“And so, Mr. Clent, I have to ask you a question, and I think you know what it is going to be.” The constable sat back, folded his arms, and peered at Clent’s carefully blank expression with narrow dislike. “Who has been melting down gods to make gunshot?”

Clent’s poker face broke down at this unexpected question, and he simply boggled.

“I entreat your pardon . . . perhaps you could elucidate . . . I find myself a little . . . What?”

“Once we had the first mate in handcuffs, we tracked down the rest of the crew. Most of them stayed mum, but the youngest got leaky, and told us they’d dropped off their smuggled cargo at a potter’s on the waterside. We turned the place over, and found nigh on a hundred and forty god statues under the floorboards. As you know, most god likenesses have a core of lead in them, so they won’t get blown over in their shrines. They’re about the only source of lead that wasn’t melted down during the war to make shot. And there under the floorboards, sure enough, was a set of bullet molds and smelting gear. It is no secret that our noble Duke is seeking the ringleaders in a Diabolical Radical Plot against the Twin Queens . . . and we suspect that these bullet makers may be part of the plot.”

“Good sir, I can assure you that I know no more about this than the greenest pea fresh-popped from its pod. It is true that my secretary and I did travel from Kempe Teetering by barge for a time, and if you say the captain’s name was Halk Partridge I will not gainsay you, but if the first mate fancied that we were aware of his dark doings I can only tell you that he was deluded . . .”

The constable gave a slow nod, but not as if he were satisfied.

“Very well, Mr. Clent.” He stood to leave. “You may realize that you remember more about our friend Partridge, and when you do I hope you will tell me about it. And when your secretary comes back, I’d thank you to bring her to the watch house to answer some questions. You see, she was seen climbing aboard Partridge’s boat the day after he disappeared, and talking to one of his crew.”

Clent remained motionless as the constable left the room, and he stayed so until the front door slammed. Then with tiptoe haste made absurd by his bulk, he tripped silently to the window to peer into the street. Only when he was satisfied that the constable really had left the marriage house did he tweak his coat off his bed, revealing the crouched form of Mosca, who had been listening to the interview with some confusion, and watching through a buttonhole.