“Yes, yes, but what are you talking about?”
Christopher sighed. “Matthew, I know it was very late when you came to Grosvenor Square last night, but you must listen when I explain things. It’s not all boring trivia, you know.”
A faint spark of dread flared in Matthew’s stomach. “I didn’t come by the house last night.”
“You did, though,” Christopher insisted, blinking in puzzlement. “You told me that James needed the stele, so I gave it to you.”
A spike of ice pierced Matthew’s stomach. He recalled dropping Lucie off the night before and returning to his flat to spend the rest of the night drinking with Oscar by the fire. If he’d made a surprise visit to his father’s lab at some point in the small hours, he was sure he’d remember it.
“Christopher, I don’t know who you gave the stele to last night,” he said urgently, “but it wasn’t me.”
Christopher went pale. “I don’t understand. It was you, it looked just like you. If it wasn’t you… oh, God, who did I give the stele to? And to what purpose?”
* * *
Thomas struggled for breath. The weight of the Sword spread through his chest, and it was more than weight, it was pain—a dozen, a thousand small needles stabbing and dragging at his skin. Words spilled from his mouth, uncontrolled and unpremeditated: he understood now the way in which Maellartach made it impossible to hold back the truth. “No,” he gasped. “I did not kill Lilian Highsmith.”
Charlotte exhaled with relief. The Inquisitor muttered something in a furious tone; if Alastair made a sound, Thomas couldn’t hear it.
As though he were asking Thomas about his breakfast, Will said, “Did you murder Basil Pounceby? Or Filomena di Angelo? Or Elias Carstairs?”
Thomas was prepared for the pain this time. It came from resistance, he thought. From pressing back against the Sword’s urging. He let himself relax, let the words come without fighting them. “No. I am a warrior. But I am not a murderer.”
Will jerked his thumb in the direction of Alastair. “Have you seen that fellow murder any Shadowhunters? Alastair, I mean. He commit any murders to your knowledge? Amos Gladstone, maybe?”
“Excuse me,” said Alastair, looking horrified.
“No,” said Thomas. “I’ve never seen Alastair commit murder. And,” he added, somewhat to his own surprise, “I don’t think he would do such a thing.”
At this, the corner of Will’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Do you have any other secrets, Thomas Lightwood?”
The question caught him off guard. Thomas pushed back, swift and hard, before any of a number of secrets could come spilling out of his mouth—secrets about his friends, secrets about James’s heritage. Anything at all about Alastair.
“Will,” Charlotte scolded. “You have to ask about specific things! You can’t just fish about. Sorry, Thomas.”
“Question retracted,” Will said, and the dragging weight of the Sword lightened immediately. Will gave Thomas a hard look and, after a moment, said intently, “Is Gideon aware that he still owes me twenty pounds?”
“Yes,” said Thomas, without being able to stop himself, “but he is pretending not to remember.”
“I knew it!” cried Will. He turned to the Inquisitor with a triumphant look. “I believe we’re done here.”
“Done?” Bridgestock barked. “We’ve hardly even begun! These two must be properly questioned, William, you know that.”
“I have asked all the relevant questions, I think,” Will said.
“You have asked Alastair no questions at all!” Bridgestock shouted. “Either boy could know more. They might know why, for example, no one has been murdered since they’ve been locked up here. That alone is cause for suspicion.”
“Why would that be?” said Charlotte. “The murders aren’t happening every night, and it’s ridiculous to even think Alastair murdered Lilian. He came along after Thomas, there wasn’t a spot of blood on him, and he came to us—an actual murderer would have washed his hands of the whole business once we had the wrong suspect in custody.”
Bridgestock seemed to inflate like a toad. “The wrong suspect? I came across Thomas standing over Lilian, covered in blood—”
“In the wise words of someone or other,” said Will, lifting the Sword from Thomas’s grasp, “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Maurice.”