“Thomas is being held on suspicion,” said Charlotte, glancing at Matthew, who half turned away, hunching his shoulders. James couldn’t blame him. There had always seemed to him to be two Charlotte Fairchilds—one, the aunt he loved, and the other, the Consul, dispensing law and justice with a cool, unemotional hand. “He is not forbidden to have visitors. Nor,” she added, glancing at Gideon, “can we dismiss the suspicions against him without any investigation. You know what the Enclave will say—that we are showing favoritism, releasing a suspect because he is a family member, not because he has been cleared of any part in the crime.”

“You make it very difficult sometimes, Charlotte,” said Gideon in a low, angry voice. “All right. Go ahead, Thomas; tell them what happened.”

Thomas repeated his story, leaving out only the curious adamas box. Gideon crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at the Inquisitor. Bridgestock, whose face had gone purple with the effort of not interrupting, objected immediately when Thomas was finished.

“This story is nonsense,” he hissed. He turned on Thomas, who had sagged back in his chair. “You’re asking us to believe that all this was just a coincidence, when by your own admission you’ve been breaking the rules every night? Patrolling on your own? Have you any alibi for where you were the night Basil was killed? Or the Italian girl?”

“Her name was Filomena,” Thomas said quietly.

Bridgestock scowled. “Irrelevant.”

“It probably wasn’t irrelevant to Filomena,” said James.

“That’s not the point,” Bridgestock roared. “Lightwood, you were not scheduled for patrol and you had no reason to be in Golden Square.”

“Thomas has explained that already.” Gideon was white-faced with fury. “And he cares more to know the name of a dead Shadowhunter than you do, Maurice, because none of this matters to you except what you can get out of it. If you manage to convince the Clave you’ve caught a killer, you think they’ll shower rewards on you. But you will look like a fool if you cast him into prison and the murders continue.”

“Not as much a fool as you’ll look, having a murderer for a son—”

“There’s an obvious solution here,” James interrupted. “I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about. What I’d like to know is, what’s stopping you from suggesting it?”

Bridgestock glared at him with such pure hatred that James was taken aback. It was true that James had sometimes clashed with the Inquisitor, but he had no idea what would cause the man to despise him.

“The Mortal Sword,” James said. “Thomas isn’t afraid of it. Why would you be?”

“That’s enough out of you,” Bridgestock snarled, and for a moment, James was half-sure the Inquisitor was actually going to hit him. Charlotte caught Bridgestock by the arm, real alarm on her face, just as the doors slammed open once again.