“I saw the harassment complaints,” he said. “All of them were eventually dropped.”
Luzia Bras snorted. “After Barsal paid off his accusers. Or threatened them.” She gazed at him frankly. “What more can I tell you?”
“Where were you the night of the murder?”
“At home.” She glanced at Yarl with a smirk. “Write that down, and make sure you note that I would not be ashamed to kill such a man if I could get away with it. He deserved everything he got. But it wasn’t me.”
Gavriel wondered if she was bold enough to toy with him. Yet the woman’s hair was streaked generously with gray and deep laugh lines bracketed her mouth. She must be in her sixties. Could she have carried Casolaba’s body up to the spire? And considering that Gavriel himself was attacked with lithomancy, the culprit was likelier to be a witch.
The witches had a non-voting delegation that observed the Assembly proceedings. Any one of them might have lured Casolaba inside after the building closed.
“Can someone verify your whereabouts?” Gavriel asked.
“My children are grown, and I kicked my worthless husband out years ago.” She shrugged. “Ask my neighbors if you want. I was home by eight. I’m not as young as I used to be. I need my rest.”
Gavriel let her go. Primo Roloa entered next, bringing with him the scent of tobacco. The acting consul, formerly Casolaba’s deputy, fidgeted in his seat, fingers twitching for the cigarette he’d just extinguished.
“This is a terrible business,” he said. “A terrible business. The Freedom League pledges full cooperation. Whatever you need.”
“I appreciate that.” Gavriel folded his hands on the desk. “Your relationship with Consul Casolaba, was it cordial?”
“Entirely.” His fingers drummed the armrest. “We had our disagreements, naturally. That’s politics. But we maintained a united front for the party.”
“And the night of his death?”
“I was at a fundraising dinner until well past midnight. Hundreds of people saw me there. I made a speech.” He loosened his collar. “A political function we hold annually. Important for maintaining relationships with the biggest donors.”
Gavriel nodded to Yarl, who made a note to verify this claim.
“Did Casolaba have enemies who would wish him harm?” Gavriel asked, curious only as to whom Roloa would choose to name.
A nervous laugh. “The consul’s position makes enemies by its nature. But murder?” Roloa shook his head. “Unthinkable.”
“I would ask you to be more specific.”
Roloa blew out a long, wheezing breath. “The Miners’ Union, obviously. Bunch of thugs. Everyone knows it.”
“Did he have any late meetings planned the night he was killed?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“Would you be willing to surrender your weekly diary?” Gavriel asked.
Roloa opened his valise and took out a small book. “I expected you’d ask that. Here it is, Lord Morningstar.”
Gavriel flipped through the pages and saw nothing of interest. But of course, Roloa would hardly write anything incriminating in a diary.
“Thank you for your time,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Roloa flashed a relieved smile. “I have every confidence you’ll catch this rogue, Lord Morningstar. The people of Kota Gelangi deserve no less.”
The ambassador from Kievad Rus was the last interview of the morning. An uncommonly tall man named Tamarkin Volkov, he was graying at the temples, with cropped hair and prominent ears.
“This is ludicrous,” he declared before Gavriel asked a single question. “To insinuate that Kievad Rus had any involvement in this heinous crime is slander of the highest order.”
“I fear we’ve begun on the wrong foot, ambassador,” Gavriel replied. “This is an interview, not an inquisition. I must speak to everyone who knew the man, surely you grasp that.”
Volkov sniffed, but deigned to sit down. “We have nothing to gain from Casolaba’s death.”
