Brian McClellan - Murder at the Kinnen Hotel

“I’ve nothing to say to you,” White said.

“I wasn’t bribed,” Adamat said. “I swear this to you. And even if I was, would it matter to our investigation? I can still help you!”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes,” Adamat said, “you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come to me in the first place.”

White’s brisk pace increased. “It’s not about being bribed. It’s that you have vested interest in steering my attention back to the murder at the Kinnen Hotel, something I’ve expressed to you in no uncertain terms I will not become involved with.”

“But I don’t have vested interest, I wasn’t … “ Adamat stifled a shout. As White said, she didn’t care whether or not he had been bribed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that they were growing near to White’s cab. He had the feeling that if he tried to get inside with her he would get himself gutted.

“Look,” he said, “whether or not you believe Aleksandre’s accusations-which, I might add, are all too damn convenient coming after I visited his cousin-our search does have to do with the murder at the Kinnen Hotel. It began there, it will end there. There is something far bigger at work that includes Ricard Tumblar’s attempts at unionization. If we only catch the powder mage and do nothing about the root of the problem, Walis Kemptin and his family will continue to make a mockery of our laws, of the king, of the cabal!”

White stopped walking and slowly turned toward Adamat. “You still have no first-hand evidence that connects the Kemptin family to any of this. Perhaps it aligns with their interests, but that does not prove anything.”

Adamat said, “Listen to me for just another minute. Let me show you something intriguing and if it doesn’t catch your interest I will walk away immediately.” He hefted the book in his arms.

“Where did you get that?”

“I stole it from the Public Archives about twenty minutes ago.”

White’s eyes were cold and calculating. She produced a pocket watch and sprang the lid with her thumb. “You have fifty-five seconds left.”

Adamat opened the book, flipping through the pages as fast as he could. He found the right one and then drew a finger down it, searching for a name. “Genetrie Kemptin,” he said, “is the name of a cousin of the Kemptin family, four times removed from the main branch. Her name doesn’t appear in the official family tree, but it does show up in the Family Codex, which is right here in my hand. Her father was a disgrace, all but disowned by the main family.”

He showed White the entry in the Family Codex, then closed the book and shifted it to one arm, removing several newspapers from his pocket. “If you’ll look here, on the very last page, in very small letters, it announces tomorrow’s execution of Genetrie Kemptin, a distant relative of the Kemptin family, for the murder of her master the Viscount Brezé.”

“You have ten seconds,” White said.

Adamat shifted to the second paper. “Four days ago, in the Adran Herald , which is not owned by any of the Kemptin family’s allies, the Viscount Brezé announced his intention to support Ricard Tumblar’s bid for the legalization of unions in the House of Nobles. That,” Adamat slapping the paper with the back of his hand, “cannot be a coincidence!”

“Your time is up,” White said, closing her pocket watch with a click.

“If the Kemptin family is willing to order one of their own cousins to murder a viscount in cold blood, they would be willing to hire a powder mage to frame a competing businessman. They will go to any lengths to protect their interests and that has to catch the interest of the royal cabal!” Adamat could hear the desperation in his own voice as he finished talking. White’s eyes remained cold, her demeanor unconvinced.

Slowly, as if with great regret, she took the paper from his hands. Her eyes scanned the article announcing Viscount Brezé’s intentions.

“Why,” she asked, “would a distant cousin of the Kemptin family commit a crime that sends her to the guillotine?”

“Her execution isn’t until tomorrow,” Adamat said. “Let’s go ask her.”

White handed the paper back to Adamat. “Return the codex to the Public Archives,” she said.

“Of course.”

“You have my attention, Adamat. Let us pray you keep it.”

“I have nothing more to say to the police.”

Genetrie Kemptin was a stout woman in her mid-twenties. She had a round face and thick, powerful arms, and she still wore the soiled uniform of a Brezé family servant. Her cell in Sablethorn was tiny, hardly bigger than an outdoor privy. Adamat and White had to stand in the hallway, talking to her through the cell bars.

“I think you do,” Adamat said gently.

Genetrie sat in the dirty straw on the floor, shoulder toward them, staring straight ahead at the wall. There were bruises on her faces and arms, likely from Lieutenant Dorry’s “interrogation.”

“I do not.”

“We can help you,” Adamat said.

“If you please,” she said, “I will face my sentence with some dignity.”

Adamat could see no hope in her eyes. No interest in talking or begging for a stay of execution. This, he realized, was a woman who already considered herself dead. He put his back to the wall of the prison hallway and sank down to sit in the filth on the floor. What were his options? Was he going to open the cell and beat the woman until she confessed to, what? Brezé’s murder? She’d already done that.

“It’s interesting,” he said, “that your execution was scheduled so swiftly. These things normally take months of sitting around in prison, even after the sentence has been passed. What has it been, three days since you bludgeoned the viscount to death?”

“He was a vile man and got what he deserved.”

“Perhaps he did,” Adamat said. “But even nobles often have to wait weeks to see a judge and weeks after that for their sentence to be handed out. You must have powerful friends indeed to receive such swift treatment.” He looked over at White, who stood against the opposite wall, watching Genetrie through the bars. She didn’t look to be in a patient mood.

Genetrie stiffened. “I don’t have any friends. If I did, do you think I would be facing the guillotine tomorrow?”

“Family, then.”

“My family doesn’t care about me.”

Adamat looked up at the prison ceiling. Black stone, cut in immense slabs, weighty and oppressive for anyone unlucky enough to be put in these lower cells. Genetrie’s swift execution was no doubt phrased as some sort of a gift, so that she wouldn’t have to rot in the cells, when in fact it was convenience for the Kemptin family to get her out of the way so much sooner.

“I’m a policeman, you know,” Adamat said.

“Yes, you told me that when you came in.”

Adamat climbed to his feet. “I do have some powerful friends,” he lied. “Your situation intrigues me. I believe I can have your execution put off for at least six months.”

There was a sound inside the cell as Genetrie scrambled to the bars. “No,” she said, pressing her face against them. “I cannot live like that. Please don’t do it.”

“It’s for your own good,” Adamat said. “It’ll give you another chance at life and give you more opportunity to think about what else you have to tell us.”

Adamat had never seen so much anguish on a person’s face before, and he knew it was going to keep him awake for many nights. But he needed to do this. For his own career, for Ricard’s life, and to find justice for Melany.

“There’s nothing else,” Genetrie said, the words coming out a whimper. She slid down the bars and rested her face against their base. “So be it,” she whispered.