Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel (13 page)

Lideman blinked, half mollified, half curious. “Why is that?”

Lenoir was not inclined to explain himself. Unlike Lideman, he took no pleasure in edifying others; indeed, he found it reliably tedious. Kody, however, had a more generous nature. “Smothering isn’t the easiest or most reliable way of killing someone,” the sergeant explained. “It usually means the killer is hoping the crime will go unnoticed.”

“But smothering typically leaves well-defined bruises. You said so yourself.”

“But most murderers don’t know that,” Kody said. “They think what they’re doing is invisible.”

“Presumably, that rules out anyone with medical expertise,” Merden said. “They would know that smothering leaves traces, so they would at least have used a pillow.”

“Precisely,” said Lenoir, doing his best impersonation of Horst Lideman.

If the physician realized he was being mocked, he did not let on. He rubbed his chin, seemingly fascinated by this new discipline. “Interesting. So what else can you deduce?”

Kody was only too happy to oblige. He dropped to his
haunches to inspect the body, his invisible tail wagging again. “Well, it suggests that the murders weren’t planned, or at least not very well. Most likely a crime of opportunity.”

“Perfectly sound, Sergeant,” Lenoir said, “but not terribly useful, since we knew that already. The murders could not possibly have been planned in advance, since we selected the patients only hours before their deaths.”

“Meaning our murderer knew what we were up to, or had access to someone who did,” Kody said. “That ought to narrow the field.”

“Indeed. Aside from ourselves, Doctor, who knew about Oded’s treatments?”

“No one,” the physician said, “apart from myself and Sister Ora. I could hardly let it get about that I was permitting something like
that
.”

“Yourself and Sister Ora.” Lenoir arched an eyebrow. “Is that all? Are you not forgetting someone?”

Lideman looked lost, so Kody supplied the answer. “Your assistant.”

“Oh, yes! I’d quite forgotten . . .”

“Also the loved ones of the patients themselves,” Merden added.

“Unlikely,” said Lenoir. “The patients were already terminal. If a family member had wanted one of them dead, they need only have refused treatment.”

“And anyway, there were four of them,” Kody pointed out, “with no connection to each other except the disease and the treatment.”

Lenoir started back toward the pestilence tents. He had seen all he needed to, and had no desire to prolong his exposure to the corpses. “I will need to speak with Sister Ora and your assistant immediately,” he said.

Lideman frowned, but he nodded. “And the bodies?”

“You are free to dispose of them.”

The physician signaled to the gravediggers, and they
resumed their grim task. Lenoir could not help wondering how many men it took to keep up with the deluge of death. The three he had observed were only part of the crew; others had been hard at work farther down the trench, expanding the pit. And Lideman had mentioned a second trench, identical to this one, on the far side of the encampment.
They will have to begin burning soon,
Lenoir thought,
pestilent air or not.

Lideman conducted them back to his office, where he left them while he searched for his assistant. “He’s dealing with this pretty well, considering,” Kody said.

“Do not forget, Sergeant, it was Lideman who first theorized that the plague had been started deliberately. Murder is quite pedestrian in comparison.”

“Maybe,” Kody said, “but it’s also pretty crafty, when you think about it. If Merden and Oded hadn’t treated that fifth patient in secret, we might never have noticed anything was wrong.”

Lenoir paused.
The fifth patient.
He had forgotten all about it. “Merden, should we not have checked whether the fifth patient showed the same bruising pattern?”

A clever smile tugged at the soothsayer’s mouth. “There was no fifth patient, Inspector.”

“Pardon?”

“It appeared you needed additional convincing, so I offered a scenario. I did say
hypothetically
.”

“Wait—are you saying you made it up?” Kody stared, incredulous. “But if there was no fifth patient, how did you know it was murder?”

“It was the only explanation.”

“Hardly,” Lenoir said. “There were, in fact, a number of explanations, of which murder was by no means the most plausible.”

The soothsayer shrugged. “I had . . . What do you southerners call it? A
hunch
.”

Kody shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“I will not apologize for it, Sergeant. We are now
virtually certain it was murder, which means that Oded’s treatment may well have worked. That gives us hope.”

“It gives us more than that,” Lenoir said, his irritation easily eclipsed by something much more important. At last, they had the scent of their quarry.

At last, they had a lead.

T
he kid looked like he was going to cry.

Kody wasn’t sure what Lideman had told him, but the assistant obviously knew why he’d been summoned. His eyes were downcast as he entered the tent, and his thin shoulders trembled. When Lideman gestured for him to sit, he obeyed silently, without asking any questions. He definitely looked guilty. The question was, guilty of what? He weighed maybe ninety pounds with a full belly, and he had the pale, soft-looking hands of a scribe. Kody had a hard time believing the young man was capable of anything more sinister than squashing a spider.

Lenoir sat behind Lideman’s desk, watching, his gaze taking silent inventory of everything.
What does he see?
Kody wondered. The guilty look, certainly. The soft hands and the trembling shoulders too. Was there anything else, something Kody might have missed? Kody caught himself squinting, and he felt foolish. The assistant was no more than three feet away; anything there was to see was right there in front of him. Besides, Lenoir’s genius wasn’t really in close observation (though he was no slouch). It was in making sense of what he
did
see, assembling it all into a meaningful whole. He didn’t get attached to this theory or that, didn’t obsess over every little detail. He
gathered, he analyzed, he explained.
He’s gathering now,
Kody thought, studying the way Lenoir sat in silence, staring at the assistant, letting the tension build. Lenoir was a master of silence. It was his shield and his weapon, and Kody had never seen anyone wield it more effectively.

When at last Lenoir spoke, he didn’t go for the throat straightaway; he circled his prey instead. “What is your name?” he asked the young man.

“Brice,” Lideman supplied. Since Lenoir had taken the liberty of installing himself behind the desk, the physician was reduced to hovering in the corner with Kody and Merden. “His name is Brice Wenderling.” The introduction was delivered with an accusing scowl—directed not at Lenoir, but at Brice himself.

Interesting.
Kody has assumed that Lideman would be protective of his assistant, and continue to play the role of the skeptic. Instead, it seemed that young Brice’s flinching manner had dismissed any doubt in the physician’s mind, as it had in Kody’s, that his assistant had done something wrong.

Lenoir glanced up at Lideman, annoyed. “From this point on, I should be grateful if Brice answered the questions himself.” He returned his gaze to the assistant. “You know why you are here, Brice, do you not?”

“Yes, sir.” The young man spoke to his lap.

“You gave someone information about the treatments the Adali healer was administering.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lideman made a disgusted sound. “Brice, how
could
you? The confidence of a patient—”

“Doctor,” said Lenoir, “if you interrupt again, I will have you ejected.”

Lideman blinked. “This is
my
office!”

Lenoir ignored him. He let the silence settle again, then asked, “Whom did you speak to, Brice, and what did you tell him?”

For a long moment, the young man just sat there,
head bowed, shoulders shaking. A tear worked its way down his left cheek. Kody found himself feeling sorry for the kid. Sorry and angry and maybe even a little guilty for not picking up on the signs. The kid had been entirely too curious yesterday. He should have noticed that.

The whole thing gave him a headache.

Lenoir, though, was unmoved. “A name
,
Brice. Now.”

“Burell. He didn’t tell me his first name. He said he was . . .” The young man paused, gazing ruefully into nothingness. “It sounds so stupid now . . .”

“Go on.”

“He said he was with one of the newspapers. The
Herald
, I think. He was doing a story on the plague, and he—he wanted to know why the Metropolitan Police were hanging around.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him . . .” Brice shot a guilty glance at Lideman. “I told him the College thought the plague had been started on purpose.”

Lideman growled under his breath. “Of all the foolish . . .”

“I thought it would help!” The young man swiveled in his chair to plead with his employer. “I thought maybe, if he printed that, maybe somebody saw something, and they could report it! The hounds are so busy at the barricades, and on the river . . . I thought they wouldn’t have time to ask around. I only wanted to help, Doctor!”

“If you truly wish to help,” Lenoir said, “you will save your protestations for later, and focus on the matter at hand. This Burell—when did he first approach you?”

“Two days ago.”

Lenoir sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Take me through it. Spare no detail. He approaches you, introduces himself. What does he look like?”

Brice considered. “About forty, I guess. Dark hair. Average height. He asked me—”

“No. We are not through with the physical description. What else can you recall?”

“Er . . .” Brice gazed at him helplessly.

Lenoir sighed. “Any distinctive markings? Scars? Tattoos?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Was he fit?”

“He looked pretty strong, yeah.”

“Pale skin, or tan?”

“Tan, I guess.”

“Accent?”

“I . . . Pardon?”

Lenoir opened his eyes just enough to give the young man a flat look. “His accent, Brice. What did it sound like? Was he Braelish?”

“Yes.”

“Kennian?”

“Definitely.”

“Morningside or Evenside?”

“Dockside.”

Lenoir grunted. “Not educated, then.”

Brice blinked, as though someone had just snapped his fingers in front of his face. “I guess not, now that you mention it.”

Couldn’t have been a reporter then, could he?
Kody rubbed his temples. People were so thick sometimes.

Lenoir must have been feeling generous, because he let it pass without comment. He just closed his eyes and said, “Continue.”

“He asked me if I could comment on the treatment, how it was going. At first I gave him the usual answer—that we were making progress, doing what we could and all that. Then he asked why the hounds were coming around the pestilence houses day after day. I said they were—you were—trying to find out if maybe someone had started the plague deliberately.”

Lenoir grunted. “How did he react to that news? Did he seem surprised?”

“Maybe not as surprised as you’d expect,” Brice said in a tone that implied he’d thought as much at the time.
Probably disappointed that his gossip wasn’t quite as explosive as he’d hoped,
Kody thought.

“What else did you tell him?”

“I said you were onto a new treatment, maybe even a cure. I thought that might give people hope, you know? So I told him about the Adali healer.” The young man’s gaze darted fearfully to Merden, as though he thought the soothsayer might turn him into a lizard. “He said his readers would be interested in that. He asked me to tell him how the treatment went.” Brice’s voice started to tremble. “So I did. Except I couldn’t tell him much, because we didn’t really know for sure. The witchdoctor said they would recover, and that’s what I told Burell. I never thought . . . How could I know he was going to . . . ?” He trailed off, overcome.

“When and where did you last see him?” Lenoir asked. “I need you to be as specific as possible.”

Brice swallowed hard. “Last night, just before dark. It was near the treatment tent. I watched him walk away, back toward the main road. I guess he must have come back . . .”

“Kody.” Lenoir opened his eyes and straightened. “Find a watchman and have him ride back to Kennian. Tell him to fetch our best sketch artist.”

“On it.”

“I didn’t know,” Brice said, turning again to look at Lideman. The boy’s eyes were red and pleading. “Until you told me a few minutes ago, Doctor, I swear to you, I didn’t know.”

Lideman just shook his head and said nothing.

Kody started for the tent flap, but he found his path blocked by Sister Ora. “Janice said you wanted to see me, Doctor?”

“I asked for you, Sister,” Lenoir said. “Please, come in.”

The nun approached with a bemused expression, taking in the strange sight of Lideman ejected from his own desk and young Brice weeping openly in a chair. “What’s happened?”

Lenoir ignored the question. “Sister, did you at any time observe Brice here conversing with a man called Burell, who claimed to work for the
Herald
?”

“I’m not sure. What did he look like?”

“I introduced you,” Brice said. “The dark-haired man with the ledger. I didn’t say who he worked for.”

Ora nodded. “I remember.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Lenoir asked.

“Just hello. I was too busy to chat.”

“And was that the only time you saw him?”

“Well, no. He was around for most of the day yesterday. He kept out of the way, and I suppose we all assumed he was with Brice, so no one asked him to leave. Why, has something happened? Has he stolen something?”

“He has murdered someone, in fact,” Lenoir said, his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched her reaction.

Ora’s hand flew to her mouth. “God have mercy! How awful! Who?”

She didn’t know,
Kody decided. Lenoir thought so too; Kody could tell by the way he nodded.

“And you’re sure it was that man, the one Brice was talking to? Why, I only just saw him this morning!”

Lenoir leaned forward. “Wait. You saw him this morning? At what time?”

“A little over an hour ago.”

Kody and Lenoir exchanged a look. An hour ago, they’d been on their way to examine the bodies.
Why would he be hanging around after committing murder? Why risk getting caught?
The answer came to Kody almost instantly. “He wanted to see if we would figure it out.”

“And we did,” said Merden. “He must have realized
that we suspected something when he saw us heading out to the graves.”

Lenoir shot to his feet. “Oded is in danger.”

“Oded?” Kody frowned, bemused.

“
Fool!
I should have seen this coming!” Lenoir was already halfway to the door.

Kody started to ask why, but thought better of it. Seeking an explanation would only earn him another dose of contempt, and the inspector probably wouldn’t answer anyway.
Think it through,
he told himself as he followed Lenoir outside.

Those people were murdered so it would look like Oded’s treatment didn’t work. Whoever killed them didn’t want Lideman and the other physicians to think there was a cure, because if there
was
a cure, then the plague could be stopped.
That means our killer is almost certainly the one who started the plague.
Fine—he’d figured that much out already.

Lenoir paused at the edge of the pestilence houses, seemingly undecided about whether to go back to the barricades for a horse or make the journey on foot. He chose the latter, breaking into a jog as he headed up the main road. Kody was grateful; he didn’t fancy trying to navigate around these crowds with a horse. Besides, if they hurried, they should reach Oded’s tent in about twenty minutes, and it would take half that time to reach the barricade.

Kody continued to mull it over as he ran. The exertion was making his head pound, but he had to stay focused.

So things are going fine for our killer until the hounds show up. They start asking questions. They obviously think something’s up, but they can’t prove it—so far, so good.
But then Lenoir decided to involve an Adali witchdoctor, introducing a complication. The killer was forced to improvise.
So he decides to make it look like the treatment doesn’t work. All he has to do is discredit the witchdoctor, and he’s back on track.
Except things didn’t go to
plan. The killer
hadn’t
managed to discredit Oded, because Merden had proved that the victims were murdered. If anything, the fact that the killer had gone to the trouble lent credence to the idea that Oded’s treatment worked. Instead of undermining the witchdoctor, the killer had unwittingly boosted his reputation.

Which means Oded is still a threat.

The killer had gone the soft route the first time around. It didn’t take much to murder people who were already dying, especially if you were the sort of madman who would start a plague on purpose. More importantly, if he succeeded, nobody would be the wiser. But now his cover was blown, and he had no choice but to go the more extreme route.

Lenoir was right: Oded was in trouble. Big trouble. And he was the only one who knew the cure. If they didn’t get there in time . . .

Kody pushed himself into a flat-out sprint.