The Policeman of Secrets

Chapter 7 Part 3

Once Thwaite was broken, it took less time than Elizabeta had expected to learn all his secrets.

They came pouring out in his desperation to alleviate the unbearable pain of the Mesh. Each time he threatened to quieten, Elizabeta motioned for Maximilian to increase the heat, prompting fresh moaning and cries from the stricken man. Mara sat still all the while, her only expression one of disdained amusement.

In just a short while, Elizabeta learned more than could have imagined about the city’s streetwalkers, brothel-keepers, and courtesans, as Thwaite seemed to unburden himself of all the information he had gathered over the years.

The problem was that his agony was so great that he simply said anything he thought she wanted to hear to end his torment. So it took some vigorous questioning before she was able to interrupt his ramblings long enough to discover all he knew of this Wendy Armistead—or, as she now knew, Lily Munro. The Arcanum’s network of spies and Assembly-controlled informants had already passed on details of some of the woman’s friends and associates, who were all undergoing questioning. But only Thwaite, it appeared, had studied her long enough to know of the two apartments she kept that she thought were a secret from prying eyes. He had also learnt some of her habits that were unknown to her fellow prostitutes, from her love of sailing on the Thames to her fondness for collecting flowers. Perhaps, Elizabeta thought, she kept such passions private as a way of holding on to some hidden portion of herself when all else was for sale. God knows, I do the same.

The most useful revelation came moments before Thwaite blacked out. “The c-circus,” he said, grimacing at the constant pain which Elizabeta ensured was reduced when he cooperated, but never removed. “She’s in the c-circus.”

“How interesting. What does she do there, pray? Show off her body in an entertaining way? Nudity and whoring for all the family?”

“Magic. Magic.”

Elizabeta’s curiosity was piqued. Perhaps tonight’s torture had not been so tedious, after all. “Tell me, at which circus would we find this marvelous creature?”

“Masquerade. Moon.” Thwaite took a deep breath. “The Masquerade of the Moon.”

Elizabeta savored the information, then nodded to Maximilian and Mara. “Finish him.”

Laughing, they leapt to their feet with their cruelest knives in their hands, and slashed and stabbed at their now-unconscious prisoner.

Elizabeta turned away. Murder never disgusted her; only the kind of butchery that was filling the room with the stench of bloody flesh.

Her eye was caught by one of Thwaite’s paintings, lying alone in a corner. From Lord Stone’s description of his missing girl who asked too many questions, it was clear that Thwaite had captured Lily Munro in all her beauty. The watercolor showed her staring through a window at a sun-filled landscape. She was as attractive as Stone had implied, but her expression in the picture was one of fear and concern, perhaps the face of somebody who thought she had revealed too much of herself.

Good, thought Elizabeta. You should be afraid, my sweet. She spared the twins a brief glance as they hacked Thwaite’s head from his shoulders amid crazed giggles, then she put the painting under her arm as she strode away. She hated to see good talent wasted.

The sun was rising, creating a beautiful winter’s day, as Lily began her tale. Exhausted, she had pleaded for Solomon’s patience before she would explain Balthazar’s hatred of his sister, so they had fallen asleep. She was in the cozy bed while he took the chaise longue, mindful of her injuries and unwilling to appear presumptuous. She may have been a prostitute, used to sharing a bed for a few pounds, but it felt wrong to lie beside her. She smiled at his shy protestations, but said no more about the issue.