Master of Plagues: A Nicolas Lenoir Novel Read Free Page B

evidently piqued by the chief’s rebuff.
    “It’s . . . nice,” Reck said, a peace offering. “Goes with the style of the room.”
    “Arrènais,” the chamberlain said, and Lenoir succumbed to a fit of coughing.
    His Honor kept them waiting, as was his wont. It would not do for him to seem too available. Reck folded his arms and scowled at the carpet. Lenoir drummed his fingers on his trousers (the only genuinely Arrènais fabric in the room, or he was a fishwife). The clock on the mantel measured out the passage of time with prim precision. The chamberlain reappeared now and then to update them on His Honor’s unavailability, and to offer tea. Eventually, he was obliged to draw the curtains against the increasingly intrusive slant of the afternoon sun.
    By the time Hearstings graced them with his presence, even Reck had had enough; he sprang to his feet like a scalded cat. “Your Honor.”
    “Chief Reck.” The lord mayor’s improbable mustaches perked up as he smiled. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. And Inspector! I trust you are
par rinn . . .
er,
par renne—”
    “Very well. Thank you,” Lenoir said before further violence could be done to his mother tongue.
    “Yes, well. Very good. Please, gentlemen, take a seat.” Hearstings lowered his own ponderous girth into an armchair. Even as he sat, he reached inside his jacket and consulted his pocket watch in a gesture contrived enough to grace a portrait, or perhaps even hard currency. “How are things at the station?”
    “Fine, thank you, Your Honor,” Reck said.
    “A lovely graduation ceremony last week. You must so enjoy welcoming the new lads.”
    “One of the privileges of the job.”
    “Excellent food too. We must be allocating too much coin to the Metropolitan Police!” His Honor barked out a laugh.
    A vein swelled in the chief’s forehead, a sign every hound knew and dreaded.
    Hearstings was oblivious. “By the way, Reck, are you looking into that business of Einhorn’s?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Oh, good. I heard there was quite an incident at the auctioneer’s. Why, did you know—”
    “Excuse me, Your Honor, I thought you wanted to discuss the Camp?”
    “Ah, indeed.” The lord mayor assumed a solemn look, running his thumb and forefinger along his mustaches. “I’ll come straight to the point.”
    Somehow, the chief managed to nod without a hint of irony.
    “We have an epidemic in the Camp,” Hearstings said. “Horrid disease, from what I hear. Men bleeding to death from the inside out.”
    Reck grimaced. “Sounds ugly.”
    “That’s an understatement. Have you ever heard of anything like it?”
    The chief shook his head. “You, Lenoir?”
    “No, Chief, I have not.”
    “Neither has my physician,” said Hearstings. “So far, it’s confined to the Camp, thank God, but it’s making a damn mess of the place. If it gets out of hand, I’ll have panic on my hands.”
    Lenoir did not doubt that was true, but he still failed to see where the police came into it. So did Reck, apparently, for he asked, “What exactly do you need from us?”
    Hearstings fluttered his hand, as though shooing a fly. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I promised Lideman I’d sendfor you. Head out there first thing in the morning. Talk to him. Hear him out, let me know if you think there’s anything in it, that’s all.”
    Lenoir and Reck exchanged a blank look. “Lideman? And he is . . . ?”
    “From the College of Physicians. Head of Medical Sciences. He’s been out at the Camp the past few days looking into this. He has . . . theories.”
    “About what, exactly?”
    “Why, about the disease, of course. About where it came from.”
    “No doubt that is a fascinating puzzle for a physician,” Lenoir said, “but it is not the concern of the Metropolitan Police.”
    Reck shot him a warning look. “What Lenoir means, Your Honor, is that my hounds are hardly qualified—”
    “You misunderstand,” the lord mayor