Sebastien St. Cyr 08 - What Darkness Brings

by C. S. Harris

  But it was still prison.

  “I ought to let you hang,” said Sebastian without preamble as the turnkey locked the heavy door behind him. “I swear to God, if it weren’t for Kat, I would.”

  Yates pushed awkwardly to his feet, his leg irons throwing him off balance. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

  “It means that if you can’t be honest with me, then you’re just wasting my time—and yours. And the way I see it, you don’t have much time left to waste.”

  A muscle ticked along the ridge of the man’s jawbone. “What do you think I’m lying to you about?”

  Sebastian gave a humorless laugh. “Have you told me so many bouncers that you can’t be certain which ones I’ve caught on to? I’m talking about last Sunday morning. When you stood in the middle of Fountain Lane and threatened to gut Eisler from stem to stern. The chandler who witnessed the exchange will doubtless be testifying at your trial. What do you think the chances of your acquittal are now?”

  Yates simply stared at him, his face pale.

  Sebastian said, “You claimed you had no quarrel with Eisler. What the hell was it about?”

  Yates sank into his chair again, one splayed hand pressing against his cheek with such force that it distorted his features.

  “What was the quarrel about?” Sebastian demanded again when the other man remained silent.

  Yates shifted his hand so that it covered his lower face and mouth. “The old bugger was trying to cheat me. He’d somehow managed to acquire certain information. . . . I don’t suppose I need go into detail as to its nature. He thought he could use it to his advantage.”

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

  A faint flush darkened the other man’s face. “I suppose I thought if you knew I had a reason to kill him, you wouldn’t help me. But I didn’t shoot him. I won’t deny that I considered it. But I didn’t actually do it.”

  Sebastian studied the other man’s pinched features. The ponderous British legal system called men such as Yates “sodomites” and punished them with a rare viciousness. But they tended to call themselves “mollies.” They had created a shadowy culture of their own in London, a hidden but vibrant subworld of pubs and coffeehouses called molly houses where they felt free to mingle and meet, to dance and cut up a lark. Yet the threat of disgrace, imprisonment, and death hung over them always. The men who moved through that world lived in constant fear of both detection and extortion.

  Sebastian said, “Where did Eisler acquire this information?”

  “The bastard traded in other people’s secrets, the same way he traded in gems and fine furniture and art objects. He was always getting nasty bits of information out of people who owed him money.”

  “You mean he was a blackmailer?”

  “Not in the strictest sense. He was more subtle than that. But he certainly used what he knew about people to his own advantage.”

  “Exchanging shouted threats in the street doesn’t exactly sound subtle to me.”

  Yates gave a ghost of a smile. “True. But then, I was refusing to play his game.”

  “You weren’t afraid?”

  The privateer’s jaw hardened. “Men have tried extortion with me before.”

  Sebastian had heard about the schemes often run against the mollies. Two confederates would cruise the parks and byways known to be frequented by London’s mollies. Then they’d separate, with one of the pair—usually young and attractive—approaching a likely target to “make a bargain.” Once the target was in a compromising position, the second confederate would rush in on the couple and threaten to denounce the extortion victim to the authorities unless he paid them. Handsomely and repeatedly.

  “And what did you do to those who thought you a likely victim for extortion?” asked Sebastian. “Kill them?”

  Yates simply stared back at him.

  “Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian.

  “Would you have me believe you wouldn’t do the same, in my position?”

  The two men’s gazes met. Clashed.

  Yates said, “If I’d killed Eisler, I would tell you. I didn’t kill him.”

  Sebastian went to stare out the small barred window overlooking the Press Yard below. They called it the Press Yard because, until recently, it was where those who refused to enter a plea against charges were literally pressed: Increasing loads of weights were placed upon the accused’s chest until he—or she—agreed to plead.

  Or until they were crushed to death, at which point the legal niceties were no longer relevant.

  He said, “I’m told Daniel Eisler was in the process of trying to sell a large blue diamond—a very large blue diamond. Do you know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “What about a man named Jud Foy? Ever hear of him?”

  “Foy?” Yates shook his head. “I don’t think so. What does he look like?”

  “Thin. Disheveled. Like he belongs in Bedlam.”

  A smile flickered across the ex-privateer’s features. “Really, Devlin, I’ll admit I associate with some rougher sorts, but I do draw the line somewhere.”

  “What about a former army lieutenant named Tyson?”

  “You mean Matt Tyson?”

  “So you do know him.”

  “I’ve met him a few times, here and there. Why?”

  “Know if he had any dealings with Eisler?”

  Yates thought about it a moment, then said, “He must have. I remember running into him once in Fountain Lane, although it was some time ago now. Perhaps as much as a month or so ago.”

  “Do you know why he was there?”

  “No. Why? What does Tyson have to do with this?”

  Sebastian pushed away from the window. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

  Lieutenant Matt Tyson was about to enter Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon when Sebastian walked up to him and said, “We need to talk. Come walk with me.”

  Tyson paused, the faintest hint of a smile tightening the sun-darkened flesh beside his thin lips as he shook his head. “Sorry; I’m meeting someone here at four.”

  Sebastian kept his voice pleasant. “We can have our conversation inside, if you prefer. I’ve no doubt Jackson’s other patrons would find the sordid details of your court-martial fascinating.”

  Something flashed in the lieutenant’s eyes, something almost immediately hidden by his carefully lowered lids. “I was acquitted; remember?”

  “Not by me.”

  Without glancing at him again, Tyson resettled his hat on his head and turned his steps toward Piccadilly. A thick bank of dark clouds still hung low over the sodden city. Water dripped from overhanging eaves and misted windowpanes; the pavement glistened dark and wet.

  “When did you sell out?” asked Sebastian, falling into step beside him.

  “A couple of months ago, if you must know. What the devil difference does it make to you?”

  “Curious timing.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that after all these years, it looks as if Wellington is finally turning the tide against the French. I should think it would be a time of great opportunity for a man of your . . . talents.”

  Tyson’s eyes narrowed. But all he said was, “Sometimes a man just gets tired of killing.”

  “Not all men.”

  Tyson threw him a quick sideways glance. “You did.”

  It had been two years now since Sebastian had sold out for a complicated crescendo of reasons he’d yet to come to grips with. But then, he had never been the kind of man who took pleasure in killing.

  Tyson had.

  Sebastian said, “What was your business with Daniel Eisler?”

  The man’s faint smile broadened. “My, my, you have been busy, haven’t you?”

  “What was it?” Sebastian said again.

  Tyson shrugged. “Eisler bought jewels. I had some to sell. And no, I didn’t slit some señorita’s throat or rape a convent full of nuns
to get them. I took them off a dead French colonel at Badajoz. Where he got them is really none of my affair, now, is it?”

  The bodies of the French dead were routinely stripped of their valuables, uniforms, and boots before being buried or burned. The spoils of war had long been considered a natural supplement to the King’s shilling. Officers didn’t usually join in the looting of the dead, although some did.

  But the systematic looting of civilians was something else again. Wellington had always discouraged the age-old tradition of subjecting a conquered city to three days of ritual pillage by marauding, drunken soldiers—both because it was bad for discipline and because the British liked to portray themselves as saviors rather than conquerors. But Badajoz would remain forever a stain on the honor of the modern British army, for the fortified Spanish frontier city had endured days of savage rape, murder, and pillage after being stormed by Wellington’s troops last March. Tyson might claim his booty came from the body of a French colonel, but Sebastian suspected otherwise.

  He said, “And did Eisler give you a fair price for your ‘items’?”

  “He did, yes. Otherwise, why would I have done business with him?”

  “Who suggested him to you? Thomas Hope?”

  Tyson shook his head. “A friend from Spain. And I haven’t been anywhere near the old goat in weeks, so if you’re looking for someone besides Yates to pin this murder on, you’re just going to have to keep looking.”

  In Sebastian’s experience, most people had a tendency to fidget when they lied; they hesitated, or their voices rose in pitch, or their demeanor shifted in some subtle way. But there were those who could meet your gaze, smile, and lie with a careless grace born of a complete absence of either guilt or fear of detection. Matt Tyson was one of those men.

  “I might actually believe you,” said Sebastian, “if I hadn’t sat on your court-martial board.”

  A quick flare of anger tightened the lieutenant’s features before being carefully smoothed away. He turned his head to watch an elegant red barouche dashing up the street. After a moment, he said, “I did see something at Eisler’s house the last time I was there, which you might find relevant.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “A woman was leaving Fountain Lane just as I arrived. A young, nicely dressed gentlewoman. I couldn’t tell you who she was—she was heavily veiled and got into a hack that was waiting for her. I assumed at first she was there for much the same reason I was—to sell Eisler a piece of her jewelry, probably to pay off a gaming debt. Then I saw Eisler.”

  “And?”

  “The old goat had his flap buttoned awry. He must have taken her right there in the parlor because I could still smell the stink of his lust in the air. I’ve since heard it’s where he always took his women—whores and ladies alike.”

  “You’re saying he made a practice of it?”

  “Didn’t you know?” Smug amusement bordering on derision suffused the other man’s face. “He was quite the nasty old sot, your Eisler. He’d loan money to pretty young things, and then when they couldn’t pay his ruinous interest rates, he’d offer them a choice: Either let him tumble them on that ratty old couch or have whatever trinket they’d pledged declared forfeit. He offered the same deal to men who were late on their payments—if they had a pretty wife.”

  When Sebastian remained silent, Tyson laughed out loud. “Don’t believe me? Ask that sybaritic nephew of his.”

  “You mean Perlman? What would he know of it?”

  “Far more than you might think. I’ve heard that one of the ways Perlman kept in his uncle’s good graces was by providing him with whores.” Tyson paused as the church bells of the city began to chime the hour, one after the other ringing out over the wet streets. “And now, you really must excuse me. I did mention I was meeting someone at four.”

  Sebastian let him go.

  Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have been inclined to doubt just about anything a man like Tyson said. But he kept remembering that dank, foul room with its heavy, old-fashioned chimneypiece and a small pair of cheap blue satin slippers peeking out from beneath a worn horsehair sofa.

  Chapter 29

  T

  he discovery that Eisler had been engaging in a nasty combination of blackmail and sexual exploitation had the potential to open up a vast array of new suspects, most of them unfortunately both nameless and faceless. If Yates and Tyson were telling the truth—and Sebastian suspected that in this, at least, they were—then London must be so full of men and women who’d nursed a secret but powerful reason to murder the old bastard that it was difficult to know where to start.

  Sebastian was seated in the drawing room, the blue satin slipper held thoughtfully in his hands, when Hero came in yanking off her wet bonnet and gloves.

  “I’ve been looking for the black cat,” she said. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “Calling what? ‘Here, cat, cat, cat’? You need to give him a name.”

  “He’s not my cat; he’s yours.” She went to stand at the window, her gaze on the rain-washed pavement below. “One of the housemaids saw a man hanging around who sounds like Foy. She said he was trying to coax the cat to come to him with what looked like sardines.”

  Sebastian knew a moment of disquiet. But all he said was, “The cat’s probably just taken shelter from the rain someplace. He’ll be back. Where else is he likely to get roast chicken and a bowl of cream?”

  She gave him a tight, strained smile and nodded to the slipper in his hand. “What’s this?”

  Sebastian held it up. “It’s one of a pair that I found tucked beneath a tattered old horsehair sofa in Daniel Eisler’s parlor.”

  She lifted the shoe from his hand. “This is not a lady’s slipper.”

  “No, it is not.”

  She looked up at him. “You say both shoes were still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How odd. I wonder if he gave their owner a new pair and she simply left the old ones.”

  “Eisler? I suspect that old bastard never gave anyone anything—excepting perhaps an inclination for suicide.”

  “Then I’d say the shoes’ owner must have left the premises precipitously.” She handed the shoe back to him. “Somewhat like Cinderella.”

  “Only, I doubt this Cinderella was worried about her coach turning into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight.”

  Hero said, “Apart from the fact that walking in one’s stocking feet would be decidedly uncomfortable, these shoes—however cheap I might consider them—would nevertheless represent a significant investment for their owner. I doubt she left them behind willingly.”

  “I’m thinking she might have been there when Eisler was shot.”

  Hero frowned down at the tiny, worn shoe. “And ran away in fear?”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “Are you saying you think your Blue Satin Cinderella might have shot him?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So who is she?”

  “I have no idea. But I know someone who might.”

  “Oh, God. Not you again,” exclaimed Samuel Perlman when Sebastian came upon him in the showrooms of Christie’s in Pall Mall.

  Sebastian ran his gaze over the framed sepia-colored draw-

  ing of a woman’s head that Perlman was examining. “I’d have thought you just inherited enough of this sort of thing from your uncle to satisfy the acquisitive urgings of even the most ardent collector.”

  “I like to keep an eye on what’s available,” said Perlman, leaning forward to squint at the drawing’s signature. “Do you think it’s really a Leonardo?”

  “You tell me.”

  Eisler’s nephew had changed into tight, buff-colored trousers, a claret-and-white-striped waistcoat, and a monstrously wide cravat meticulously arranged in a complicated style known as the Waterfall. He straightened. “After our previous conversation, I’d hoped I’d seen the last of you.”

  Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. “L
et that be a lesson to you: If you don’t care to see me again, you might consider being a bit more forthcoming in your answers to my questions.”

  Perlman breathed a resigned sigh. “What now?”

  “I’ve been hearing some interesting tales about your uncle and women.”

  “Women?” Perlman gave a high-pitched titter. “Don’t be ridiculous. My uncle was an old man.”

  “Not that old.”

  Perlman moved on to a massive, heavily framed oil that took up a considerable section of one wall, his attention all for the darkly swirling scene before him.

  Sebastian said, “I’m told you used to provide your uncle with whores.”

  Perlman cast him a quick sideways glance. “And precisely who, one wonders, told you that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  When Perlman remained silent, Sebastian said, “I think your uncle may have had a woman at his house the night he was shot. Did you send her to him?”

  “I did not.”

  “But you’re not denying that you did sometimes act as his procurer.”

  Perlman kept his gaze on the vast oil. “What an ugly little word.”

  “You have one you prefer?”

  “I won’t deny I did occasionally perform certain . . . commissions for him.”

  “Define ‘occasionally.’”

  “Every few weeks . . . or so.”

  “Where did the women come from?

  “The Haymarket. Covent Garden. Really, Devlin, you know as well as I do where to find women of that sort.”

  “Are you saying you supplied him with common women you picked up off the street?”

  Perlman swiped the tip of his nose between one pinched thumb and forefinger and sniffed. “That’s the kind he liked.”