Chapter 26
Brussels greeted them with grey skies and a persistent drizzle that seemed determined to dampen their spirits as well as their clothing. Their train pulled into Gare du Midi just before ten o’clock in the morning the next day, the platform bustling with travellers and porters despite the weather.
Evander stepped down from his carriage and breathed in the damp air, the tension of the last day finally fading. He’d slept well despite Rufus’s genteel snoring and was keen to meet the contact Winterbourne had arranged for them.
There was also the matter of Leon’s secretive informant.
The Frenchman had dispatched a note to their hotel before they’d left Paris yesterday, promising to send news about his mysterious collaborator by the time they reached Brussels.
The Belgian city felt different from Paris—quieter, more reserved, with an undercurrent of magic that hummed beneath the cobblestones like a sleeping beast.
“Charming weather,” Rufus muttered, turning up his collar against the rain.
“At least it’s not snowing,” Shaw said cheerfully.
The forensic mage had spent the journey poring over a book on Belgian magical customs and seemed determined to maintain her enthusiasm regardless of atmospheric conditions.
Their hotel was a stately establishment on the Place Royale, its cream stone facade overlooking the manicured gardens of the Royal Park. The rooms were comfortable if not lavish.
Evander barely had time to wash the travel dust from his face before a knock came at his door. It was Rufus.
“Inspector Willems is downstairs,” he reported. “He’s waiting in a private parlour.”
Evander straightened his cravat and followed the inspector down to the ground floor, where the others had already assembled.
The man who rose to greet them was not quite what Evander had expected.
Inspector Boele Willems was short and rotund.
He bore a shock of ginger hair that defied all attempts at grooming, a waistcoat that strained heroically against his ample middle, and spectacles that sat slightly askew on his nose.
When he smiled, it was with the vague benevolence of a country parson who’d wandered into the wrong profession.
“Duke Ravenwood! Such an honour, such an honour indeed.” Willems pumped Evander’s hand with enthusiastic vigour, nearly dislodging his spectacles in the process. “Commander Winterbourne speaks most highly of you. Most highly!”
Evander exchanged a brief glance with Viggo. The Brute’s expression betrayed nothing, but Evander caught the slight tightening around his eyes.
“Inspector Willems.” Evander extracted his hand before it suffered permanent damage. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
“Oh, think nothing of it, nothing at all.” Willems beamed at the others. “And this must be your team. Wonderful!”
He kissed Ginny and Shaw’s hands with deference and fawned over Viggo, even going as far as to request an autograph from the Brute. He gestured expansively toward a cluster of chairs arranged near the fireplace.
“Please, sit. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering refreshments. Belgian hospitality, you know. We take these things very seriously.”
As if summoned by magic, a servant appeared with a tray laden with coffee, hot chocolate, and an array of pastries that made Shaw’s eyes widen with delight.
“Now then.” Willems settled into an armchair that creaked ominously under his weight and somehow managed to slosh coffee onto his waistcoat in the process.
“I understand you’re here investigating some rather nasty business.
Dark mages, mysterious disappearances, ancient artefacts—all very thrilling stuff!
” He waved a hand and managed to get coffee on the rug.
Fairbridge’s expression remained carefully neutral. “I believe Commander Winterbourne briefed you on the nature of our investigation?”
“Oh, yes. Terrible business with that Professor Musgrave fellow.” Willems shook his head sadly, dabbing at the coffee stain on his waistcoat with a napkin and only succeeding in spreading it further.
“We’ve had our own troubles here, you know.
Researchers going missing from our Institute for the Arcane, strange rumours circulating in certain circles.
” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the crumbs now decorating his lapel. “Dark magic, they say. Very hush-hush.”
Evander studied the inspector carefully. There was something about the man’s demeanour that didn’t quite ring true.
“What can you tell us about the Brussels Institute for the Arcane?” he asked.
Willems brightened. “It’s a wonderful establishment.
Very prestigious. Though I confess the academics there tend to look down their noses at us simple police folk.
They think us and our investigation beneath them, you see.
” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “It must be all those theories and ancient texts. Goes right over my head, I’m afraid. ”
Evander was beginning to doubt that very much.
If Willems was indeed the bumbling fool he appeared to be, him being assigned as their Belgian contact could only mean two things.
The local authorities in Brussels didn’t believe what was happening in their city was linked in any way to the events in London and dark magic and simply intended to humour Evander’s team and their investigation during their stay in the city.
And Winterbourne’s assessment of Willems was flawed.
Since Evander knew Winterbourne was rarely wrong when it came to judging people, this meant Willems was putting on a deliberate performance. One likely intended to lull people into a false sense of security.
“And the missing researchers?” Rufus asked. “Have you any leads on their whereabouts and why they went missing?”
“Like I said, there’s talk of dark magic being involved but we have yet to find any definitive proof of that,” Willems said amiably.
“Did any of them have connections to a group called Les Prophètes Illuminés?” Evander said, trying to keep impatience from creeping into his voice. “Or was anyone studying magical transference?”
Something flickered behind Willems’s jovial expression then, his eyes going razor-sharp for a heartbeat. It was gone so quickly Evander almost missed it.
“Les Prophètes Illuminés,” Willems repeated slowly. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in some time. Disbanded years ago, weren’t they? Dabbled in things best left alone.” He shook his head. “We haven’t found any links to that group. But we are continuing to make enquiries.”
“How about suspicious deaths among your thrall population?” Viggo asked in a hard voice, his attempt at civility slipping. “Bodies with their skin or eyes marked with strange silver lines?”
Willems rubbed his chin thoughtfully, spreading more crumbs.
“We have had a number of unexpected thrall deaths lately,” he acknowledged.
“But none marked the way you describe. We received the official report from London and have performed necropsies in line with the recommendations put forward by your chief medical examiner.”
Evander exchanged a troubled glance with Viggo. The thralls deaths in Brussels probably had dark magic at their source. But the absence of arcane residue was worrying. His mind raced.
Has our enemy’s research on magical transference advanced enough not to leave any sign of forced magic?!
A knock at the parlour door interrupted his thoughts. A hotel porter entered, bearing a silver salver with two envelopes.
“For Duke Ravenwood,” he announced.
Surprise danced through Evander. He accepted the correspondence with a nod of thanks and stiffened when he saw the first envelope.
It bore the elaborate seal of the German Imperial household.
The second was smaller, the paper plain but of good quality and stamped with their hotel’s name.
He opened Victoria’s message first and scanned the elegant script.
It was an official invitation to attend a reception at the Royal Palace that evening. Formal attire required. Considering how quickly the missive had come, Victoria must have had someone from her entourage watching out for their arrival.
The second envelope was a telegram forwarded from the hotel’s front desk. Evander’s pulse quickened as he read the message. It was from Leon.
Informant will attend reception tonight. Will make contact. Trust no one else.
Beaulieu
Evander passed both messages to the others. Fairbridge read them with his usual inscrutability while Viggo’s hands crumpled Victoria’s invitation slightly.
“It seems we have a busy evening ahead,” Rufus observed worriedly.
Evander could tell he was not overly enthused at the prospect of attending a royal reception.
“I’ve never been to a royal reception,” Shaw croaked. “What does one wear to one?” The blood gradually drained from her face as she stared at Evander. “Your Grace, I don’t think I packed anything suitable.”
“Breathe, Shaw,” Rufus said wearily.
“I have contacts with several excellent Brussels modistes,” Ginny said briskly. “We can have something suitable arranged within a few hours.”
“For all of us?” Solomon asked with undisguised dread.
Ginny’s smile held a hint of mischief. “Don’t worry, Mr. Barden. I remember your measurements.”
Solomon’s expression suggested he found this less reassuring than intended.
Relief flooded Shaw’s face. She grabbed Ginny’s hand. “You’re a lifesaver! Also, I need some kind of lesson on royal etiquette. I am certain I shall put my foot in it, otherwise.”
“At least you have insight,” Rufus muttered.
Willems had been watching this exchange with apparent amusement. “A reception at the Royal Palace. How marvellous.”
Evander rose, signalling the end of their meeting. “Inspector Willems, we appreciate your assistance. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow to discuss your findings regarding the Institute?”
“Of course!” Willems heaved himself to his feet, scattering crumbs in his wake. “I shall make the arrangements. Discreetly.” He winked.
Willems departed, leaving a trail of coffee drips and cheerful farewells in his wake.
Evander turned to find Fairbridge watching him with a speculative expression.
“Thoughts?” Evander asked quietly.
“He’s smarter than he appears,” the spy said.
“Agreed.” Evander moved to the window and gazed out at Willems’s figure disappearing in the rain-slicked streets of Brussels. “The question is whether that makes him useful or dangerous.”