“I’ll know,” I said.
“Really! And how does that work exactly?” said Andrews, his eyes starting to bulge.
“I’m a good judge of people. Of their moods,” I said.
“Are you getting anything right now?” said Andrews.
I gave him a wan smile.
“Fine,” he said. “One minute, then we come in.”
I turned, but he stopped me, and there was something different in his eyes that was almost compassionate. “Are you all right?” he asked. He was talking about Bessie.
“Fine,” I said.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” he said. “Billy Jennings, I mean.”
“I know,” I said, only half believing it. “Make sure she gets this, will you?” I said, handing him Billy’s two purses.
*
ANSVELD JR.’S EYES LIT up as I stepped in. “I see the police paid a visit to the honorable Mr. Macinnes,” he said, not bothering to contain his glee. “What has the little scamp been up to this time?”
“They are coming here next,” I said.
His smile stalled, as much at my manner as at my words. “Here? Why?”
“Macinnes had dealings with an elderly black man,” I said, “an Unassimilated herder who came offering undocumented luxorite for sale. Macinnes sold one of his pieces to Dowager Hamilton. But the man also came here and had another stone.”
“You already asked me about this, and I told you I didn’t know what you were talking about.”
“I know,” I said, “and I believe you. But it seems certain that the Mahweni herder did come here and spoke to your father.”
“My father would not have bought from him. An undocumented piece is a stolen piece. Simple as that.” He thought for a moment. “You think the boy got the piece from the herder?”
“Not directly,” I said, “but yes. When you first mentioned the boy, you said his fingers were burned. Is that right?”
He blinked, casting his mind back, then nodded. “A little, yes,” he said. “Why? Is that important?”
“I’m not sure,” I said honestly. “Luxorite can be broken up, right? Cut like diamonds?”
“Of course.”
“So one way to disguise stolen stones would be to recut them into new shapes?”
“Yes.”
“And does that process change the quality of the light that the stone produces?”
“It can,” said Ansveld Jr. “At the microscopic level, the stone is made up of crystals which are at their brightest when they are first cut. Over time, they dim. Nothing you do to the stone can reverse that process, but recutting the stone will rejuvenate it, though—of course—at the expense of its size.”
“Might it alter the color of the core light?” I asked. “From blue to green, say?”
Ansveld Jr. shook his head.
“Nothing can change the essential nature of the mineral,” he said.
I nodded, feeling disappointed, conscious of Andrews waiting outside. “And your father didn’t speak to you about his meeting with the old man?” I asked.
“I was away on business in Thremsburg until two days before he died,” said Ansveld. “We barely talked.”
“Who might he have spoken to?” I asked. “If he thought there was something strange going on involving the illegal trade of luxorite.”
“The police, I suppose.” He shrugged. “My father was not what you would call the talkative type.”
“And if it was a delicate matter? One that had larger implications for the industry?”
Ansveld was shaking his head, but then his features brightened. “He might talk to Archie,” he said. “If it was a matter of trade interests or something. They have known each other for years.”
“Archie?”
“Sorry”—he grinned—“Archibald Mandel. Secretary for Trade and Industry. All very respectable. Used to be a colonel in the army. Technically, I believe he was still in charge of the Red Fort until a few months ago.”
I stared at him. Another tumbler of the lock turned over.
CHAPTER
26
I DID NOT TELL Andrews or Willinghouse about the link between Ansveld, Mandel, and the Glorious Third. I probably should have done, but I didn’t, because I didn’t know who I could trust. Mandel was a powerful man.
And I wanted to act.
I didn’t want instincts and possibilities, but facts. If there was a hard link between Mandel and the dead Mahweni herder, I planned to find it and hand it to Willinghouse, confident that it was watertight.
That night I did not go to the Drowning or to the temple grounds, though I guessed that Mnenga would be there, waiting for me. Instead I curled up in my blankets above the Martel Court clock, trying to keep my mind from turning over the questions in my head or from noticing the slightly sour odor of spilled milk.
*
THE NEXT MORNING, I bought spiced meat and vegetable pasties with Alawi juice for Sarah and me, and we sat in Ruetta Park, watching doves and gray ibis squabble over crumbs.
“Where can I find out about the Glorious Third?” I asked.
Sarah gave me a cautious look. “What do you want to know?” she asked.