by C. S. Harris
“Is Foy the ruffian I hear accosted Lady Devlin in Charing Cross yesterday?” asked Sir Henry, his hands wrapped around his steaming mug. His nose was red, and Sebastian noticed he kept sniffing.
“Yes.”
The magistrate reached for his handkerchief. “Remarkable woman, her ladyship. Quite remarkable. Not to mention formidable.”
“She didn’t bash in Foy’s head.”
Sir Henry’s eyes widened above his handkerchief. “Good heavens. I hope you don’t think I was suggesting any such thing?”
Sebastian smiled and shook his head. Then his smile faded. “I hear Yates is scheduled to stand trial tomorrow morning.”
“He is, yes. I’m told they’re so confident of conviction that the keeper has already ordered the construction of the gallows for Monday morning.”
Sebastian took a sip of his coffee and practically scalded his tongue. “Perhaps the deaths of two men linked to the case will lead the authorities to reconsider.”
“It might if we were dealing with anyone other than Bertram Leigh-Jones.” Lovejoy touched his handkerchief to his nose again. “Although there’s no denying Foy’s possession of that pouch of diamonds is certainly suggestive.”
“I don’t think Foy is our killer. But he might well have known who the killer was.”
“The man was a pauper. How else could he have acquired those stones?”
“I don’t know,” said Sebastian. But it was only a half-truth. Because Sebastian could think of at least two plausible scenarios. One involved Napoléon’s unknown agent.
The other implicated Matt Tyson.
Sebastian spent the next couple of hours talking to several veterans of the Peninsular War, including an organ-grinder in Russell Square who’d lost a leg at Barossa and a sergeant who lived in one of the almshouses funded by Benjamin Bloomsfield.
By the time he reached Matt Tyson’s lodgings in St. James’s Street, the morning’s rain had ended and the low, heavy clouds were beginning to break up. A ragged, barefoot boy in a cut-down man’s coat held together with string was busy sweeping the mud and manure from the crossing with a worn broom of bundled twigs lashed to a stick. Sebastian tipped him tuppence as he crossed the street and watched the boy’s eyes go wide. It shamed him to realize that before Hero had embarked on the research for her article, the army of half-starved urchins who eked out miserable livings as crossing sweeps had been largely invisible to him, a necessary nuisance whose existence he acknowledged without really questioning it.
He was just reaching the far flagway when Tyson exited his lodging and paused to close the door behind him. He was as impeccably dressed as always, in buff-colored breeches and a military-styled dark blue coat, his handsome face hardening as his gaze clashed with Sebastian’s.
“We need to talk,” said Sebastian.
“I have nothing further to say to you.”
“Actually, I rather think you do. You see, I’ve just had an interesting conversation with several veterans of the 114th Foot.”
Tyson ran his tongue across his perfect top teeth. “Very well. Do come in.”
His rooms on the first floor were spacious and elegantly furnished with the same exquisite taste—and expense—he lavished on the raiment of his person. The hangings were of figured burgundy satin, the furniture of the finest gleaming rosewood. He did not invite Sebastian to sit, but simply stood with his back to the closed door, his arms crossed at his chest. “Say what you have to say and then get out.”
Sebastian let his gaze rove over the shelves of leather-bound books, the gilt-framed oils, the marble bust of a Roman boy. Tyson appeared to be doing quite well for a younger son who’d just sold his commission.
As if aware of the drift of Sebastian’s thoughts, Tyson said, “One of my maiden aunts recently died, leaving me her portion.”
“And then of course there’s whatever you cleared from the sale of the spoils of Badajoz.”
Tyson tightened his jaw and said nothing.
Sebastian went to stand before a tasteful oil depicting a foxhunt. “You told me Jud Foy’s injuries came from a mule. Only, that was never actually established, was it? In fact, there’s a good possibility someone tried to cave in his head with the butt of a rifle.”
“Now, why would anyone want to do that?”
Sebastian continued his study of the room. “I think you paid Foy to perjure himself. Then you tried to kill him in order to eliminate the possibility that he might be inspired to tell the truth at some point in the future—and maybe even so that you could take back whatever you’d used to bribe him.”
“Believe me, if I’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.”
“Actually, he is dead. Someone bashed in his head last night in St. Anne’s churchyard—fatally this time.”
Sebastian watched the other man’s face carefully.
But Tyson remained impassive, his only reaction a faint tightening of his lips into the suggestion of a smile. “I’d be tempted to say, ‘How tragic.’ Except that, given the fact the poor sot’s life was hardly worth much at this point, ‘How ironic’ might be more appropriate. Or perhaps, ‘How poetic’?”
Sebastian felt no inclination to return the man’s smile. “Interestingly enough, he had a small pouch of loose diamonds in his pocket when he was found.”
“Am I to take it you’re suggesting the gems implicate me in some way? And here I thought you believed me addicted to stealing jewels as opposed to using them to decorate the bodies of my alleged victims.”
“I think you failed the first time you tried to kill Foy, after Talavera. But since he couldn’t recall anything, it served your purpose just as well. Only, then he started remembering things, didn’t he? Not everything, perhaps, but enough to realize that you owed him. So he came looking for you, and you decided to shut him up permanently. You lured him into the churchyard on the pretext of paying him off with a pouch of small diamonds, and then you bashed in his head while he was distracted by the gems.”
Tyson’s smile hardened. “And then left them? What a curious thing to have done.”
“I can think of two logical explanations. It’s possible Foy had the diamonds in his hand when he fell, and in the darkness you couldn’t immediately find them. Then the sexton came to investigate the racket he’d heard, and you had to abandon the search and simply run.”
“And the second explanation?”
“You deliberately planted the diamonds on Foy to make it look as if he murdered Eisler.”
“So you’re suggesting—what? That I also killed Eisler? You can’t be serious.”
“I am, actually. You see, Eisler liked collecting damaging information about people, and you have a dangerous secret. One you share with Beresford. And Yates.”
Tyson laughed out loud.
Sebastian said, “You’re the only person I know with a motive to kill both men.”
Tyson was no longer laughing. “That doesn’t mean that I did it. Foy was mad. He’d discovered I recently sold a number of gems to Eisler, and he somehow convinced himself they were rightfully his. Eisler told me the fool accosted him one night, demanded Eisler turn over what he considered ‘his’ property. Threatened to kill him if he didn’t.”
“What would you have me believe? That Foy killed Eisler and stole the pouch of diamonds from him? And then . . . what? Fell victim to footpads?”
“It’s possible.”
Yes, it was possible, Sebastian thought. Foy himself had admitted to watching Eisler’s house, and he was just crazy enough to kill Eisler and take the jewels he considered rightfully his. But Sebastian didn’t think so.
He kept his gaze on the former lieutenant’s hard, even-featured face. “We both know you’re capable of murder.”
Tyson smiled. “That’s something we have in common, isn’t it? Captain.”
Chapter 47
T
hat afternoon, Kat Boleyn drove her high-perch phaeton to the Physic Garden in Chelsea. Leaving her horse in the care of
her groom, she walked briskly down a dripping, mist-shrouded path to a secluded pond. When the days were fine, Kat could lose herself for hours in the old apothecary garden’s lush border beds and vast plantings. But on this day, she was in no mood to linger.
The man she had come to meet was already waiting for her at the water’s edge. He turned as she approached, a tall, powerful figure in shiny Hessians, fawn-colored breeches, and a well-tailored dark coat.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you,” he said, exaggerating his brogue. His name was Aiden O’Connell, and he was the younger son of the Earl of Rathkeale, an ancient Irish family long infamous for their enthusiastic cooperation with the invading English. Kat still found it difficult to believe that this man—young, handsome, rich—had chosen to risk everything by quietly working for Irish independence. Like Kat before him, he had decided that one of the best ways to help the Irish and weaken the English was to assist their enemies, the French.
He tipped his hat, a lazy smile deepening the two improbable dimples in his lean cheeks. “Is it too much to be hoping that you’ve had a change of heart and are willing to work with us again?”
“You know me better than that,” she said as they turned to walk along the banks of the pond, the mist wafting cold and damp against their faces.
“Ah, so I feared,” he said with a mournful sigh. “Then why, pray tell, are we braving one of the coldest September mornings I can remember to meet?”
“Because Russell Yates is about to hang for a murder he didn’t commit, and more people are dying every day.”
When the man beside her remained silent, she said, “You know about the French Blue?”
He squinted at the ghostly shapes of the chestnut trees on the far side of the pond. “I do, yes.”
“I need to find out who Napoléon has tasked with its recovery.”
“That I don’t know.”
She swung to face him, the heavy woolen skirts of her carriage dress swirling around their ankles. “Don’t know—or won’t tell?”
A soft light of amusement gleamed in the depths of his hooded green eyes. “Don’t know . . . but wouldn’t tell if I did.”
“Then at least tell me this: Is he English?”
“In truth, I don’t know. It may even be a woman, for all I’ve been told. But I do know this: Napoléon is not happy with his agent’s performance. He’s dispatched someone else—someone from Paris—to assist in the gem’s recovery. Someone who’s said to be quick and clever and very dangerous.”
“A man with a pockmarked face?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t seen him.”
“I have. He tried to kidnap me from Covent Garden Market.
O’Connell’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I heard about that.”
“From your French masters?”
His nostrils flared, his head rearing back. “Bloody hell. Is that what you think? That I had a hand in that?”
“What else am I to think?”
“I heard about what happened the same way everyone else in London heard of it—it’s all over town! Besides which, why the devil would Napoléon’s agents want to get their hands on you anyway?”
“It makes sense if they think Yates killed Eisler and took the French Blue. Steal Yates’s wife, and offer to make a trade.”
O’Connell was silent.
“Well, doesn’t it?” she said.
The Irishman drew in a long, ragged breath. “I suppose it’s possible. But if it is true, I know nothing about it.” He reached to gently touch the back of one hand ever so briefly to her cheek. “And remember this: The French are no more my masters than they were yours. I work with them—not for them.”
She searched his deceptively open, handsome face. But he was a man who, like Kat herself, played a dangerous game and had learned long ago to give nothing away. She said, “Is there anything you can tell me that I might be able to use?”
O’Connell shook his head. “Only this: I don’t envy whoever has been set to this task. The potential rewards are undoubtedly great. But should they fail to recover the diamond, Napoléon is bound to suspect he’s been betrayed—that his agents have simply decided to keep the gem for themselves.”
“In other words, if they fail, they’ll be killed,” said Kat.
“More than likely, yes. And they know it. Which means that whoever you’re dealing with is doubly dangerous, because their very survival depends on the successful completion of their mission. Get in their way, and you’re liable to end up dead.”
He hesitated a moment, then added, “You might consider giving the same warning to Lord Devlin.”
Chapter 48
T
his was the part of a murder investigation that Sebastian always dreaded, when the bodies of witnesses and potential suspects started piling up, and for every question answered, two more arose. With a growing sense of urgency, he left St. James’s Street and headed toward Tower Hill.
The rain might have ended, but the wind blowing off the river was bitter cold and felt more like December than the end of September. He found the surgeon whistling an old Irish drinking ditty as he bent over the granite slab in the center of his small outbuilding. Naked and half-eviscerated, the shrunken corpse of Jud Foy looked faintly blue in the thin morning light.
“Ah, there you are,” said Gibson, looking up. He set aside his scalpel with a clatter and reached for a rag to wipe his gory hands. “Thought I might be seeing you, then.”
Sebastian nodded to the cadaver’s ruined head. “I take it that’s what killed him?”
“It did, indeed. Most effectively.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“Well . . . The blow appears to have come from his left, which would be consistent with an attacker who is right-handed.”
“Unless he was struck from behind.”
Gibson shook his head. “Judging from the angle, I’d say he was facing his killer.”
Sebastian hunkered down to study the pulpy mess. “Any idea what he was hit with?”
“Something long and heavy, and wielded with powerful force. I’d say whoever hit him was aiming to kill, not incapacitate.”
“Seems a curious choice of weapon. I mean, why bludgeon him? Much easier—and surer—to simply stick a knife between his ribs.”
“The bludgeon is a common weapon amongst footpads.”
“There is that. The intent could have been to make it look as if he’d been set upon by common thieves.”
Gibson tossed his rag onto a nearby shelf. “You do know this wasn’t the first time someone tried to cave in his head, don’t you? From what I can see, it’s a miracle the man was alive.”
Sebastian straightened. “I heard he was kicked in the head by a mule in Spain.”
“A mule?” Gibson shook his head. “That was no mule.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve seen men kicked in the head by mules, and I’ve seen what a rifle butt can do to a human skull when swung with a measure of force and skill.”
Sebastian nodded to the gaping wound. “Could this have been done by a rifle butt?”
“No. More likely a length of lead pipe.”
“Lovely.” He went to stand in the open doorway and draw the cold, damp air into his lungs.
“I heard some interesting talk down at the pub a while ago when I popped in for a bite to eat,” said Gibson, limping over to join him. “They’re saying the authorities have decided to set Russell Yates free.”
Sebastian stared at him. “What?”
“Mmm. Something about a pouch of Eisler’s jewels found on our friend here. They’re saying it’s more than likely that he’s the killer.”
“But . . . I don’t think he is.”
Gibson studied Sebastian’s face through narrowed eyes. “And here I was thinking you’d be over the moon, hearing that Yates might be freed.”
Sebastian shook his head. He was remembering what Kat had told him, about the visit Jarvis had paid to Yates’s cell t
hat first night—and the worry in her eyes when she said it. “Nothing about Yates’s incarceration has felt right from the very beginning,” he said. “Somehow this just seems all a piece with the rest of it.”
“Could be just a rumor.”
Sebastian pushed away from the doorframe. “Only one sure way to find out.”
A supercilious clerk at the Lambeth Street Public Office informed Sebastian that Fridays were not one of Bertram Leigh-Jones’s days of attendance.
“He attends Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays,” said the clerk, casting a sour glance toward the rear of the hall, where a blowsy doxy in a tattered purple satin gown and improbably red hair was haranguing a constable in a high-pitched cockney whine.
“I didn’t do nothin’ o’ the sort,” she screeched. “I’m a good girl, I am.”
Sebastian kept his gaze on the clerk’s thin, bony face. “So you’re saying he was not in attendance last Monday?”
“He was not.”
“Then how did he come to be involved in the committal of Russell Yates?”
“As it happens, Mr. Leigh-Jones was in the vicinity of Fountain Lane when the hue and cry was raised. As such, he took charge of the pursuit and capture of the suspect and the interrogation of the witnesses before formally committing the villain to Newgate. He was here until dawn.”
“Commendable.”
The clerk sniffed. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties, with greasy dark hair plastered to a prominent skull and a nose to rival that of Wellington himself. “Mr. Leigh-Jones is a most conscientious magistrate.”
“And where might I find him?”
From the depths of the hall came the doxy’s loud, strident complaint: “I tell ye, I never! ’Tis nothin’ but a Banbury Tale, the lot o’ it!”
The clerk was forced to raise his own voice to compete. “Mr. Leigh-Jones does not like to be disturbed on his off days. You may come back on Saturday, if you wish. We open at eleven.”
“I’m afraid this won’t wait.”
The clerk went back to writing in his ledger. “Unfortunate, under the circumstances. You could see Mr. Dixon, the magistrate currently in attendance. Or you can return on Saturday. The choice is yours.”