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I don’t want to go back in there. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the torch someone thrusts at me. Montcuir also gestures to the stranger. “Simon, you come, too.”
The young man balks. “Why?”
“You know why.”
I’m confused. The comte has been provost of Collis for over two decades, while this Simon doesn’t even look to have twenty years in age. What does Montcuir think the young man can observe that he cannot?
Simon’s pale eyes spark in anger, and his face twists in defiance before suddenly going blank again. Then he steps forward, his movements stiff and mechanical. I let him go ahead of me, wanting any excuse to keep my distance from the body. Madame Emeline also follows, and no one tries to prevent her. The alley feels darker than before, even with the light I carry.
Comte de Montcuir stops next to Perrete’s still form, which lies under a dingy linen sheet soaked with rainwater and blood. Bright red spots spread out from her middle and face. “Who covered the body?” he asks.
“I did,” says Emeline. “You’ll shortly see why.”
Montcuir leans down to fling the sheet aside. Though much of the blood has washed away, Perrete’s ravaged features are just as horrible as before. I don’t expect much of a reaction from a veteran of the Second War of the Eclipse, but the comte seems shocked.
Simon barely flinches.
No one moves for several seconds. “Well?” Montcuir finally says as he stands straight. “What do you think, Simon?”
“She’s dead,” he replies dully.
“And?” The comte crosses his arms. “Is this madness or something much simpler?”
There’s a long pause, during which neither Madame Emeline nor I breathe. “Yes,” answers Simon quietly. “This was done by a madman.”
Emeline exhales in relief, but I don’t see how the acknowledgment changes anything.
Without another word, Comte de Montcuir turns and stalksback to the street. The madam is on his heels, and I rush to follow, immediately returning the torch to the man who gave it to me. Simon lags behind and stops at the entrance of the alley, as though to block the way.
Outside, the comte’s adult sons are just arriving. The older, Lambert, is about Simon’s height, and he propels the much stockier Oudin along with a firm grip on his arm. Once they’re in the cleared area, Oudin jerks his elbow free from Lambert’s hold and stumbles another step before catching his balance.
“I was coming,” he growls. His clothes and breath reek of alcohol from several feet away. Oudin is nearly always drunk and almost as often belligerent.
“Not fast enough,” says Lambert calmly. I’ve never heard him raise his voice before, and tonight is no exception. “Father said we were to hurry.”
“Yes,” says Montcuir sourly. “You weren’t at home when I left; where were you?”
“Enjoying the pleasures of the night.” Oudin has no shame. Half a decade separates him from his older brother, but in maturity they’re a lifetime apart.
Simon sighs. “Why did you bring Juliane, Cousin?”
The comte’s daughter stands behind her brothers with a brass lantern in her frail hands and a guilty countenance on her face. Lady Juliane’s loose overdress was obviously thrown over her nightgown, making her barely presentable. Auburn hair hangs in damps strings over her shoulders, and purplish circles ring her brown eyes like deep bruises in her painfully thin face. I haven’t seen her in months, but her appearance makes me think she’s been ill. Eight years ago she was considered one of the greatest beauties in all of Gallia. Now, at twenty-four, spinsterhood would appear to be her fate.
Lambert frowns at Simon’s question. “She was already awake. I didn’t want to leave her alone.”
“What’s happened?” says Oudin. “I heard someone was dead.”
“Perrete Charpentier has been slain,” hisses Madame Emeline. “Murdered and left to rot in an alley.”
Almost all color drains from Oudin’s face, leaving two clownish splotches of crimson on his cheeks—evidence that he’s not just been drinking, he’s been usingskonia. Not as a smoke, however. He can afford a concentrated powder either sniffed or placed under the tongue. “Perrete?” he whispers in a strangled voice. “That’s not possible.”
“How is that not possible?” demands the comte. “Were you with her tonight?”
Oudin closes his mouth and tries to swallow. After several seconds of struggle, he nods. “Yes,” he admits. “But… not in that way. And she left me hours ago saying she’d meet me later, but she never came back.”
An alarm louder than the Sanctum’s largest bell rings in my head. It’s obvious Perrete visited Magister Thomas in that time, but does Oudin know that?
Montcuir glances around, no doubt noting the suspicious looks being cast on his younger son. He sets his jaw. “A formal inquiry will be opened immediately.”
The crowd shifts and murmurs. Murder of a prostitute isn’t generally considered worthy of such attention, but the nature of this crime and the comte’s son’s possible involvement have apparently changed that.
“Simon of Mesanus.” Montcuir pauses dramatically as he turns to face him, and the young man tenses like he wants to flee. “You will conduct this investigation.”
“Why me?” he spits back. “I have no official position in Collis.”
“No, but I’m the one who assigns such offices.” The comte turns away, waving his hand dismissively as he steps off, clearly done with the situation. “Put your experience to use.”
Madame Emeline frowns at Simon. “What reason could the comte have for giving you this task, sir?”
Simon’s fists clench like he’s gripping the rails of a ship in a storm as he glowers at the provost’s back. “Because I’m the resident expert in madness,” he whispers ruefully.
