Arthur's first port of call after leaving Francis is the darkened observation booth alongside Interrogation Room 2, from which he can watch Alfred in secrecy through the two-way mirror, safely ensconced behind several feet of Kevlar and reinforced concrete.
In the days that Grandfather still considered Arthur a suitable heir, he had brought him down here to observe him at his work whenever he apprehended a superhero who had been skulking about the estate.
All of his captives had struggled against their restraints. They'd cursed at him, vowed bloody revenge, and then later, after the trolley had been wheeled forward and Grandfather had smiled that horrible, humourless smile, they'd screamed.
(Sometimes, so loudly that they could be heard in the house as a sharp, sustained wailing note, robbed of all terror by sound-proofing and distance. Arthur and his brothers had been sickened by the sound, even so, but it was so much worse to hear it in close quarters, and worse yet to see what caused it.
Arthur had spent most of his time in the observation booth on his knees, vomiting into his cupped hands because Grandfather wouldn't stand for a mess being made of his floor and refused to allow Arthur a more suitable receptacle. 'It'd only encourage you,' he'd said, 'and you need to grow some balls. You won't get far in our line of work if you're squeamish.')
But Alfred is neither struggling nor shouting; instead, he is slumped as far down in his chair as his bonds will allow, his knees splayed out wide, eyes closed, and head lolling back. He looks, at first glance, to be sleeping, but Arthur had witnessed Power-Man engaging in just such a charade in the past, and it hadn't ended well for Grandfather.
He enters the interrogation room with his stun gun in hand and a hex on his lips, and approaches Alfred carefully, keeping his weight on his trailing foot for as long as possible in order to better turn tail and run at the first sign of violence on the Alfred's part. His unnatural strength was obvious, but he may have other powers, ones with a large area of effect or projectile component, so it's only sensible to be cautious.
Alfred doesn't stir, not even when Arthur is close enough that he could reach out and touch him if he had either the nerve or desire to do such a thing. Unbelievably, it really does seem as though he's dozed off, as blithe and unconcerned as if he were tucked up safe in his own bed, wherever that might be.
In sleep, his face is completely relaxed, expression serene, and Arthur first impulse is to creep out of the room as quietly as he'd crept in rather than disturb him.
His second thoughts are much more rational ones – he is, after all, being ridiculous – and he acts on them promptly by bellowing, "Alfred!" in the man's ear.
Alfred startles awake, blinks blearily at Arthur, and then tries to move his right arm, presumably with the intention of straightening his glasses, which had slipped down his nose as he slept. When it remains pinned to the chair arm, he turns his head to blink, with equal bleariness, at the wide leather bands buckled around his wrists. "What the hell…?"
"You're my prisoner," Arthur says. "And I'm going to need you to answer some questions for me."
"Ah, okay," Alfred says. He sounds completely unperturbed by the news, as though Arthur had instead informed him that there was a slight chance of rain showers that afternoon. "Hey, could you fix my glasses for me? You're just a big pink blur at the moment."
Arthur should refuse – he is supposed to be interrogating Alfred after all, which would, by the very nature of the act, preclude such a helpful gesture – but finds himself pressing a finger to the bridge of Alfred's glasses anyway, and sliding them back up his nose to their proper place.
"Thanks!" Alfred looks Arthur up and down, and then breaks out a dazzlingly broad grin. "You've got a costume, too! Francis said you guys don't go in for that sort of thing."
"We don't," Arthur says slowly, wondering now whether the glasses had failed to correct Alfred's vision as they should, or else that he had suffered a blow to the head during his capture that had caused him to start hallucinating capes and spandex.
Alfred's eyebrows arc high. "So… that's just your normal, everyday outfit, then?"
"Of course it—" Arthur glances down, expecting to see the perfectly ordinary lounge suit he'd donned that morning, but is instead faced with the dreadful realisation that he'd forgotten to take off his robe before he and Alasdair set out in pursuit of the orb.
When he was younger, he'd begged Grandfather to allow him to buy a similar garment, arguing that it was simply a tool of the magical trade, no different to a scientist's lab coat or chef's apron. Grandfather had – quite rightly – pointed out that he'd always managed to cast his spells perfectly well without one before, and it was nothing more than a 'needless frippery'.
He'd tried to be sanguine about the decision, but every time he walked through the corridor outside the library, passing portraits of his illustrious forebears standing tall and commanding in their flamboyant robes, the need to possess his own simply grew.
Eventually, he had raided his mum's old craft supplies, determined to make one himself. He'd had to work in secret, because Grandfather thought needlework was a pointless hobby – something he'd also berated Mum about, though she'd cheerfully ignored him – and his skills were rusty with disuse, but he'd been pleased with the fruits of his labour, all the same.
Pleased, but also ashamed, for having gone against Grandfather's word in such a deceitful fashion, and so anxious that he might be found out that he'd ended up hiding the robe under a loose floorboard in his bedroom, unworn.
And there it probably would have stayed until the house and everything else within it disintegrated into dust had the confluence of Grandfather's absence and Arthur's discovery of the tracking spell not brought about what seemed to be the perfect opportunity to dig it out again.
In a small, secret part of his heart, Arthur had hoped his brothers would be impressed by his ingenuity and handiwork, but none of them had even noticed save Alasdair, and he was hardly complimentary.
Studying the robe now under the harsh light of the interrogation room, Arthur has to concede that Alasdair may, just this once, be right. He probably does look like a twat. The black velvet, that he had once thought so plush and luxurious, is actually balding in spots, and some of the sigils he had stitched upon it are misshapen and trailing loose threads, missed in his haste to get the damn thing finished.
Still, it's too late to do anything about it now, so Arthur throws back his shoulders, holds his head high, and tries his best to instead look like a man supremely confident in both his position and his fashion choices.
"That's of no consequence," he belatedly concludes. "And I'm supposed to be the one asking questions here, not you."
To that end, he fetches the trolley of torture implements and parks it in front of Alfred, just as he had done with the Frog. Alfred examines it with open interest, his eyes untinged by fear. "Is that a thumbscrew?" he asks, his voice bright with what sounds to be morbid fascination.
"Did you not hear what I just said?" Arthur sighs, picking up a long knife from the trolley. "Look, if you're having trouble concentrating, I have ways of bringing things into… sharper relief."
It's exactly the sort of thing Grandfather would say, and Arthur runs his thumb along the length of the blade just like he would, glaring at Alfred in what he hopes is a portentous fashion all the while.
Alfred bursts out laughing. "Oh my god, you guys actually do that?" he asks. "I thought it was just a James Bond thing."
"Do what?" Arthur snaps, irritated by his reaction.
"The puns. Do the Guild train you to use them?"
"They advise doing so in certain circumstances," Arthur says. "Section 32, subpart B of the Guild guidelines: Using Incongruous Levity to Unsettle Your Opponent. It can be a very—"
Alfred's renewed laughter drowns him out. He laughs so long and so hard that it appears to pain him, his expression twisting unhappily as his face turns an anoxic shade of purple. "I think I might have sprained something," he wheezes. "Okay, that's enough. I yield. Ask me whatever you like. Just… no more puns."
Taking him at his word, Arthur replaces the knife and asks, "How long have you known the Frog?"
"The who?" Alfred looks genuinely perplexed.
Arthur sighs again. "The thief we caught you with, trespassing in the orchard."
"Is that his supervillain name?"
"No, of course not. I don't think he even has one," Arthur says. "We don't dignify him with his real name around here, so I suppose it's become a… nickname of sorts."
"Because he's French?" Alfred's lips purse tight as if in distaste. "That's pretty xenophobic of you."
"Well… I…" Arthur had never considered it before, but, on brief reflection, supposes Alfred is right. Grandfather had always called Francis that, though, and Arthur had parroted him without thinking. After all these years, it's simply become habit. "I've never—"
He's saved from having to explain himself by Alasdair's noisy entrance, his heavy footsteps echoing deafeningly against the tiled walls as he stomps across the room, the— Francis following close at his heels.
"I knew I shouldn't have trusted you to guard him properly," Arthur snarls, jabbing an accusatory finger in his brother's direction.
"Relax, Wart," Alasdair says with an infuriatingly placid smile. "It's okay; he won't try to get away."
On catching sight of the thief, Alfred gives a joyful shout of, "Francis!" and launches himself to his feet, ripping straight through his restraints as though they're made of nothing more than paper.
Alasdair whistles through his teeth. "Good job you managed not to rile him up," he says. "That could have been your neck."
Arthur very much doubts that, as the League likely frowns on that sort of behaviour, but he does have to wonder why he didn't break free earlier. Watching Alfred pour sympathy over Francis' near-invisible injuries, he can only conjecture that Alfred didn't want to make his escape before knowing where the thief was being held, and risk leaving him behind.
Arthur can't begin to imagine what on earth Francis might have done to secure that sort of loyalty from a superhero.
What had inspired Alasdair's is much more transparent, although Arthur wishes it wasn't as it betrays an appalling lack of taste on his brother's side.
"Now," Arthur says, "I acknowledge I might be better off not knowing this, but… Come, on; out with it. What did Francis promise to give you if you freed him?"
"It wasn't like that, Art." Blood suffuses Alasdair's cheeks, turning them a bashful shade of pink. "He wants to work with us."
The thought is a horrifying one. "And you agreed?"
"I did," Alasdair says. "I think we owe it to him to find out what really happened to his mum, don't you?"
Arthur had often wondered and worried over Mme Bonnefoy's fate, but Alasdair had never admitted to giving it any thought. Neither had Dylan or Michael, and they'd all been in the same room and heard the same ruckus that night. The walls in the manor have many ears, though, and they've learnt from bitter experience that it's safer not to say certain things out loud.
"And how are we supposed to do that?" Arthur asks. "I've looked around myself, but never found any sign that anything untoward happened to her. You know he'll have covered his tracks well."
"It was a book Francis stole last night," Alasdair says. "He doesn't know what it's about, but he thinks it might give us some answers." He glances at Arthur, sly and sidelong. "And help us bring down Grandfather."
"Good." Arthur's own vehemence surprises him, as does Alasdair's proud smile.
"Looks like he does have his uses, after all," Alasdair says, nudging Arthur's shoulder with his own.
Arthur had considered Francis a slimy snake even before his split with the Guild, and can't muster up even a fraction of his brother's obvious enthusiasm for the prospect of an alliance with him. "That remains to be seen," is, for the moment, as much as he's willing to concede.