Brian McClellan: Murder at the Kinnen Hotel

Twenty-two years before the events of Promise of Blood…

Adamat trudged through the slush and snow of the streets and onto the shoveled walkway that led up to the home of the Viscount Brezé. The four-story townhome in the Samalian district was surrounded by a ten-foot wrought iron fence, the tiny yard blanketed in snow.

Half a dozen constables swarmed the street in front of the townhome, and there were probably twice that number inside. Two large police wagons were parked in the street, creating a blockage that only encouraged the growing crowd of onlookers.

Subtlety , Adamat reflected, was not a quality of the Adopest police of the First Precinct.

His old precinct would never have been so sloppy. He’d have to mention it to the captain. A word to the drivers, instructing them to park out of traffic, was all it would take. He stepped inside and removed his overcoat and hat, shaking off the melted snow before handing them to the butler.

“Who are you?” the butler asked, more than a little hostile. “No one else is allowed. Everyone is already tramping in and out and the lady of the house-”

“My name,” Adamat cut him off, “is Special Detective Constable Adamat. I’m here at the bequest of the captain of the precinct. Kindly point me to the crime scene.”

The butler’s mouth snapped shut and formed into a hard line. He took Adamat’s hat and cane and pointed down the hall. “The dining room.”

Adamat cursed himself for a fool as he proceeded onward. He should have let the butler finish his sentence. The lady of the house was in a rage? Grieving? Ambivalent? It would have given him more information to go on, even if only to give him the slightest sense of the politics of the household. And politics there would be. For every noble that plays his or her games in the greater arena of Adran politics, there was an entire household where similar games played out every day on a smaller scale.

Sometimes, as was the case this morning, they led to murder.

He blamed his short temper on the weather and slipped between two constables gawking at the dining room entrance, pausing just inside to slip the handkerchief out of his pocket and hold it over his nose.

He’d seen worse crime scenes in his young career with the Adopest police, but not many.

Viscount Brezé had been a tall, slender man in his thirties, prematurely bald with a mustache grown long to cover a protruding upper lip. He lay near the cold fireplace, sprawled facedown in a dark red splotch on the rug. Blood, brain, and bits of his skull were scattered across half the dining room.

Adamat examined the scene, casting the entire thing to memory in the blink of an eye using his Knack-a minor sorcery that allowed him to remember absolutely everything-and wondered how any police investigator got on without such a tool.

He noted the bloody frying pan discarded in the corner and the gore-slick candlestick next to the body.

A middle-aged man with a narrow waist and square shoulders knelt over the viscount’s body. Like Adamat, he wore a brown suit jacket and matching vest and pants instead of the black and silver of the Adopest police, but his presence and the scrutiny with which he examined the body was enough to surmise his identity.

“Lieutenant Dorry?” Adamat asked.

“That’s me,” Dorry responded. He gestured to the two constables in the doorway without looking up. “Let’s get him turned over, shall we?” he said.

“Wait for a moment,” Adamat said. “I’d like a few moments with the body before it’s disturbed.”

Dorry looked up sourly. “And you are?”

“Special Detective Constable Adamat.”

“Oh. You .” Dorry sniffed. “You came over from the Twelfth Precinct with the new captain?”

“I did,” Adamat responded. “The captain sent me this morning as soon as I arrived. I can take over from here.”

Dorry looked up at the two constables with an exasperated expression of disbelief. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” Adamat answered, trying not to let his annoyance show. Everyone always wanted to bring up his age. Age didn’t matter more than it was an indication of experience, and Adamat had more investigative experience than most of the Adran police force.

“Right. And since when,” Dorry asked, “do constables give the orders around here?”

“At the Twelfth Precinct I took the lead on nine murder investigations, every one of which was resolved satisfactorily,” Adamat said, drawing himself up.

“Detective constable,” Dorry said with a false laugh. “ I have the lead on this investigation. This precinct works directly beneath the commissioner, so whatever leeway the captain gave you at your old precinct, it won’t be happening here. Detective constables do not take the lead on a case, especially not one involving the nobility.”

Adamat blinked back at Dorry, trying to readjust his thinking. He wasn’t in the Twelfth any more. And it was true, constables didn’t usually take the lead on these sorts of cases. He didn’t know these policemen yet, and they didn’t know him or his skills. He would have to be patient.

“I’m just here to help,” Adamat said, spreading his arms amicably.

Dorry eyed him for a few moments then said, “Yes, well, I’m afraid we won’t be needing your talents today, constable.”

Adamat did a circuit of the corpse, careful to avoid stepping in the gore. He noted several splotches of blood leading away from the body. “You have a suspect already?”

“We do.”

“And they’ve confessed?”

“Not yet, but she will by the end of the day. It’s an easy case. I’m sure even you can see that.”

Adamat finished his circuit and paused to force down his frustration, sorting through what he had heard about Dorry. He was a bull-headed investigator, lazy on the worst days and negligent on the best-and that was information gleaned from Dorry’s own friends. He was also the commissioner’s nephew.

“So who did it?” Adamat asked.

Dorry stood up and let the two constables roll the body over. The front of Brezé’s evening jacket was caked with dry blood, his face frozen with the mouth open, the eyes dull and empty. Dorry crossed his arms and gave Adamat a thin smile. “You’re the Twelfth’s prize investigator. You tell me.”

“I suspect,” Adamat said, “that you’ve accused the cook.”

The two constables exchanged a glance. “Took Dorry two hours to get there,” one of them whispered.

Dorry shot them both a glare. “And how did you come to that?”

“The frying pan is a start,” Adamat said. He shuffled through his neatly stored memories, searching a dozen years worth of newspapers, gossip, and miscellaneous information for anything concerning Viscount Brezé. “The viscount was known to get handsy with the help. The last cook he hired was a sturdy woman with powerful forearms more than capable of delivering these kinds of blows but attractive enough to still catch his eye.”

“How the pit,” Dorry asked, “could you possibly have known the last bit?”

“The gossip column of the newspaper seventeen days ago,” Adamat responded. “Where is she?”

“Being questioned in the sitting room,” Dorry said.

“And the Lady Brezé?”

“Upstairs. She won’t see anyone until this whole thing is over. Her sister is marshalling the staff and speaking with us.”

Adamat tilted his head slightly. He thought he heard a woman crying-no, blubbering hysterically-from down the hall. The sound of someone who’s been accused of killing a nobleman, no doubt.

“It was likely self-defense,” Dorry said. “Perfectly understandable. He must have tried to force her.”