Sebastien St. Cyr 08 - What Darkness Brings

by C. S. Harris

  They had settled in a crowded room on the first floor overlooking the wet garden. Hero suspected the chamber had probably been designed as a morning room. But Abigail had turned it into a combination morning room / library, with most of the walls covered by towering bookcases stuffed with old books and a curious assortment of objects. She had The Key of Solomon open on the table and apologized to Hero for failing to offer her refreshment by saying, “I make it a practice never to have food or drink around while viewing a valuable old manuscript.”

  “I quite understand,” said Hero, watching her friend. “Is it valuable?”

  “From a scholarly standpoint, yes. Monetarily? I’m not the one to judge. Going by the writing style, I’d say this copy probably dates to the middle of the sixteenth century.”

  “Which is a century after the invention of the printing press. So why is it handwritten?”

  Miss McBean turned the next page and frowned down at an illustration of strange geometric design. “The Key of Solomon has been translated into Greek, Latin, Italian, French, and to a lesser extent into English. But to my knowledge it has never been published. Even grimoires that have been printed are frequently also found as manuscripts. There is a belief that handwritten texts contain inherent magical forces of their own, so they’re considered more powerful than the printed versions.”

  “So it’s—what? Basically a magic textbook?”

  “Yes. It tells you how to make talismans and amulets, how to cast magical spells, how to invoke angels or demons—that sort of thing.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “The usual: sex, money, and power.”

  “What about revenge?”

  “That too.”

  “All the typical motives for murder,” Hero said softly.

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I suppose you’re right.” Miss McBean’s hand stilled on the pages. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was smuggled into England for a man who was murdered last Sunday.”

  “You mean Daniel Eisler?”

  “You knew him?”

  Miss McBean carefully closed the manuscript’s worn leather cover and set it aside. “I did, actually. He was obsessed with the occult. And I don’t mean in a scholarly sense—although he did try at first to convince me that that was his motive.”

  “You mean he believed in it?”

  “I eventually came to realize that he did, yes. He was continually approaching me for assistance in translating some difficult passage or tracking down obscure references.”

  “You’re saying you helped him?” Hero asked, not quite managing to keep the surprise out of her voice.

  Miss McBean went off into one of her hearty gales of laughter. “If you’re asking did I assist him in summoning demons and casting spells of ruination and destruction, the answer is no. What I was doing up there”—she nodded toward the attic room above—“was just my way of wrapping my head around what the writers of these texts were up to.”

  She was silent for a moment, her gaze on the scene outside the window, where her towheaded niece and nephew, umbrellas in hand, could be seen splashing gleefully through rain puddles under the watchful eye of a nursemaid. The girl looked to be about eight, the boy perhaps three or four years younger. The boy squealed with delight, the girl shouting something Hero couldn’t quite catch.

  Abigail smiled; then her smile faded. “I suppose in a sense I did help him at first, inadvertently. When he told me his interest was scholarly, I naturally believed him. I mean, why wouldn’t I? It was only gradually I began to realize he was deadly serious about what he was doing. He actually believed in the power of the old rituals and incantations. He had an extensive collection of grimoires.”

  Hero nodded to The Key of Solomon on the table between them. “What can you tell me about this one?”

  “Well . . . it’s generally considered one of the most—if not the most—important of all the grimoires. It purports to date from the time of Solomon, although in reality it was probably written during the Renaissance. Most of them were.”

  “For some reason I always tend to associate magic with medieval times, not the Renaissance.”

  Miss McBean nodded. “Folk magic was widespread during the Middle Ages. But by the Renaissance there was a growing sense that magic had degenerated since the days of the Egyptians and Romans. Then, with the fall of Constantinople and the expulsion of the Jews and Moors from Spain, places like France, Germany, and England saw a huge influx of some of the truly ancient magic texts that had been lost to Europe. As a result, in the fifteenth century there was a veritable explosion in the writing of new grimoires. You’ll find a lot of Jewish kabbalistic magic, Arab alchemy, and Greco-Roman-Egyptian influence in these works.”

  She ran her fingertips over the edge of the battered old manuscript, then sat staring at it thoughtfully.

  “What is it?” Hero asked, watching her.

  “I was just thinking. . . . The newspapers said Daniel Eisler was shot. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “It doesn’t sound to me as if his interest in the occult had anything to do with what happened to him. I mean, it’s not as if he were found spread-eagled on a pentacle with a Hand of Glory burning on his chest.”

  “A hand of what?”

  Abigail McBean’s eyes crinkled in quiet amusement. “You don’t want to know.” The amusement faded. “Do you really think this”—she indicated the old grimoire—“has something to do with his death?”

  “Probably not. But there might be something here we’re missing. Something important.”

  Hero was aware of Abigail fixing her with a steady stare. “I gather Lord Devlin has taken an interest in Daniel Eisler’s death?”

  Hero nodded. “He doesn’t believe that Russell Yates—the man who has been arrested for the crime—is guilty.”

  “Ah.” Her friend’s gaze shifted again to the children playing in the garden. For a moment, Hero thought she was about to say something. But she didn’t.

  Hero said, “Do you know where I could find an English version of The Key of Solomon?”

  Miss McBean rose to her feet in a waft of lavender mixed oddly with musk. “I have several. I’d be happy to lend you one.”

  “Thank you, but I couldn’t let you do that.”

  “No, please; none of the copies I have are especially valuable. Let me do this.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  The version she lent Hero was smaller, only about eight inches tall, but written in a beautiful, flowing hand and exquisitely illustrated in rich shades of ultramarine and cinnabar and vermilion. Hero glanced through it, her eyes widening. “You said most spells deal with wealth, sex, power, or revenge. Which would you say interested Eisler the most?”

  Miss McBean thought about it a moment. “He seemed particularly obsessed with invocations to constrain the spirits of the dead.”

  “Invocations to— Good Lord.”

  “I’m not so sure the good Lord has aught to do with any of this,” said Abigail McBean, her plump, pretty face taking on an oddly pinched look, her frizzy red hair like a flame in the rainy day’s gloom. “Read the book. You’ll see.”

  Outside Abigail McBean’s deceptively normal-looking little house, a faint drizzle was still falling from the gray sky. The air hung heavy with the smell of wet grass and fading roses and the acrid bite of smoke from the endless rows of chimneys. As she walked down the short garden path to where her carriage waited at the kerb, Hero’s attention was all for the task of keeping the rain off the two manuscripts in her arms. She didn’t notice the dark-haired man in the slouch hat and too-big coat until he reared up before her.

  “There y’are. Been waitin’ for you, I have,” he said, his grin wide and vacuous, like a man who laughs at his own private joke—or long ago took leave of his senses.

  Hero’s gaze flew to her yellow-bodied carriage, the horses’ hides gleaming blue-black in the rain. She saw her footman, Georg
e, start forward, face going slack with sudden alarm. She knew she was in no real danger. Yet she felt her skin crawl, her breath quicken in that way common to all living things when confronted with evidence of madness.

  “Excuse me,” she said, making to go around him.

  Bony and filthy, his hand snaked out, his fingers digging into the sleeve of her carriage dress. “Don’t go yet. Got a message for the captain.”

  Quivering with revulsion, Hero jerked her arm away from the man’s grasp with such force that she nearly sent the two manuscripts in her hands flying. “What captain?”

  “Captain Lord Devlin. Tell him I’m owed what I’m owed, and he ought by rights to see that I get it. Maybe he don’t remember Jud Foy. But he should. Oh, yes, he should.”

  “My lady?” said George, coming up beside her. “Is this person bothering you?”

  Foy held his splayed hands up and out to his sides. His grin never faltered and his gaze never wavered from Hero’s face. “You tell him. Hmm?”

  Then he thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and sauntered away, elbows swinging, lips puckered into a tuneless whistle quickly lost in the patter of the rain.

  Chapter 27

  S

  ebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Hero seated at the library table calmly cleaning a tiny muff flintlock with a burnished walnut stock and engraved gilt mounts that had been a gift from her father.

  He said, “Is this general maintenance, or did you shoot some-

  one?”

  She looked up at him. There was no humor in her face, only a cold purposefulness that reminded him disconcertingly of Lord Jarvis. “Ever hear of a man named Jud Foy?”

  He thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”

  “Because he was waiting for me when I came out of Abigail McBean’s house today—the same man who was watching this house last night. He said his name is Jud Foy, and he wanted me to give you a message.”

  “Bloody hell. How did he know where you were?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve no notion. But he called you ‘captain.’ He said, ‘Tell the captain I’m owed what I’m owed.’”

  “‘Owed’? What does he think he’s owed?”

  “He didn’t specify. Whatever it is, though, he seems to believe it’s your responsibility to see that he gets it. You may not remember him, but he obviously thinks you should.”

  Sebastian walked over to where a bottle of burgundy stood with glasses on a tray. He poured himself a drink, then stood with the glass in one hand, his thoughts far away.

  Jud Foy. Jud Foy? He tried to put the name together with the wet, disheveled, skeletally thin man from last night, and knew it again, that vague sense of an elusive memory gone before it was quite grasped.

  Hero said, “You told me last night that you thought he looked familiar.”

  “He did. But I still can’t place him.” Sebastian took a slow sip of his wine. “I thought last night that he must have something to do with my investigation into the murder of Daniel Eisler. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Because he knows you were in the army?”

  Sebastian nodded. “Although I suppose it’s possible he’s linked in some way to Matt Tyson. When he said, ‘I saw you coming out of his house,’ I assumed he was talking about Eisler’s house. But he could have meant Hope’s house.”

  She listened to him, her face impassive, while he told her of his conversations with Francillon and Perlman. Then she said, “Is it possible Foy could have something to do with your friend Rhys Wilkinson? You’ve visited his lodgings several times in the last few days, haven’t you?”

  “I suppose that’s possible too, although I doubt it.” He set aside his glass and reached for his hat and gloves.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To ask Sir Henry to look into this Foy. And then I think it’s time Lieutenant Tyson and I had a little talk.”

  “Jud Foy?” Sir Henry Lovejoy frowned, his lips pursing thoughtfully as he shook his head. “The name’s not familiar to me. But I can ask one of the lads to look into him. Do you want him arrested?”

  “He hasn’t exactly done anything,” said Sebastian.

  They were walking down Bow Street. The rain had eased up again, but the narrow lane was dark and wet and crowded with a crush of ragged costermongers and squeaky carts overflowing with produce from the nearby market of Covent Garden. The scent of damp earth and sweaty, unwashed bodies hung thick in the air.

  Sir Henry said, “I had a visit yesterday evening from Mr. Bertram Leigh-Jones.”

  Sebastian looked over at him. “Oh?”

  “Your name came up in conversation. He made a number of demands.” Sir Henry pulled at his earlobe, the faintest hint of a smile playing about his normally serious features. “Unfortunately, I can’t seem to recall what any of them were.”

  “He’s a very prickly magistrate, Mr. Leigh-Jones.”

  “Most West End magistrates are—with good reason.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  They turned down the short stretch of Russell Street that led to the open market square. The press had become a nearly intolerable squeeze, and Sebastian noticed that Lovejoy was careful to keep his hand in his pocket, guarding his purse.

  The magistrate sniffed. “Let’s just say that a parliamentary inquiry into the licensing of pubs in a number of parishes might uncover a pattern of irregularity.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Mmm. After he left, I decided to send one of my lads over to Fountain Lane to make a few inquiries. Given the quick apprehension of Mr. Yates, I suspected Lambeth Street might have neglected to interview some of the locals not directly involved.”

  Sebastian huffed a soft laugh. Leigh-Jones should have known better than to demand that Bow Street stay out of his district’s affairs. “And?”

  “The constable couldn’t find anyone who would admit to being in the area at the time of the murder.” Sir Henry cast Sebastian a quick sideways glance. “You’ve heard that two men were found dead at Eisler’s house early this morning? One stabbed in the house, the other shot down in the rear alley.”

  “I’d heard, yes.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  Sebastian kept his gaze on the crowded market square before them, its rickety stalls piled high with turnips and potatoes, cabbages and squash. “Have they been identified?”

  Sir Henry nodded. “They have, yes. The ruffian in the house was Morgan Aldrich, a man well-known to the authorities in the area, whilst the body in the alley belonged to his young brother, Piers.”

  “How did they manage to enter the house?”

  “I understand they worked the bars loose at a window in the basement light well, then used a diamond-tipped blade to cut the glass.”

  “Unusually sophisticated for common ruffians.”

  “It is, yes. Curiously, however, the bolt on the back door also appears to have been tampered with. It was very subtle—so subtle I suspect most people would have missed it entirely. Only, Eisler’s old retainer, Campbell, noticed it.”

  “He would,” said Sebastian.

  “One suspects,” continued Sir Henry, looking at Sebastian intently, “that some unknown personage, desirous of concealing his illicit entry, gained admittance through the back door, and that unknown personage is the one responsible for the deaths of the Aldrich brothers, who came in through the basement with no regard for whatever evidence of their housebreaking they were leaving behind.”

  “An interesting theory. Only, how likely is it that two different sets of ruffians would break into the same house at the same time, and take to murdering one another?”

  “I suppose that would depend on what they were looking for. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas, would you?”

  Sebastian kept his features carefully schooled. “Mr. Eisler was known to possess a number of valuable items.”

  “So he w
as.” Lovejoy paused, his attention momentarily caught by a Punch and Judy professor set up beneath the nearest arcade, then walked on. “Ah, I almost forgot; my constable did uncover one interesting piece of information. One of the individuals with whom he spoke—a chandler’s apprentice—recalled seeing Mr. Yates standing on the pavement before the victim’s house the morning of the murder. Eisler himself was in his open doorway, and the two men were engaged in what the apprentice described as a ‘right royal row.’”

  Sebastian felt his jaw tighten with a spurt of quiet rage. Yates had assured him quite emphatically that he’d had no quarrel with Eisler. “The apprentice knew Yates by name?”

  “No. But his description of the man involved was unmistakable. There can’t be many sun-darkened gentlemen in London who wear their hair long and affect a gold pirate’s hoop in one ear.”

  “And the apprentice was certain the argument he witnessed occurred Sunday morning?”

  “He was, yes. Seems he encountered the altercation on his way home from services at Holy Trinity.”

  “Did he happen to hear the subject of their quarrel?”

  “He did not. He did, however, catch the final, heated exchange of words. Seems Eisler told Yates, ‘Don’t even think about crossing me. I can destroy you and you know it.’”

  Sebastian squinted up at the templelike facade of the church overlooking the square. “And did he manage to catch Yates’s reply?”

  “I’m afraid he did. He says Yates laughed out loud and said, ‘I can split your gullet from stem to stern quicker than a Haymarket whore can pick your pocket, and don’t you forget that, you bloody little bastard.’” The magistrate paused to look out over the churchyard’s jumble of gray, moss-covered tombstones. “Of course, Eisler was shot, not stabbed. But still . . . it doesn’t look good for Mr. Yates.”

  “No,” said Sebastian, drawing up beside him. “No, it doesn’t.”

  Chapter 28

  R

  ussell Yates had drawn his cell’s slat-backed chair up to a small table and was busy writing when the turnkey opened the iron-banded oak door for Sebastian. In the last twenty-four hours, the ex-privateer had managed to shave and change into clean clothes. A feather bed and warm blankets softened his cot; a pitcher of water and a basin stood on a plain shelf beside a bottle of good cognac and a crystal glass. Prison could be surprisingly comfortable for those wealthy enough to make the appropriate arrangements.