At the beginning of the journal, there’d been no actual purchasing, building, or sinking. Then she hit upon the word that changed everything from planning to actualization: patron. The artist had found a patron whose funding had allowed him to rent an apartment and the vacant floor below to use as a shop. Only after that had he started building the first house.

The journal didn’t tell her the patron’s identity. The artist never used anyone’s name in his writings, not even his own, guarding them as if they were state secrets. But as she continued to read, she began to spot hints that the patron was of the aristocracy.

And Espinoza didn’t mention his victims at all. There was nothing about the chairs or the table, nor could she find anything about the kidnapping of the victims. It was as if Espinoza hadn’t added that aspect until later. Or perhaps someone else added it. His mysterious patron might have made that change.

Oriana caught her lower lip between her teeth. The Lady had indicated that the Open Hand had members in the Special Police. Could the prince himself be directing them? After all, the mandate of the Special Police was to carry out the orders of the prince. They were known for hunting nonhumans and Sympathizers, but that didn’t mean that was all they did.

Hadn’t they been guarding the artwork? It was under the guise of patrolling the mouth of the river, but they still kept boats away, save for the scheduled visits by the submersible captains. The orders for the regular police to shut down the investigation of the artwork could have come from someone in the Special Police. And the newspapers hadn’t questioned the artwork’s presence at all, citing the guidelines that came down from the Ministry of Culture. But that body also answered directly to the prince.

What would happen if they could prove the prince himself was behind the deaths? Would that force him to abdicate, perhaps, if it became public? Would his younger brother, the infante, assume the throne and possibly overturn the ban? The journal in her hands took on new significance. She stroked the water-damaged cover with a fresh respect.

Then again, those with power and money had a tendency to stay in power, the worst of their sins swept under the rug. That was as true here in Portugal as it was back on the islands.

Sighing, Oriana rubbed her eyelids. She hadn’t been such a cynic when she was younger.

CHAPTER 23

Joaquim and Inspector Gaspar got along well, although on occasion Duilio noted Gaspar aiming a narrow look at Joaquim when Joaquim wasn’t attending. Given that Gaspar was a Meter, it made Duilio itch to know what the man saw when he looked at his cousin.

They went through the details of the case, starting with the very beginning. Duilio made his decision early on: he was going to trust Inspector Gaspar. So he told the truth about Erdano’s complaints about the taste of death in the water near The City Under the Sea. He told Gaspar how his gift had warned him that Lady Isabel was dead, and delineated most of the steps they’d taken since. He even admitted he’d kept the journal and had Miss Paredes reading it. Joaquim followed his lead, volunteering his rather copious notes, including what he’d gleaned the previous day from the Amaral servants.

“So, your Miss Paredes was clearly the target, rather than her mistress,” Gaspar said. “This Maria Melo must be our saboteur or working with him, but there have to be a thousand women with that name in this city. Likely a false name anyway. Is there anything more you can tell me about her?”

“Frequents The White Rose, although I suspect she’ll hear about my inquiries and stop doing so. Dark hair, dark eyes,” Joaquim read from his notes. “Always wears black—good-quality cloth, though. That would make her an upper servant at the least. Moderately tall, with a nice figure. Heavy eyebrows were the only distinguishing characteristic anyone could give me.”

Gaspar puffed out his cheeks in disgust. “I suspect that’s a dead end. I’ll post an officer there and see if she shows up again.”

“An officer of the Special Police?” Duilio asked. “Can you trust them?”

“My associates have vetted a dozen of them so far. They’re not working with the Open Hand and admittedly have Liberal leanings, so we’re safe using them.”

“Your associates?” Duilio echoed.

“You haven’t met Inspector Anjos or Miss Vladimirova yet,” Gaspar said. “They’ve been working their way through the ranks while I was off hunting Mata.”

Although Anjos was a Portuguese name, Vladimirova sounded Russian to Duilio. “Are they witches, like you and . . . the Lady?”

“Yes. You’ll probably meet Anjos later, but you’d rather not meet Miss Vladimirova.” Gaspar smiled grimly, not showing his teeth. “Unfortunately, they haven’t turned up anyone associated with this floating-house business. With so many officers to question, it may take them weeks to root out the right men, and the ones whose names we did have all disappeared as soon as Commissioner Burgos gave us permission to start questioning them.”

Duilio didn’t doubt that. “What about Mata?”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, Mr. Ferreira. I have no doubt he’s still after you, but is keeping his distance because he’s seen me.” Unfortunately, Gaspar was difficult to miss in a country with relatively few representatives of its former African colonies.

Duilio licked his lips. Joaquim wasn’t going to like this. “Silva spoke of using Miss Paredes as bait, Inspector. Why not use me that way?”

“No,” Joaquim said immediately.

“I’m not suggesting standing in the middle of a plaza all day to be shot at,” Duilio told him. “Just doing what I would be doing anyway.”

Gaspar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

Duilio shot a glance at Joaquim. “Miss Paredes mentioned that Espinoza was raised in Matosinhos. I could go there and ask around about him.”

Gaspar looked intrigued, but Joaquim wasn’t placated. “Mata is not going to get on the tram out to Matosinhos with you,” Joaquim pointed out. “You know what he looks like.”

It was about four miles out to the town of Matosinhos on the Marginal line. “No, he’ll know he has to take the next one, try to catch the steam tram out of Boavista, or find some other means of transportation.”

Joaquim sat back, a scowl twisting his lips.

“I’ll head up to Matosinhos,” Duilio said. “I can ask a few discreet questions about Espinoza, and that should give Mata time to follow me. Matosinhos is small enough that he should be able to find me if he tries.”

Joaquim sighed heavily. He didn’t like it, but Duilio knew he understood. If this man had killed Alessio, Duilio wanted him brought in. “Start with Father Barros at the Church of Bom Jesus,” Joaquim suggested. “He’s been there forever and knows the parish better than anyone else. He can tell you whom to talk with about Espinoza.”

One of Joaquim’s teachers from his days in seminary, no doubt. “I’ll do that.”

“And watch your back,” Joaquim added.

Duilio patted the pocket where his holster was clipped, his Webley Wilkinson revolver quiescent within. “I’ll stay on my guard.”

Mr. Ferreira showed up at the house near lunchtime, evidently wanting to change clothes. He came into the front sitting room, where Oriana sat on the couch, poring through the journal he’d left with her, gesturing for her to stay seated as he entered. “Miss Paredes, I hope you were able to get some sleep last night.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Your mother is still abed, and Felis is reading to her, so I thought I would give this a try.”

He settled in a chair across from her, much as he’d done the day before. He seemed to have forgotten their . . . closeness . . . of the previous evening. Or he was pretending so to set her at ease. It was a pretense she was willing to join, as discussing the issue would surely be embarrassing for him. “Rough going?” he asked. “From what I glimpsed before I pocketed it, it looked fairly technical.”