rex thought he might have rubbed his hands together in glee if they were not filled with his pipe and the letter.
"I was hoping Himself could convince you to stop by," the Runner said, offering Rex a glass of ale and the other chair, once it was cleared of yet more papers and reward posters. "Just put them on the floor. And do forgive my bare feet, my lord. Or is it Captain? Two many years walking the streets as a Runner, don't you know."
"Rexford will do," Rex said, unwilling to meet the other man's friendliness and familiarity.
Dimm noticed the lack of warmth in his guest as he filled two glasses. "I suppose Harris had to twist your arm?"
"Do you speak of Harrison?"
"The chap has many names, many enemies, and many ways of solving problems, thank goodness."
"His ways are not always aboveboard." Or else Rex would not be here now.
"With the weight of the world on his shoulders, how can he worry over minor details?"
This told Rex much about Dimm's flexible notions of justice and law enforcement. While Dimm found a pair of spectacles under the papers and read Harrison's note, Rex's uneasiness grew at the idea of being associated with yet another authority who believed the ends justified the means.
After asking Rex's approval, Dimm relit his pipe and puffed for a moment to get it going. Then he sighed in contentment. "I am deuce glad you came, Captain. We are overwhelmed. The criminals are beginning to outnumber the law abiders, it seems."
"I am interested in one particular case that-"
Dimm set his spectacles back on the desk. "He says to trust your findings. I tell my trainees that an officer of the law has to keep an open mind, to consider every possibility, to look at the facts from every direction, and then trust his own instincts. No explanation for a man's instincts, eh? And no way to prove they work, either. But now you are adding a scientific bent from your research with the army. Facts and figures don't lie, eh? All in black and white."
Not quite, but close.
"Excellent. The world is a better place for the new sciences."
Science? There was no science to the magic of truth-seeing. It was simply there. But Rex was saved having to lie,
"The letter also says not to discuss your work with anyone."
Thank goodness. "Major Harrison, or Mr. Harris, considers that spies and assassins are everywhere. This new, ah, science could be a target."
"Hm. He might have a point, if word got out that honesty was measurable, like time. There are people whose livelihoods depend on bending the truth."
Rex thought about the spymaster. "Or hiding it."
Dimm changed the subject. "My superiors do not approve of beating confessions out of suspects, you know."
So he had heard the rumors, the damning reports of Rex's military career as an interrogator and gatherer of the enemy's secrets. Rex supposed everyone knew of the feared Inquisitors. "Nor do I."
"Good, good. As long as we are in agreement, then, let us see what you can do, eh? Then we can decide how best to use your skills."
He called out for Clarence to bring in Nate the Skate. While they waited, Inspector Dimm explained that Clarence was one of his grandnephews. "Although the devil if I can remember which nevey's son he is. I train up a lot of the family. Letting Bow Street give them a salary is easier than paying their room and board myself. Asides, I always say that if you want to see the job done right, use your own relations. The trustworthy ones, at any rate."
Rex's father would approve. Out of politeness and a little curiosity, Rex asked the inspector if he had a big family.
"More than I can keep track of. It's a mixed blessing, never a Sunday without an invite for supper. Never a moment when some whelp isn't sleeping on my couch or some gal isn't getting wed or giving birth. They always expect gifts, don't you know. What of yourself?"
"I just have my father and two cousins."
"No wife?"
A gleam came to the old man's eyes that reminded Rex of the French soldiers, before they shot at him. "Not yet. I have been off to war."
"Quite right, not leaving a poor lass behind to fret. What of your mother?"
Rex did not count the countess as kin. He shook his head, no. He doubted she cared enough to worry.
Dimm must have misunderstood because he said, "My beloved wife, may she rest in peace, had a score of brothers and sisters herself. So did I, so there is no dearth of new recruits to train every year."
Before Rex had to correct Dimm's assumption, young Clarence came back with a small man in scuffed boots and tattered frieze jacket, his hands cuffed behind his back. Dimm waved Rex to the corner of the room.
"Now Nate, I am going to ask you a few simple questions and I want you to answer honestly."
"I did it."
"Dash it, Nate, I haven't asked the question yet. Did you break into the warehouse on Donegal Street?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
Behind Nate's back, Rex shook his head, no. The man had lied.
"What about the robbery at Lord Peckenham's?"
"I did that one, too. Got a satchel full of silver. Platters, the tea set, spoons."
Rex saw nothing but red. He did not understand why the man confessed to crimes he did not commit.
"Because he'd be on the street otherwise," Dimm said after Nate was led away, "cold and hungry and in constant danger from the other alley dwellers. He comes in once a week, confesses to some crime that made a splash in the newspapers. We give him a hot meal and let him sleep in one of the empty cells. No harm done."
But a lot of kindness. Rex relaxed. "So did I pass the test?"
"That was too easy, I am thinking. Clarence, bring in Butts."
The next suspect was not half as innocent as Nate the Skate. Butts was a surly dockworker with tattoos everywhere his clothes weren't. He spit at Dimm's feet when the inspector asked if the man had killed his partner.
"No."
Rex knew instantly that the man was lying, but tried to appear as if he were studying Butts's mannerisms. There was not much to study in "No."