Where Shadows Dance

by C. S. Harris

  “So what did you do then?”

  “The American Chargé d’Affaires—Mr. Jonathan Russell— got us a meeting with the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs. A Sir Hyde Foley.”

  Something of Sebastian’s reaction must have shown on his face, because Miss Bateman said, “You know Sir Hyde?”

  “I do. And I suspect my opinion of the gentleman matches your own. What happened?”

  “Condescending twit,” muttered Bateman. He took a sip of his waters and shuddered. “Prattled on and on about how as ‘provincials’ we obviously didn’t understand the workings of the British government, since the Foreign Office had nothing to do with the Admiralty. I said, ‘Well, I may not know anything about that, but I do know something about war, and that’s what you lot are going to have on your hands if you keep kidnapping honest American men.”

  Sebastian hid a smile. “So what did Sir Hyde do then?”

  Bateman’s brows lowered. “Kicked us out, he did.”

  “Is that when you met Mr. Alexander Ross?”

  The old man nodded. “We were coming out of the Foreign Office just as he was going in. Elizabeth here was somewhat distressed by the encounter—”

  “I was in a towering rage,” she added darkly.

  “And Mr. Ross kindly paused to see if he could offer any assistance.”

  “So you told him about Nathan?”

  “Yes. And he said he knew this bigwig at the Admiralty and offered to write him on our behalf.”

  “When was this?” Sebastian asked. “That you encountered him, I mean.”

  “A couple of weeks ago, I suppose. I can’t say for certain.”

  “Did you ever meet with him again?”

  Miss Bateman nodded. “Yes. He came to see us here—or rather, at the Ship and Pilot—several days later. In order to look at our supporting documents and confirm his understanding of the events before he actually wrote the letter. Unfortunately, I suspect he died before he was able to finish the letter, for he was to send it with our documents, and he never did.”

  “So you never saw him again after that?”

  Father and daughter exchanged guarded glances.

  “Well, did you?” prompted Sebastian.

  “Not exactly.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “What does that mean?”

  She said, “We saw him—last Friday evening, here, in Stepney. But he didn’t speak to us.”

  Sebastian studied her pale, strained face. “Where was this?”

  “Not far from here. Papa had been drinking a glass of the waters, and we were walking back toward the Ship and Pilot. Mr. Ross came out of one of the houses on Market Street, but he turned and walked away very quickly. As I said, I don’t think he saw us.”

  “You’re certain it was him?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bateman. “It stays light quite late these days. I may be old, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.”

  “Do you remember the house? Would you be able to show it to me?”

  “Gladly,” said Bateman, setting aside his glass and making a move to get up.

  His daughter put out her hand, stopping him. “Not until you’ve finished your waters, Papa.”

  He made a face but dutifully drank it all down.

  They walked together across the field, past a vast rope walk where sweating men were turning cables nearly a foot in girth. The air was thick with the scent of sun-warmed grass and tar and the smells of the river. Just beyond the field they came to a lane bounded on one side by modest but well-kept houses, and Miss Bateman drew up.

  “This one,” she said, nodding to the small, tidy house with whitewashed bricks and yellow trim and shutters that stood near the corner. She turned to look at Sebastian, her brows drawing together with thought. “It’s Ross you’re really interested in, isn’t it? This all has something to do with his death.”

  Sebastian saw no reason to deny it. “Yes. But if there is any way I can help your brother, I will.”

  Her nostrils flared. “You English. You like to talk about justice and personal freedom. But the truth is, they’re just meaningless, hollow phrases that only serve to make you feel good about yourselves. The only thing that matters to you is maintaining the maritime supremacy you’ve enjoyed since Trafalgar.”

  There was something about this woman—her obvious intelligence, or perhaps it was simply her passion—that reminded Sebastian of Hero Jarvis. She might lack Miss Jarvis’s polish and inbred acumen, but the two women shared a similar inner strength and determination and calm resourcefulness.

  “That may well be,” he said. “But somehow I doubt that expressing those sentiments to the Admiralty will do much to advance your brother’s cause.”

  She colored. “No; you’re right, of course. I do beg your pardon. It’s just ...”

  “I understand your frustration. I promise, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He stood for a moment, watching her support her father down the flagway, toward the Ship and Pilot. Then he turned to walk up the short path to the front door.

  He was just reaching the front step when the door opened. Mr. Carl Lindquist came bustling out onto the front stoop, then drew up sharply, his eyes widening at the sight of Sebastian.

  Chapter 30

  “My Lord Devlin,” exclaimed the Swedish trader. “Herregud, you startled me. I vas not expecting you.”

  “To be frank, I wasn’t expecting you, either.” Sebastian squinted up at the house’s simple facade. “You live here?”

  Lindquist hesitated, as if tempted to deny it. Then he obviously realized the folly of the effort, for he said, “Ja. It is hopelessly unfashionable, I know. But very near the docks.” He stared owlishly at Sebastian.

  Conscious of standing on the doorstep, Sebastian said, “I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

  Rather than invite Sebastian inside, Lindquist pulled the door closed behind him and nodded briskly. “If you vish, my lord. I am on my vay to visit one of my storehouses.”

  They walked through increasingly mean streets crowded with blue-smocked men and lolling seamen. Sebastian said, “I understand Alexander Ross visited you last Friday evening.”

  “Friday? No, no.”

  “He was seen coming out your door.”

  The Swede put on a great show of remembrance. “Ah, now dat you mention it, I do recall he came to see me. Ja, ja.”

  “Cut line,” said Sebastian dryly. “You lied to me. Why?”

  The trader’s lips tightened. “I do not see how it is any concern of yours.”

  “Ross is dead. Someone killed him. Would you rather talk to Bow Street? That can be arranged.”

  “No, no,” said Lindquist quickly. “It’s yoost . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  The man gave a nervous laugh. “It is yoost a touch embarrassing, you see. Ross and I, uh, ve shared an interest in spiritualism. Ve met together from time to time vith other like-minded individuals in an attempt to contact the spirits of the dead.”

  Sebastian stared at him. “Are you telling me Ross came to your house for a séance?”

  Lindquist stared back, as if daring Sebastian to disbelieve him. “Ja.”

  “I see. And precisely who were you attempting to contact?”

  “My vife. She died two years ago, in childbirth.”

  “I am sorry for your loss,” said Sebastian.

  Lindquist nodded solemnly in acknowledgment. “And Mr. Ross, he vas interested in contacting his father.”

  “Were either of you successful?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “And who else was at this, er, séance?”

  Lindquist ran the fingers of his right hand up and down his watch chain. “I am sorry, but you must understand dat I cannot betray the confidentiality of the other participants.” He drew up before a vast brick warehouse with a massive overhead iron catwalk that joined it to its twin across the street. “But I can tell you d
is: Mr. Ross was obviously disturbed dat night. He apologized for it aftervards. Agitation of one of the participants can sometimes interfere vith one’s ability to make contact, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. Do you have any idea what had ‘agitated’ him?”

  “All I know is dat someone had come to his rooms, yoost as he vas preparing to leave. I gather they had quite a confrontation. But what the argument vas about or who vas involved, I am afraid I cannot tell you. I did not feel it vas my place to press him.”

  Sebastian studied the Swede’s watery blue eyes. He had no doubt it was all a hum. But it occurred to him that he could do worse than ask Madame Champagne about the visitors to Alexander Ross’s rooms the Friday before his death.

  Angelina Champagne’s seat beside the window in the Je Reviens coffee shop was empty.

  Following the directions of the burly Frenchman behind the counter, he found her on a rustic bench overlooking the reservoir in Green Park. Despite the fierceness of the afternoon sun, she wore a hat with only a short brim and held no parasol. An assortment of ducks and pigeons and sparrows fluttered around her. She smiled as she watched him walk up to her.

  “So. How progresses your investigation, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

  “Not as well as one might wish,” admitted Sebastian, settling on the bench beside her. He watched her crumple a piece of stale bread and toss it to her feathered friends, who fluttered, cooed, and quacked around her. “You come here often, I take it?”

  “Every afternoon.” She broke off another chunk of bread. “They abuse me dreadfully if I am late.”

  They sat side by side for a moment in companionable silence, watching the birds. She said, “On the southern tip of the island of Pellestrina, near Venice, is a beach known as Ca’ Roman. It’s a lovely, quiet spot, famous for its birds. Your mother used to go there often. She especially liked the colonies of little terns and Kentish plovers. During the migration periods, you could sometimes see hoopoes and nightingales, too.”

  Sebastian watched a mallard drake waddle off toward the water’s edge. This was a side of his mother he had never known. In his memories, her enthusiasms had all been for silks and ribbons, masquerades and routs. He wondered whether she missed England, when she watched those Kenti sh plovers dip and glide over a foreign lagoon.

  He wondered whether she missed him.

  His voice quiet, he said, “Was she happy, do you think?”

  “Happiness comes in spurts, does it not? Especially when one has lost so many of those one holds most dear.” She was referring to his mother, of course. But he knew she spoke, also, of herself.

  He studied her flawless profile, the still-smooth line of her cheek, the sensuous curve of her generous mouth, the softly fading fair hair that hid much of the slender silk tie that held her eye patch in place. Then she turned her head to look directly at him, and he experienced again the visceral shock that came with the reminder of that hidden, ruined eye. He realized that for her it must be a constant, inescapable reminder of all that she had suffered, all that she had lost.

  He said, “Do you miss France?”

  She glanced away again to gaze out over the sun-sparkled water. “I miss the France that once was. I miss the life I lived there, those I loved.” A shadow of a smile fluttered across her features, then was gone. “Perhaps what I really miss is the past, which they say is a sign of growing old, yes? To mourn for all that once was and is now gone is to stop looking forward and prefer the past.”

  Her words reminded him of something. He said, “Would you know if Alexander Ross had an interest in spiritualism?”

  “Spiritualism?”

  “Séances. Mediums. Contacting the spirits of the dead. That sort of thing.”

  “Ah.” She shook her head. “No. I never heard him speak of such things. But that is not to say he had no interest in them. Those who do rarely speak of their beliefs openly.” She tipped her head, her remaining eye narrowing as she studied Sebastian’s face. “You think that is what’s involved here? Spiritualism?”

  “Frankly? No. I suspect it’s more than likely a cover for something else. But I’m also told Ross quarreled violently with someone who came to his rooms the Friday evening before he died. Would you know anything about that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I heard them.” Her lip curled. “His father may have been a nobleman, but Antoine de La Rocque has the manners and breeding of a peasant.”

  “Ross’s argument was with de La Rocque?”

  “Yes. I told you he visited Ross frequently. I believe he came that Wednesday, and then he returned again, on the Friday before Alexander’s death.”

  “Do you know what the argument was about?”

  “I didn’t hear most of what was said. Only de La Rocque’s parting shot, which he delivered as he was descending the stairs so that it echoed through the stairwell.”

  “Which was?”

  “I don’t recall the exact words, only that de La Rocque evidently believed his life was in danger and he wanted Ross to give him more money because of it. Ross refused.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “You didn’t ask.”

  He found himself returning her smile. “What else do you know that you’re not telling me?”

  She looked troubled at that and seemed to withdraw into herself. Scattering the last crumbs of her bread, she pushed to her feet and turned toward the path. “I know nothing more. Nothing.”

  After she left, Sebastian stayed for a time, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin resting on his hands as he gazed thoughtfully out over the wind-ruffled surface of the pool.

  Then he returned to St. James’s Street.

  Glancing in the oriel window, he saw that she had still not resumed her accustomed seat. He entered the side door and ran up the stairs to Ross’s rooms.

  His knock was answered by the valet, Poole, who blanched at the sight of him. “My lord! I was ...” He looked like a frightened rabbit seeking a place to hide. “I was just going out.”

  “I won’t be long,” said Sebastian, brushing past him into the room.

  All traces of the broken table that had once stood beside the door were gone. The valet had made surprising progress in his efforts, boxing up some items to be sent to Charlbury Priory, disposing of others. The plump little man had obviously managed to secure a new position and was now eager to move on.

  “Just a few questions,” said Sebastian. “I’ve been wondering about the clothing Ross was wearing the night he died.”

  Poole looked confused. “My lord?”

  “His coat, shirt, breeches, stockings, cravat—everything he had on when last you saw him. Where was he in the habit of leaving the clothing he removed at night? On a chair? The floor?”

  “His linens he dropped on the floor, my lord, to be washed. If his coat, waistcoat, or breeches required attention, he would place them on the daybed. Otherwise, he frequently put them away himself.” Poole paused. “Unless he was foxed, of course.”

  “And when you found Mr. Ross dead on Sunday morning, were his clothes from the previous night on the floor?”

  “His linens, yes, my lord.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Nothing was missing?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Sebastian frowned. A stiletto thrust to the base of the skull would have caused considerable bleeding. The killer would have needed to strip off Ross’s bloodstained clothing, stop the bleeding, manhandle the body into a nightshirt, dump it into the bed, then remove the bloody clothes. But the missing clothes would have presented a problem, for a valet would notice immediately if his master’s clothing was not lying in its habitual place the next morning.

  Sebastian supposed it was possible the killer had substituted items from Ross’s cupboards—a shirt and cravat deliberately crumpled, perhaps, as if worn. But ...

  “His coat and breeches were in the cu
pboard?”

  Both of Poole’s chins disappeared back into his neck. “To be honest, my lord, I did not check immediately. But I have now done a complete inventory.”

  “And?”

  “As I said. Nothing was missing, my lord. Nothing.”

  Chapter 31

  Antoine de La Rocque was straightening the towering shelves of his dusty, overcrowded collection on Great Russell Street when Sebastian walked in the front door and closed it behind him with a soft click. “I should perhaps have warned you,” he said, “that I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

  De La Rocque turned, eyes widening. “Lied to, my lord? But . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Allow me to refresh your memory. You said you’d last seen Alexander Ross the Wednesday before he died. Now I discover you had a spectacular set-to with Ross at his rooms that Friday. I want to know what it was about.”

  The émigré’s nostrils quivered. “I cannot conceive who would have told you such a thing, for in truth—”

  Sebastian advanced on him, backing the émigré up until he was flattened against the towering stacks of books. “I should also warn you,” said Sebastian, “that when it comes to murder, I tend to be a trifle impatient. I’ll ask you one last time: What was the subject of your argument with Alexander Ross?”

  De La Rocque licked his lips. “I told you that from time to time I provided Ross with old books I thought might be of interest to him.”

  “Yes,” said Sebastian when the Frenchman hesitated.

  “Well ... Along with books, I did sometimes provide Mr. Ross with information. Nothing important, you understand—just the sort of rumors and innuendos one overhears in the émigré community. But passing information can be dangerous. I thought it not unreasonable that the British government should increase the remuneration I receive in light of the . . . danger involved.”

  “You mean, because you felt the danger had recently increased? ”

  “Yes.”

  “But Mr. Ross didn’t agree?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “And what precisely led you to believe that the danger you face is rising?”