it.
“Very well, Sergeant, stay with him. If he wakes within the next two hours, find out who did this to him. If he doesn’t, fetch a goddamn physician, will you?”
Innes grunted again as Lenoir shouldered past the surgeon, who was admiring his handiwork with a disturbingly satisfied grin.
• • •
Lord Feine kept Lenoir waiting for nearly an hour. It was possible he knew why the inspector had come and sought to avoid the interview altogether, but Lenoir thought it equally likely that Feine simply took pleasure in reminding his guests of his superior rank. In any case, his expression when he finally arrived showed neither nervousness nor smugness, but merely the sour look he always wore, as though nothing around him were quite to his liking.
“How good to see you, Inspector,” said Feine, his inflection utterly flat. He strode across the room to a handsome wingback chair near the hearth, his hand fluttering at Lenoir in an anemic invitation to sit. “Can I offer you some lunch?”
“Very kind, sir, but no, thank you. I’m afraid that I am not paying a social call.”
Feine arched a single finely trimmed eyebrow. “Indeed? Official business, then? How disturbing.” Lenoir judged that His Lordship would sound more disturbed if he had just located a hangnail. Feine produced his pipe, and Lenoir found himself staring for the second time at the family crest that ostentatiously adorned the bowl.
“There was a man beaten in the streets this morning, savagely so,” said Lenoir, studying Feine’s expression carefully.
The eyebrow leapt again. “Awful.”
“I believe you know the victim, since if I am not mistaken, he is a fellow parliamentarian. Arleas is his name.”
“Ah, yes,” said Feine, as though Lenoir had just correctly identified a species of plant. “I know him well. Splendid fellow.” He held Lenoir’s eye and said nothing more.
Lenoir knew already where all this would lead. Feine had not even bothered to inquire what any of this had to do with him, the way an innocent man, or a man inclined to pretend innocence, would do. Such confidence in a suspect could mean only one thing: he considered himself untouchable. Sometimes this was because the suspect believed there was no evidence to condemn him. More often, however, when it came to the nobility, it was because they were simply not afraid of whatever evidence there might be.
“I would like to show you something, Lord Feine,” said Lenoir, rising. “May I?” He took Feine’s silence for permission and approached. “This letter was found on the victim. It bears your seal, but I think it must have been written by someone else in the household. The handwriting is quite . . . feminine, wouldn’t you agree?”
Feine looked over the letter, and for the first time, his expression cracked. It was subtle—lips slightly pursed, nostrils flared almost imperceptibly—and it was gone in an instant. But it was enough for Lenoir. “I wonder, sir, if you are the sort of man to allow himself to be humiliated. I must say you do not seem to me such a man.”
Feine had mastered himself once again, and he smiled as he handed the letter back. “And you do not strike me as the sort of man whose lifestyle can be supported on the salary of an inspector. Men of such modest means do not often find themselves frequenting Lady Zera’s salon.”
There it was. Lenoir had seen it coming; Feine’s demeanor had told him to expect it.
A long silence followed, filled only with the wordless exchange of two men staring at each other. At length, Lenoir said, “Lady Zera’s is indeed a place of extravagance. One struggles to fit in.”
“I can imagine,” said Lord Feine with mock sympathy. “But one needn’t.”
Another stretch of silence. Finally, Lenoir turned and headed for the door. “I will consider the matter, Lord Feine. Until then, keep your men away from Arleas. I daresay even you would be hard-pressed to afford a murder
“Very well, Sergeant, stay with him. If he wakes within the next two hours, find out who did this to him. If he doesn’t, fetch a goddamn physician, will you?”
Innes grunted again as Lenoir shouldered past the surgeon, who was admiring his handiwork with a disturbingly satisfied grin.
• • •
Lord Feine kept Lenoir waiting for nearly an hour. It was possible he knew why the inspector had come and sought to avoid the interview altogether, but Lenoir thought it equally likely that Feine simply took pleasure in reminding his guests of his superior rank. In any case, his expression when he finally arrived showed neither nervousness nor smugness, but merely the sour look he always wore, as though nothing around him were quite to his liking.
“How good to see you, Inspector,” said Feine, his inflection utterly flat. He strode across the room to a handsome wingback chair near the hearth, his hand fluttering at Lenoir in an anemic invitation to sit. “Can I offer you some lunch?”
“Very kind, sir, but no, thank you. I’m afraid that I am not paying a social call.”
Feine arched a single finely trimmed eyebrow. “Indeed? Official business, then? How disturbing.” Lenoir judged that His Lordship would sound more disturbed if he had just located a hangnail. Feine produced his pipe, and Lenoir found himself staring for the second time at the family crest that ostentatiously adorned the bowl.
“There was a man beaten in the streets this morning, savagely so,” said Lenoir, studying Feine’s expression carefully.
The eyebrow leapt again. “Awful.”
“I believe you know the victim, since if I am not mistaken, he is a fellow parliamentarian. Arleas is his name.”
“Ah, yes,” said Feine, as though Lenoir had just correctly identified a species of plant. “I know him well. Splendid fellow.” He held Lenoir’s eye and said nothing more.
Lenoir knew already where all this would lead. Feine had not even bothered to inquire what any of this had to do with him, the way an innocent man, or a man inclined to pretend innocence, would do. Such confidence in a suspect could mean only one thing: he considered himself untouchable. Sometimes this was because the suspect believed there was no evidence to condemn him. More often, however, when it came to the nobility, it was because they were simply not afraid of whatever evidence there might be.
“I would like to show you something, Lord Feine,” said Lenoir, rising. “May I?” He took Feine’s silence for permission and approached. “This letter was found on the victim. It bears your seal, but I think it must have been written by someone else in the household. The handwriting is quite . . . feminine, wouldn’t you agree?”
Feine looked over the letter, and for the first time, his expression cracked. It was subtle—lips slightly pursed, nostrils flared almost imperceptibly—and it was gone in an instant. But it was enough for Lenoir. “I wonder, sir, if you are the sort of man to allow himself to be humiliated. I must say you do not seem to me such a man.”
Feine had mastered himself once again, and he smiled as he handed the letter back. “And you do not strike me as the sort of man whose lifestyle can be supported on the salary of an inspector. Men of such modest means do not often find themselves frequenting Lady Zera’s salon.”
There it was. Lenoir had seen it coming; Feine’s demeanor had told him to expect it.
A long silence followed, filled only with the wordless exchange of two men staring at each other. At length, Lenoir said, “Lady Zera’s is indeed a place of extravagance. One struggles to fit in.”
“I can imagine,” said Lord Feine with mock sympathy. “But one needn’t.”
Another stretch of silence. Finally, Lenoir turned and headed for the door. “I will consider the matter, Lord Feine. Until then, keep your men away from Arleas. I daresay even you would be hard-pressed to afford a murder
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