Where Shadows Dance

by C. S. Harris

  An army of quayside workers swarmed the docks, lightermen and deal porters and the unskilled laborers who assembled every morning at area pubs like the King’s Arms or the Green Man, where foremen selected their day’s crews. A few carefully worded questions and the discreet distribution of largesse eventually brought him to a decrepit old wharf near the canal, where a big-boned, black-bearded Irishman named Patrick O’Brian was supervising the unloading of a cargo of Russian hemp from a sloop.

  “Aye, we worked the Baltimore Mary, all right,” he said, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed against the glare of the water as he watched his lads toiling on the ship’s deck.

  “She was from the United States?” asked Sebastian.

  “That’s right. Carryin’ a load o’ wheat.”

  “Landed last Saturday?”

  OʹBrian sucked on the plug of tobacco distending his cheek and grunted.

  Sebastian stared out over the grease-skimmed waters of the basin, with its hundreds of crowded hulls, their bare masts stark against the blue sky. “Yet she sailed again on Tuesday? How is that possible?”

  “Never seen anythin’ like it, meself. Paid a premium, they did, to get that cargo off in a rush.” He winked. “And ye can be sure the captain greased the palms o’ the attendin’ revenue officers, to get it through customs that fast.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “That I couldn’t tell ye.” He shot a mouthful of brown tobacco juice into the water. “I have meself a theory, though.”

  He paused to stare at Sebastian expectantly.

  Sebastian obligingly passed him a coin. “And?”

  “Normally, ye see, a ship’s captain will unload. Then he’ll go to the Virginia and Maryland Coffee House on Threadneedle Street, or maybe to the Antwerp Tavern. That’s where all the traders go, lookin’ to consign a cargo to some captain fittin’ out fer the return voyage.”

  “But the captain of the Baltimore Mary didn’t do that?”

  “Nah. He unloaded his ship, took on a few supplies, then sailed out o’ here with naught but ballast. Heard tell he was headin’ for Copenhagen, plannin’ to pick up a cargo and do his refittin’ there. But I couldn’t say for certain.”

  “Now, why would he do that?”

  O’Brian laid a finger alongside his nose and grinned. “Only reason I can figure is that he had a powerful reason to get out o’ London. Fast.”

  Sebastian studied the dock man’s craggy, sun-darkened face. “What was this captain’s name?”

  “Pugh, I believe. Ian Pugh.”

  “Had you ever worked with him before?”

  “A few times.”

  Sebastian handed over another coin. “So your theory is—?”

  OʹBrian glanced in both directions and dropped his voice. “There was this passenger aboard the Baltimore Mary, one Ezekiel Kincaid. He had quite a row with the captain, he did, just after they docked. And then, the next day, what do we hear but that Kincaid has turned up missin’ and ain’t never been found.”

  “So you’re suggesting—what? That Captain Pugh murdered Ezekiel Kincaid?”

  “Not sayin’ he did; not sayin’ he didn’t. I’m just sayin’, it makes you wonder.” He looked at Sebastian expectantly. “Well, don’t it? Don’t it?”

  Sebastian walked through darkening, empty streets echoing with the clashes of shutters as apprentices closed up their masters’ shops. The evening breeze blowing off the water brought with it a welcome coolness but did little to alleviate the area’s foul stench. He wondered if it was possible that the murderer he sought was indeed some American sea captain, at that moment organizing the refitting and loading of his ship in Copenhagen.

  Possible? Yes. Except, what possible connection could exist between the unknown Captain Pugh and Alexander Ross? And how then to explain the intruder Sebastian had encountered at St. James’s Street?

  He was still pondering the possibilities when he turned into the quiet cobbled lane and saw his curricle standing empty before the looming warehouse, the chestnuts tossing their heads and sidling nervously. Two men loitered near the open doorway of the warehouse; rough men in black neck cloths, scruffy brown coats, and greasy breeches. One was chewing on a length of straw; the other, a younger man, held himself stiffly to one side.

  Tom was nowhere in sight.

  Sebastian became aware of the echo of his footfalls in the silent street, the steady beat of his own heart, the icy chill that coursed through him. There was no doubt in his mind that Tom would never abandon the chestnuts. Not willingly.

  Slipping his hand into the pocket of his driving coat, Sebastian walked up to the man with the straw dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Of medium height and build, he had dark hair and a beard-grizzled face split by a provocative smirk.

  “The groom who was with the curricle,” Sebastian demanded, his voice tight. “A lad in a black and yellow striped waistcoat; where is he?”

  The man cast a glance at his companion, then used his tongue to shift the straw from one side of his mouth to the other. “Nipped off to the gin shop up the lane there,” he said, nodding toward the top of the hill.

  “A gin shop?”

  “Ye heard me.”

  Reaching out, Sebastian closed his fist around the front of the man’s coat with his left hand as he whipped the pistol from his pocket. Drawing back the first hammer with an audible click, he shoved the barrel into the man’s face. “I’ll ask one more time. And you’d best give me an honest answer because I won’t ask a third time. Where is my tiger?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw the other man shift his weight. A length of iron bar dropped out of his sleeve and into his hand. He took a step forward, the bar raised to strike.

  Without losing his grip on the first man’s coat, Sebastian pivoted, leveled the pistol over his outstretched arm, and fired.

  The shot hit the ruffian at the base of his throat, the force of the blast slamming him back against the wall behind him. He slid down the wall slowly, his body crumpling sideways as he hit the earth.

  “Jackson!” shouted the first man.

  “Your friend was stupid,” hissed Sebastian. Tightening his grasp on the man’s coat, he pushed the ruffian back against the rough brick wall and shoved the hot muzzle of the gun up under the man’s chin. “Let’s hope you’re smarter.”

  The smell of sizzling flesh filled the air and the man yelped, his eyes going wide.

  “I want to know two things,” said Sebastian, pulling back the second hammer. “Where is my tiger, and who sent you?”

  The man licked his lips, his eyes darting toward the darkened entrance of the storehouse. “He’s in there! He’s not hurt. I swear it!”

  “You’d best hope for your own sake that he is not.” His finger on the trigger, one hand still fisted in the man’s coat, Sebastian hauled him toward the open doorway. “You first.”

  Yanking him up short, Sebastian paused in the entrance to give his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. A vast cavernous space with a brick floor, the storeroom was filled with piles of crates and barrels and one small wriggling boy lying just to the right of the entrance.

  It was Tom, his hands and feet bound, his mouth pried apart by a gag, his eyes open and alert. Sebastian felt a rush of relief, followed by a renewed upsurge of rage.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Sebastian told the hireling, dragging him over to the wide-eyed tiger. “You’re going to kneel right here”—he shoved the man to his knees—“and you’re going to hold yourself very, very still. Do anything stupid and you’re dead. Understand?”

  The man nodded, his jaw set hard.

  Hunkering down beside Tom, Sebastian transferred the gun to his left hand. Keeping the barrel trained on the man, he eased the knife from his boot. Quickly but carefully, he sawed through the ropes binding the lad’s wrists. He was setting to work on the bindings at the boy’s ankles when Tom yanked the gag from his mouth and yelled, ʺLook out!ʺ

  Chapter 27
/>   Sebastian saw the man lunge up, the gleam of a knife blade in his hand.

  Pivoting, Sebastian fired the remaining barrel of his pistol into the man’s chest.

  Within the confines of the warehouse, the report was deafening, the air filling with the stench of burnt powder. The man flopped backward, twitched once, then lay still.

  “Gor,” said Tom on an exhalation of breath.

  Sebastian went to rest his fingers against the man’s neck.

  “Is he dead?” whispered Tom, struggling to sit up.

  Rather than answer, Sebastian went to help the boy to his feet. Then he held him by the shoulders a moment longer than was strictly necessary, his gaze on the lad’s pale, freckled face. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye, gov’nor. They just roughed me up a bit. It was you they was lookin’ to kill.”

  “They knew my name?” Sebastian caught the tiger’s cap up off the brick floor and handed it to him.

  “Aye. Who ye reckon set them on ye?” asked Tom, using the cap to whack the dust off his coat and breeches as he followed Sebastian out into the shadow-filled street.

  “I’m not sure. But after we talk to the local magistrate, I think Mr. Jasper Cox has some explaining to do.”

  It was some hours later when he came upon Jasper Cox in the Cockpit Royal on Birdcage Walk, on the south side of St. James’s Park.

  The air in the small, theaterlike building was thick with the smell of dust and sweaty men and blood. Pushing through the outer ring of rougher men standing tightly packed around the curving walls, Sebastian found Cox sitting in the first tier of benches.

  “Personally, I favor the black-gray,” said Sebastian, squeezing in between Cox and a man in a drab coat who obligingly shifted over to make room for him. “How about you?”

  Cox nodded to the bird being taken out of its bag by a whipthin, sharp-nosed cocker. “My money’s on the red pyle. Look at that size and girth.”

  Sebastian watched the setters move toward the stage in the center of the pit. Above them blazed a huge chandelier, its myriad flames adding to the heat of the close-packed room. “There’s no doubt his spurs are long and sharp,” said Sebastian.

  Cox turned his head to give Sebastian a long, considering look. “I hear you think Alexander Ross’s death was a murder.”

  “It was murder,” said Sebastian, his gaze still on the stage below. “I assume by now that you’ve also heard of the death of one of your agents, an American by the name of Ezekiel Kincaid.”

  “I have. But I’ll be damned if I see what the devil one has to do with the other.”

  “They both died on the same night. Did you know?”

  “No, I did not. Yet what is that to the point?”

  “You don’t find it ... suggestive?”

  “Of what? Men die in London all the time.”

  “True.” Sebastian watched the two birds ogle each other. “How well did you know Mr. Kincaid?”

  Cox frowned. “Not well. He may have been in my employ, but I’d met him only a few times.”

  “I understand he had just arrived from America.”

  “That’s right.”

  “In fact, his ship docked the very morning he died.”

  “Had it? I’m afraid I don’t recall. It may seem significant to you, but my company deals with many such transactions on a daily basis. My personal involvement is minimal.”

  “That’s unfortunate, because I was hoping you could enlighten me on something. You see, as I understand it, the Baltimore Mary dropped anchor and unloaded her cargo in near record time. She was supposed to undergo some repairs and negotiate a new cargo for the return journey. Instead, she weighed anchor and set sail just days later, leaving Mr. Kincaid behind.”

  “Yes, well; he was dead, wasn’t he?”

  “True. But the Baltimore Mary didn’t know that. Or at least, I get the impression they didn’t, since they seem to have made every effort to find him and nearly missed the tide waiting for him.”

  Jasper Cox narrowed his eyes against the haze as the birds circled each other in the ring below. “I really don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

  On the stage before them, the black-gray cock rushed in, feathers flying as the birds struck and slashed. The red pyle reeled back, bleeding.

  Sebastian said, “Don’t you? The thing is, you see, the only link I can find between Ezekiel Kincaid and Alexander Ross is you.”

  “You’re assuming there is a link.”

  “Oh, there’s a link, all right.”

  “I’ll be damned if I see it.”

  The red pyle was down, dazed. Sebastian said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to see Ross dead?”

  Cox kept his gaze on the stage. His bird was finished. After a moment, he said, “Actually ...” Then he shook his head. “No, it’s absurd to even think of it.”

  “Think of what?”

  Cox cast a quick glance around, then leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “I heard a rumor—don’t ask me who from, because I won’t tell you. But there are whispers that Yasmina Ramadani—the wife of the Turkish Ambassador—has made several conquests amongst the members of the diplomatic community, and that Ross was one of her paramours.”

  Sebastian studied the man’s fleshy, sweaty face. It was the most preposterous suggestion he’d heard yet. “Are you seriously suggesting that Alexander Ross was conducting an illicit affair with the wife of the Turkish Ambassador?” Such an activity would have gone beyond mere folly and indiscretion to careen straight into the realm of the suicidal.

  Cox shrugged. “She is a very beautiful woman.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Oh, yes. She appears often in the park. She’s not as retiring as you might suppose, given her position. I understand she’s Greek. A Christian, in fact; from Corinth.”

  “And it didn’t trouble you that your sister’s fiancé was rumored to be involved with another man’s wife?”

  “Of course it troubled me. But I only just heard it, and before I had the opportunity to confront Ross with the accusation, he died. What was the point then in pursuing the matter further? Sabrina is cut up enough about his death as it is, poor girl. Leave her with her image of a noble beloved brought too early to his grave. Why tarnish the sweetness of her memories?”

  “Why indeed?” said Sebastian dryly. “Although I fail to see how the Turkish Ambassador’s wife could possibly have anything to do with Mr. Ezekiel Kincaid.”

  “You’re the one who keeps insisting there’s some link between Kincaid and Ross. Not I.”

  “So you’re suggesting—what? That the Turkish Ambassador killed Ross in a fit of jealousy?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  Sebastian huffed an incredulous laugh and pushed to his feet. “Incidentally, where were you the night Ross died?”

  “Good God. You think I remember?”

  “Are you saying you don’t?”

  Angry color flared in the other man’s cheeks. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was attending a dinner at the home of the Lord Mayor, in Lombard Street.”

  “That should be easy enough to verify.”

  “Please,” snapped Cox. “Be my guest.”

  Leaving the cockpit, Sebastian turned to stroll along Birdcage Walk, his gaze drifting out over the darkened park beside him.

  His first inclination had been to dismiss out of hand the suggestion that Alexander Ross had taken the Turkish Ambassador’s wife as his lover. Everything Sebastian had learned about Ross—his honor, his integrity—argued against it. And yet ...

  And yet, Sebastian had known otherwise honorable men who took mistresses. Hadn’t the Earl of Hendon himself fathered Kat Boleyn by an actress he had in keeping? And then there was the legendary behavior of Sebastian’s own beautiful, faithless mother.

  But he jerked his mind away from that.

  There was no denying that for a woman of Yasmina Ramadani’s position and culture to welcome another man’s a
dvances would be dangerous; if Yasmina and Ross had in truth become lovers, then both had knowingly courted death. Was it improbable? Yes. But they would hardly have been the first to count the world well lost for love.

  Sebastian’s thoughts kept circling back to the inescapable fact that Cox’s rumor fit rather tidily with what Sebastian had already been told. Something had obviously caused enmity between Ross and the Turkish Ambassador. Something Ross had preferred not to disclose to his Russian friend.

  In the end, Sebastian decided that until he knew for certain what that “something” was, it behooved him to keep an open mind.

  Arriving back at Brook Street, he found a scrawled note from Paul Gibson that read simply, Complications. The word was heavily underscored.

  Throwing down a quick glass of wine, Sebastian called for his curricle to be brought round. Then he set off once more for Tower Hill.

  Chapter 28

  Sebastian was raising his fist to knock on Gibson’s door when it opened to emit Mrs. Federico. She came bustling out, her shawl pulled up over her head against the cool breeze that had kicked up after dusk. Her habitual scowl was, if anything, fiercer than ever.

  “The goings-on we’ve had here today!” she exclaimed, glaring at him. “I meant to be out of here hours ago, and more’s the pity that I wasn’t. Havy cavy, that’s what I call them people. Havy cavy!” She tied the ends of her shawl in a knot and stomped off down the hill without looking back.

  Letting himself in, Sebastian found Gibson sprawled in one of the ancient cracked-leather armchairs beside the parlor hearth, a brandy in one hand, the stump of his bad leg propped up on a stool.

  “No, don’t get up,” Sebastian said when his friend struggled to do so.

  Gibson sat back with a grunt. “Is that god-awful woman finally gone?”

  “She is.” Sebastian went to pour himself a glass of wine from the carafe near the window. “What havy-cavy ‘goings-on’ have you been subjecting poor Mrs. Federico to now?”

  “Poor Mrs. Federico, indeed,” said Gibson. “I’ve had Jumpin’ Jack here today, is all.”