by C. S. Harris
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 there’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.”
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“I was watching you. It’s written all over your face.”
“Ah. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the baby that’s turning me into such a maudlin sentimentalist. Whatever you do, don’t tell Jarvis. He’d be scandalized.”
Devlin laughed out loud. “Your secret is safe with me.”
They turned to walk toward her waiting carriage. “Were you looking for me for some reason in particular?”
“I was. I’ve something I’d like to show your Miss Abigail McBean. Care to introduce me to her?”
“Of course. What is it? Another manuscript?”
He shook his head. “Something that I suspect is far more sinister.”
“It’s called a magic circle,” said Abigail McBean, holding the unrolled vellum with hands that were not quite steady. Sebastian and Hero were seated in Abigail’s crowded little morning room, with its towering shelves overflowing with manuscripts and learned texts on magic, alchemy, and witchcraft. “Where did you get this?”
Devlin said, “I found it along with a number of others in a chest in Daniel Eisler’s house.”
She looked up at him. “You say there were many?”
“Yes.”
“So what made you choose this particular one to bring to me?”
Hero watched in bemusement as a faint hint of color touched her husband’s high cheekbones. “That I’m afraid I can’t fully explain. At the risk of sounding fanciful, this one seemed more powerful . . . almost menacing.”
“That’s because it is. In fact, I’d describe it as downright nasty.” Rising to her feet, she went to select a volume from her shelves and brought it back to lay it open on the table before them. On the page was an almost identical figure. “This circle is known as the fourth pentacle of Saturn.”
Devlin looked up at her and shook his head. “What does that mean?”
“In magic, there are seven heavenly bodies, each of which rules its own day and certain designated hours within the day. Operations—which is what ‘magic spells’ are called by those who practice them—are thought best performed on the hour and day ruled by their relevant planet. The sun is considered the realm of temporal wealth and the favor of princes; Venus governs friendship and love, while Mercury is devoted to eloquence and intelligence. The moon i
s the planet of voyages and messages. The hours and days of Jupiter are best for obtaining riches and all you can desire, while Mars is for ruin, slaughter, and death.”
“And Saturn?”
She met his gaze squarely. “The hours and days of Saturn are for summoning souls and demons from hell.”
“Nice,” said Devlin.
Abigail pointed at the Hebrew words printed around the sides of the triangle. “This is from Deuteronomy, chapter six, fourth verse, and reads, ‘Hear, oh Israel; the Lord our God is one Lord.’”
“The Bible?” said Hero in surprise. “Are you telling me this nasty old man was performing magic spells while quoting the Bible?”
Abigail nodded. “Most of the grimoires contain biblical verses. The Bible has long been considered a source of powerful magic.” She traced the strange writing around the circle. “See this? It’s from the Psalms. It reads, ‘As he clothed himself with cursing like with a garment, so let it come into his bowels like water, like oil into his bones.’”
Devlin frowned. “What alphabet is that?”
“It’s an alphabet of twenty-two letters called the transitus fluvii. It’s found in Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa’s sixteenth-century grimoire, Third Book of Occult Philosophy, although I don’t know if it originated with him. Basically I guess you could call it an occult alphabet.” She sank back into her chair. “The items on the table you described would be used for various magic rituals or operations. The short lance is supposed to be dipped in the blood of a magpie, while the knife with the white hilt is dipped in the blood of a gosling and the juice of the pimpernel.”
“And the knife with the black hilt?” asked Hero.
Abigail glanced over at her. “A knife with a black hilt is only used to summon evil spirits. It’s dipped in the juice of hemlock and the blood of a black cat.”
“Oh, God,” whispered Hero. “That’s what the cat was for.”
“And it explains why Eisler kept all those birds,” said Devlin, picking up the vellum to study it again.
Abigail nodded. “They would also have been used for sacrifices. White animals and birds are typically sacrificed to good spirits, and black to evil spirits.”
“He did seem to favor the black,” said Devlin.
Abigail laced her hands together in her lap so tightly the knuckles showed white. She looked like a simple, red-haired spinster, prim and plain—until one remembered she was surrounded by texts on magic and the darkest secrets of the occult. “He was not a nice man,” she said, her voice oddly strained, tight. “I’m glad he’s dead.”
“You sound like Hero,” said Devlin, looking up.
“He caused great harm and unhappiness to many. True justice is rare in this world, but this time, at least, I think we have seen it in action.”
“Unless an innocent man hangs for his murder.”
Abigail’s anger seemed to drain away, leaving her looking troubled. “You will be able to prove that this man Yates is innocent, won’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Devlin carefully rolled the white sheet of vellum. “You said this is called the fourth pentacle of Saturn. What is it used for?”
“Operations of ruin, destruction, and death.”
“I wonder whose death he was trying to cause,” said Hero.
Devlin’s gaze met hers. “If we knew that, we might know who killed him.”
Chapter 37
“A
h, Lord Devlin,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy when Sebastian stopped by Bow Street to see him later that afternoon. “I was just about to send a message round to Brook Street. I’ve discovered some interesting information about that fellow you asked me to look into.”
“You mean Jud Foy?”
“That’s the one, yes.”
“You’ve found him?”
“Not yet, no. But I thought you might like to know that it seems he was once a rifleman.”
“With what regiment?”
“The 114th Foot. He was invalided out in 1809.”
“Good God, is he Sergeant Judah Foy?”
“He is, yes.” Something of Sebastian’s reaction must have shown on his face, because Lovejoy’s eyes narrowed. “You know him?”
“You could say that.”
Tyson was cupping wafers at Menton’s Shooting Gallery when Sebastian came to stand off to one side and quietly watch. The man’s movements were smooth and assured, his aim as flawless as one might expect of someone who’d purchased his first pair of colors at the age of sixteen.
He shot three more times before looking over at Sebastian and saying, “I take it you’re not here for the entertainment value?”
Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and smiled. “Don’t mind me.”
Tyson’s handsome features remained impassive. But Sebastian saw his eyes darken. He handed his flintlock to the attendant and stripped off the leather guards he wore to protect his cuffs from the powder. “I’ve finished.”
Sebastian watched him walk over to pour water into a basin and wash his hands. “Tell me about Jud Foy.”
Tyson paused for a moment, then went back to soaping his hands. “Who?”
“You do remember Sergeant Judah Foy, don’t you? He was a rifleman with your regiment. Not only that, but he’s the sergeant who testified in your defense at your court-martial. If it hadn’t been for him, you’d have hanged.”
“I remember him.”
“I must admit,” said Sebastian, “his appearance has changed so radically that I didn’t recognize him.”
Tyson shook the water from his hands and reached for the towel offered by an attendant. “I’m not surprised. He got kicked in the head by one of the supply wagon’s mules. He’s never been right since then, which is a polite way of saying the man belongs in a madhouse.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find him?”
“Did you try Bedlam?”
Sebastian shook his head. “He’s very much a free man. And he seems to be laboring under the opinion that he’s suffered some sort of injustice. Do you know anything about that?”
Tyson tossed the towel aside. “As I recall, after the accident he had difficulty distinguishing between his own property and that of others. Why? What does any of this have to do with me?”
“I don’t know that it does.”
Tyson reached for his coat and shrugged into it. “I told you, the man is mad.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“He may well be.” Tyson adjusted his cuffs. “Do you think him involved in Eisler’s murder in some way?”
“Was Foy acquainted with Eisler?”
“Now, how would I know? The man was a sergeant—not exactly one of my intimates.”
“Unlike Beresford?”
Tyson looked over at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you know Eisler was in the habit of acquiring information about people and then using it against them?”
Tyson turned to walk toward the entrance. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Are you?”
Sebastian fell into step beside him. “It occurs to me that Eisler could have been playing his tricks on Blair Beresford—threatening to tell Hope about his gambling losses.”
Tyson looked over at him. “What makes you think Beresford has gambling debts?”
“He told me himself.”
“Beresford isn’t exactly what you’d consider a ripe target for blackmail. He has no money—as Eisler himself obviously knew all too well.”
“To my knowledge, Eisler’s form of blackmail was more subtle than your normal variety of extortion.”
Something flickered across Tyson’s face, then was gone. “Perhaps. But I can’t imagine what Beresford has that might have interested Eisler. He’s the younger son of a small Irish landowner, in London for a few months.”
“Seems an unusual friend for someone who spent ten years fighting from India to Spain.”
Tyson drew up on the flagway before the shooting gallery. The golden September sun
light fell hard across his face, accentuating the harsh lines and deep grooves dug there by a decade of forced marches and indifferent rations and overexposure to a fierce tropical sun. “What are you suggesting? That I ought to be spending my days at the Fox and Hound, knocking back tankards of stout and reminiscing with my fellow officers about the good old days? I’m twenty-six, not seventy-six. Blair Beresford is quick-witted and endlessly amusing. He’s also a brilliant poet. He took the Newdigate Prize at Oxford for one of his poems. Did you know?”
“No.”
“There is much that you do not know.” Tyson squinted up at the sun. “And now you really must excuse me. I’ve an appointment with my tailor.”
Sebastian watched the lieutenant turn to saunter toward Bond Street, but stopped him by saying, “How did you happen to meet Beresford, anyway?”
Tyson pivoted slowly to face him again, his dark eyes narrowing with a tight smile that could have meant anything. “We met through Yates.”
Then he touched his hand to his hat and walked on.
Since her marriage to Russell Yates, Kat Boleyn had lived in a sprawling town house on Cavendish Square. It was a fashionable address favored by the nobility and wealthy merchants and bankers, all of whom no doubt looked upon their notorious new neighbors with scandalized horror. Kat might have been the most acclaimed actress on the London stage, but she was still an actress. And although it was not well-known, she’d once survived as a homeless, abused child on the streets of London by selling the only the thing of value she possessed: herself.
It was a time she rarely spoke of. But Sebastian had seen the way she looked at the young, ragged girls who haunted the back alleys of Covent Garden. He knew only too well the mark those days had left upon her. He’d tried to ease the damage done to her by that desperate time, by the English soldiers who’d raped and killed her mother, by her aunt’s lecherous husband. But he knew he’d never really succeeded. And he found himself pondering why he was remembering these things now, as he mounted the steps to her front door. For Kat was a woman who asked for neither pity nor solace, but who forged her own victories. . . .