He hands me the page without a word, and I hold it up to the moon, my back to the Sun. Words appear as plainly as thenose on Remi’s face, but I pretend it’s more difficult than it is. “B-A-R-L… E-Y.” I pause. “And the number forty and what’s probably a unit of weight.” I leave it at that, though above it is writtenOats, 32 stones.
I lower it before Simon can look himself, offering it back to him with a shrug. “Maybe an inventory or shipment list.”
Simon holds it up as I did, tilting his head in frustration. “I don’t see anything at all now. What kind of magick did you use?”
The comment is almost certainly in jest, and I laugh, the sound pitching higher than I intend. Fortunately, Lambert has the nail nearly out, and Simon stuffs the parchment back in his jacket with one hand while the other catches the piece of metal as it falls from the door.
“Thank you, Cousin.” He steps back into full sunlight again. “Someone get me a blacksmith.” When none of us move, Remi heaves a sigh and walks off.
Simon studies the nail. “Driven in by a metal hammer, I think.”
My heart clenches. “How can you tell?”
“This flat part here.” Simon points, and I shade my eyes to see. “If it was wood, the head would still be more rounded, and if a rock had been used, it would be rough with traces of stone in the scratches.” He rolls it over his fingers. “Otherwise unused.”
Craftsmen of any kind aren’t far away at the Sanctum site, and Remi returns shortly with a blacksmith. The man’s face and head are clean shaven, but a sooty cloth is tied around his forehead to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes. Simon hands him the nail and asks for his opinion on what was used to drive it in, and he confirms Simon’s theory: a flat, metal-headed hammer. Few people possess that kind of tool—either by lack of need or coin to purchase one.
Simon doesn’t seem excited by the narrowing of suspects, however. “What is a nail like this used for?” he asks the smith.
“This length and width?” The blacksmith turns it over in his hand. “Carts and wagons mostly.”
“How do you know that?” Remi demands.
The man glowers back. “Because I make these cursed things all the time.”
“Yes, but—”Remi begins.
“It’s far too large for crates or barrels,” interrupts the smith. “Too short and thin for the beams in a building, and too long for horseshoes or window shutters. There are other things these can be used for, but it’s new.” He drops the nail back into Simon’s hand, ignoring Remi, who’s silent with embarrassment. “Anyone who owes his livelihood to a horse and wagon has a ready supply of these for repairs, unless he’s a fool.”
Simon nods. “Thank you.”
As soon as the man is gone, Remi recovers his confidence. “So our killer owns a wagon or a cart.” He waves his hand at the sellers setting up for the day. “Where should we start? The flower peddler looks threatening.”
To my surprise, Simon agrees. “Question anyone who will talk. I just want it known that I’m here.”
“Don’t you have a body to find?” asks Remi.
“Yes, we do.” Simon heads to the nearest merchant. “But he’ll come to me.”
I have a hundred questions, but Remi grabs me by the elbow and steers me toward the flower cart.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap, yanking my arm away. “Why were you so rude to the smith? You don’t know anything about nails.”
“I know a far sight more than the venatre does, Cat,” he growls. “And the blacksmith can’t even read. I’m an architect. I’meducated.”
“You’re an ass is what you are. He was able to tell us exactly what we needed to know.”
Remi looks down on me. “And what if I told you we have a dozen nails like that at home, andno wagon?”
“I’d say you’re telling me we should consider you suspect.”
He shakes his head, incredulous. “Are you really too blind to see where all the trails are leading?”
I gape at him. “You can’t be serious. You think because Magister Thomas—a master architect—has a box of nails that he’s the killer?”
“Shhh-sh!” Remi waves his hands at me. “Not so loud!” He plasters a smile on his face as he glances around. When his eyes stop on someone over my shoulder, I turn to look. Lambert is watching us, but I don’t think he heard everything. Remi pulls me farther away, whispering rapidly. “The nail is the least of it, Cat. You know what Perrete did that night. How could he not have been angry with her?”
“But angry enough to kill her?”