by C. S. Harris
“Does Perlman know his uncle was handling the diamond for you?”
“Of course he does. I immediately laid claim against the estate for its value.”
“He’s refusing to pay, is he?”
Hope worked his mouth furiously back and forth. “He is trying.” He frowned down the length of the gallery, to where the workmen were resetting a pane of glass. Then he leaned in closer to ask quietly, “Do you think the French have recovered the diamond?”
“Actually, I’d be very surprised if they have.”
Hope looked surprised. “What makes you so certain?”
“Because I think they’re still looking for it.”
Chapter 35
Samuel Perlman was watching a cricket match at an oval near Sloane Square when Sebastian walked up to him.
He glanced sideways at Sebastian and exhaled in exaggerated exasperation. “You do realize this is getting tiresome, don’t you?”
“For both of us,” agreed Sebastian, pausing beside him, his gaze on the batsman. “Let me give you a hint: It’s never a good idea to lie when there’s a murder involved. It tends to give people the impression you’ve something to hide. Something like guilt.”
Perlman laughed out loud. “Surely you aren’t still suggesting I had something to do with my uncle’s death?”
“You might. I don’t know yet. But as it happens, I was referring to a certain large, rare gem that’s gone missing. You remember the one-the big blue diamond you told me you’d never heard of, despite the fact you were already vociferously denying Thomas Hope’s claim against the estate for its value. Now, it’s always possible that whoever murdered your uncle also took the diamond. Or, you could simply be pretending that he did.”
Perlman’s dark curly hair quivered against his fashionably pale cheeks. “Don’t be insulting. If I had any desire to acquire that diamond, I would simply have purchased it.”
“Ah. So you admit you did know about it.”
“All right. I did, yes. But I certainly did not steal it. To even suggest such a thing is ridiculous. I’m a wealthy man.”
Sebastian kept his gaze on the pitch. “The problem with wealth is that appearances can be deceptive. Trade is always so fickle, is it not? Particularly in time of war. I suspect that between the depredations of Napoleon and the Americans, your interests have not been performing well lately.”
“My holdings and investments are performing just fine, thank you. So if you’re looking for some poor sod to pin this murder on, you’re going to need to look elsewhere.”
Sebastian gave a slow, nasty smile. “If that’s the way you want to play it. I hope you have your affairs in order.” He bowed and started to move away.
Perlman raised his voice. “Wait! What does that mean? What are you going to do?”
Sebastian pivoted to face him again. “I don’t need to do anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if the French already suspect that the stone they’re looking for might now be in your possession. You see, Napoleon is under the impression Hope’s diamond once formed part of the French Crown Jewels. And as you know, the Emperor is not averse to killing in order to get the jewels back.”
“But I don’t have it!”
“Somehow, I suspect Napoleon’s agents won’t be content to simply take your word for it.”
Perlman threw a quick glance around and lowered his voice. “Someone’s been watching me.”
“Really?”
Perlman nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen them once or twice. But usually it’s just a feeling I get. It’s unpleasant. Not to mention. . unsettling.”
“Have you told the authorities?”
“So they can laugh at me? Hardly.” Perlman licked his lips. “Listen; I’ll tell you what I know. But if you try repeating anything I say in a court of law, I’ll deny it to your face.”
“Go on.”
“You’re right; Uncle was selling the diamond for Hope. He even showed it to me several days before he was killed.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“I was under the impression your uncle didn’t like you much. So why did he show it to you?”
“You didn’t know my uncle, did you?”
“Fortunately, no.”
“He was obsessed with beauty and inordinately proud of the items that came into his possession-even if they belonged to someone else. He liked to show them off.”
“So where is the diamond now?”
“I don’t know. He had it in a red Moroccan leather presentation case when he showed it to me. I found the empty case on the floor of the parlor the morning after the murder. Presumably, Yates took it when he killed my uncle.”
“Except that Yates didn’t kill Eisler.”
A condescending smirk spread across the other man’s face. “The authorities seem to disagree with you.”
Sebastian ignored the jibe. “Have you searched the house for it?”
“Of course I’ve searched for the damned thing! You think I want to pay what Hope is demanding for it?”
“Did you ever find your uncle’s account books?”
“No, I haven’t found those either.” A tart edge had crept into Perlman’s voice.
“Did it ever occur to you that both the diamond and your uncle’s books could very well be hidden in the same place?”
“Yes, it has occurred to me. Do you take me for a fool? I tell you, I’ve looked everywhere. I’ve even started sorting through stuff that obviously hasn’t been shifted in decades.”
“Do you mind if I have a look around the house myself?”
Perlman laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?”
The other man stared thoughtfully into the distance for a moment, then shrugged. “Have a go at it, if you like. I’ll send a message to Campbell, telling him to expect you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warn me about what?”
“Uncle had some peculiar interests.”
“What kind of interests?”
But Perlman simply shook his head and said, “You’ll see.”
“I don’t get why this nephew fellow ’as suddenly up and decided to be all cooperative like,” said Tom as Sebastian turned his horses toward Holburn.
“Perhaps because he’s afraid that whoever killed his uncle might try to kill him too.” Sebastian guided his horses around a brewer’s wagon drawn up before the pub at the corner. “Or it could be because he killed his uncle himself, and now he’s afraid he’s got Napoleon’s agents after him. Fear can be a powerful motivator.”
Tom opened his eyes wide. “Ye reckon ’e might be next?”
“It’s certainly possible. We seem to be dealing with some decidedly lethal-minded people.”
Tom lapsed into a thoughtful silence but broke it only a few minutes later, saying, “What ye expectin’ to find in that old house? Ye already been there twice.”
“True. But my previous ventures were both interrupted.”
“What ye think ye mighta missed?”
“At this point? Far too much.”
Sebastian was raising his hand to rap Eisler’s tarnished knocker when the door was jerked open and held wide by a beaming Campbell.
“I’ve just received Mr. Perlman’s message,” said the aged retainer with one of his trembling bows. “And may I say, my lord, how thrilled I am to be allowed to assist you with one of your investigations? Positively thrilled.”
“Ah. . excellent,” said Sebastian, stepping inside. He was beginning to realize that an overly enthusiastic witness could in its own way be as much of a problem as a stubbornly taciturn one.
Campbell beamed. “Where shall we start? The attics? The basement? The parlor?”
“How about back here?” said Sebastian, crossing the jumbled old hall to the low archway beside the stairs. Reaching out, he turned the handle of the first door on his left. It was still locked.
“Do you have the key to this room?”
“U
nfortunately, no, my lord. Mr. Eisler always kept the key to this particular room. Neither Mrs. Campbell nor myself was ever allowed inside it.”
“When Mr. Perlman searched the house, did he have a key?”
“He did, my lord. I believe he discovered one in Mr. Eisler’s office safe. But I’m afraid he carried it away with him.”
“I see.” Sebastian took off his driving gloves and thrust them into a pocket. “Very well. Thank you. I’ll ring if I need you.”
Campbell’s face fell with disappointment. But he bowed with a sigh of resignation and tottered away.
Sebastian waited until the old man had shuffled out of sight. Then he removed from his pocket a set of metal shafts on a ring. It was called a picklock, a device with which Sebastian had become adept during his time as an exploring officer. It required only a keen sense of hearing and a deft touch, both of which Sebastian possessed. Easing the appropriate bent tip into the lock, he carefully slid aside the lock’s gates.
The door popped open.
The room beyond lay in near total darkness. Closing the door behind him, Sebastian crossed to the window to jerk open the thick curtains, then turned.
The chamber was empty except for a trunk and a long table upon which a small number of objects were neatly arranged. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was scrupulously clean, the walls freshly painted, the worn flagstone-paved floor well scrubbed. There was no rug. Instead, a design had been traced onto the floor with what looked like chalk.
His muscles oddly tense, Sebastian walked slowly toward it.
He was standing on the edge of an enormous circle superimposed on a square, with three smaller circles inside it. Four even smaller circles occupied what he suspected were the compass points, each containing a strange geometric symbol within it. More symbols were strategically placed between the second and third inner circles, along with what looked like a verse written in a strange script. At the very center of the figure stood an earthenware vessel filled with burnt charcoal; the scent of frankincense and aloe, vervain and musk hung heavy in the air.
Sebastian felt a faint, inexplicable chill run up his spine.
Turning, he let his gaze rove over the objects laid out on the long, narrow table. Two knives, one with a white hilt, the other with a black hilt, lay beside a short lance. The tips of all three were stained dark with what looked like blood. Beside the blades rested a trumpet flanked by two white candles.
Frowning, Sebastian went to throw open the lid of the trunk and found himself staring at a white linen robe with a series of curious geometric symbols embroidered on the breast in red silk thread. Beneath the robe lay a pair of white leather slippers covered with more strange designs also in red, and a square package wrapped in black silk.
Opening it gingerly, he exposed a pile of snowy white, newly made vellum sheets. Each sheet contained a single figure composed of circles, symbols, and geometric forms similar to that on the floor, but differing in subtle ways. Some were drawn in brilliant blues and reds, others in gold and green or black and silver. He flipped through them, pausing at one in particular that seemed to both repel and attract him at the same time.
At its center lay what looked like a spinning disk within a triangle. Around the triangle were drawn two circles, one within the other, between which was written what looked like a verse. He hesitated a moment, then rolled the parchment like a scroll and thrust it inside his coat. Replacing the remainder of the vellums and the white garments, he lowered the lid of the chest and went to close the curtains.
He found himself wondering what Samuel Perlman must have thought when he first unlocked the door to this room. Or had Perlman already known of his uncle’s peculiar interests before he began searching the house on Fountain Lane?
Sebastian shut the door behind him, then went in search of the aged butler.
With a deliriously excited Campbell once more at his side, he examined the rest of the house, from the attics and dusty, crowded bedrooms down to the kitchen basement. But his search was perfunctory, for he had no real expectation of finding anything.
Men like Daniel Eisler did not give up their secrets easily.
Chapter 36
The little girl looked to be eight or nine years old, although she told Hero she would be twelve the week before Christmas. Hero was beginning to realize that she was hopeless when it came to estimating children’s ages.
A plain child named Elsie, she had small, unremarkable features and a habit of frowning thoughtfully before she answered each of Hero’s questions. Her nondescript hair was braided inexpertly into two plats that stuck out at odd angles from her head, while her faded navy frock was hopelessly tattered, with large, triangular rents that someone had tried to repair with big, crooked stitches. But her face was surprisingly clean, and she wore a cotton bonnet tied around her neck with ribbons. She’d pushed the bonnet off her head, so that it bounced about her shoulders every time she dropped a curtsy-which was often.
“I been sweepin’ nine months now, m’lady,” she told Hero with one of her bobbing curtsies. “Me mother died last year, you see. She used to bring in money making lace, and now she’s gone, me da can’t make enough to keep us.” She nodded to the two small children, a boy of about three and a girl of perhaps five, who sat on the steps behind her playing with a pile of oyster shells. “I gots t’ bring the little ones with me when I sweeps, which scares me, ’cause I’m always afraid they’re gonna run out in front of a carriage when me back is turned.”
Hero watched a stylish barouche drawn by a team of high-stepping bays dash up the street and knew an echo of the little girl’s fear. Children were always being run over and killed in the streets of London. She cleared her throat. “What does your father do?”
Elsie dropped another of her little curtsies. “He’s a cutler, m’lady. But the work’s been slow lately. Real slow.”
“And was it his idea that you take up sweeping?”
“Oh, no, m’lady. I got the idea all by meself. At first I tried singing songs. I could get four or five pence a day for singing-even more on Saturday nights at the market.”
“So why did you give that up?”
“I only knows a few songs, and I guess people got tired of hearing ’em, because after a while, I wasn’t makin’ much at all. If I could read, I could buy some new ballads and sing ’em, but I ain’t never been able t’ go t’ school on account of having to watch the children.”
“Would you like to go to school?”
A wistful look came over the child’s small, plain features. “Oh, yes, m’lady. Ever so much.”
Hero blinked and looked down at her notebook. “And how much do you make sweeping at your crossing?”
“Usually I takes in between six and eight pence. But I can’t come in really wet weather, on account o’ the little ones.” Another carriage was rumbling down the street toward them, and Elsie cast a quick, anxious glance at her siblings.
“How long do you find your broom lasts?”
“A week, usually. I don’t sweep in dry weather. The take is always bad on those days, you know. So when it’s dry, I go back to singing.”
“That’s very clever of you,” said Hero, impressed. All the boys to whom she’d spoken had also complained about the poor “take” in dry weather. But Elsie was the first crossing sweep she’d found who thought to do something else on those days. “What time do you usually come to work?”
“Well, I try to get here before eight in the morning, so’s I can sweep the crossing before the carriages and carts get thick. They scares me. I always try to stand back when I see one coming.”
“And how late do you stay?”
Elsie frowned thoughtfully. “This time o’ year, usually till four or five. Me da wants me home before it starts gettin’ real dark. So I can’t stay out late like the boys.”
“Who gives you more money? The ladies or the gentlemen?”
“Oh, the gentlemen almost always gives me more than the ladies. But the
re’s an old woman what keeps a beer shop, just over there.” She nodded across the narrow street. “She gives me a hunk o’ bread and cheese every day for tea, and I shares it with the children.”
Hero checked her list of possible questions. “What do you see yourself doing in ten years’ time? Do you think you’ll always be a crossing sweeper?”
“I hope not.” Elsie glanced back at the two children now following the progress of a bug along the steps. “Once Mick and Jessup gets big enough to look after themselves, maybe I could get a situation as a servant in a house. I’d work hard-truly, I would. Only, you can’t get a situation without proper clothes, so I don’t know how that’ll ever come to pass.” She smoothed one anxious hand down over her tattered skirt.
Hero smiled. “Did you mend your dress yourself?”
“No, m’lady. Me da did that. He braids me hair every morning too, b’fore he goes out lookin’ for work.”
Simple words, thought Hero. But they transformed the unknown father from some unfeeling monster who sent his little girl out to sweep the streets into an impoverished man doing the best he could to care for his young children without a wife. She pressed a guinea into the girl’s small hand. “Here. Get yourself and the children something to eat, then go home for the day.”
The little girl’s nearly lashless eyes grew round with wonder, and she dropped another of her bobbing little curtsies. “Oh, thank you, m’lady.”
Hero was watching the children run off, hand in hand, when a frisson of awareness passed over her.
She turned her head to find Devlin walking toward her, the fitful afternoon sun warm on his lean, handsome face, his movements languid and graceful and sensuously beautiful. And it struck her that there was something so deliciously wicked about a woman enjoying the mere sight of her husband in broad daylight that the Society for the Suppression of Vice would probably outlaw it, if they could.
“You can’t save them all, you know,” he said, coming to stand beside her, his gaze on the running children. “There’s too many of them.”