by C. S. Harris
“They could have heard the shot. And they knew that only one of their men came out of that house, chased by me.”
“True,” she conceded. “You didn’t see anyone around before you went inside?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
“Do you think they recognized you?”
“Well enough to know that I wasn’t their hireling, obviously. But probably not so well as to know who I was. Most people don’t see well in the dark.”
“Some do.”
He met her gaze, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. He said, “The lad was no more than twenty feet away from the rifleman when he was hit. It wasn’t a difficult shot.”
“True.” She watched the cat curl itself into a ball, sigh, and close its eyes. The milk bowl and plate of minced beef beside it—provided by Calhoun—were now empty. She said, “Did you go to the authorities?”
“I did not. I took to my heels and fled.”
“With the cat.”
“He was insistent.”
“Is it a he?”
“It is. I checked.” Bending forward, he picked up the manuscript from beside her. “If you were looking at this, no wonder you couldn’t sleep.”
“It is . . . bizarre. I’m anxious to hear what Abigail McBean can tell me about it in the morning.” She leaned back against his chair, felt his fingers brush her flesh as he played with the curls at the nape of her neck.
He said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Her gaze met his, her expression solemn. “So do I.”
Chapter 21
Tuesday, 22 September
I
n the fashionable world, where balls lasted until nearly dawn and breakfasts were held at midday, morning calls began at three in the afternoon. Fortunately, Hero knew that Miss Abigail McBean had long ago resigned herself to being hopelessly outré and did not keep fashionable hours.
A confirmed spinster well into her thirties, Miss McBean now shared her small but comfortable Camden Town house with a young niece and nephew orphaned some six months before by the sudden, tragic death of their parents. Hero could hear the children’s laughter coming from the rear garden when, carrying the battered old manuscript, she arrived at her friend’s house the next morning.
She was met at the door by a young, flaxen-haired housemaid who was so flustered to find a real viscountess ringing the bell that she escorted Hero immediately to her mistress, who was, as the girl cryptically announced, “Upstairs.”
Upstairs proved to be in the attic. As they neared the top of the narrow attic steps, Hero could hear her friend’s voice coming from behind a half-open door at the end of the corridor, chanting, “Angeli supradicti.”
The housemaid, a slim slip of a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, hesitated on the last stair, her eyes growing wide as she swallowed, hard. “Miss McBean is in there, m’lady,” she whispered, her chest jerking with her suddenly agitated breathing as she pointed one shaky hand toward the far door. “I kin knock for you if you want, but . . .” She sucked in an audible gasp of air, her voice trailing off into nothing.
“I’ll announce myself,” Hero told the girl, who dropped a quick, relieved curtsy and bolted back down the stairs.
“Agla, On, Tetragrammaton,” exclaimed the voice at the end of the hall.
Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Hero pushed the door open wider.
A short, plump figure shrouded in a white linen robe, her face hidden by a deep, monklike cowl, circled the room in slow, measured steps. She held an open book in one hand, in the other a flask of holy water such as a Catholic priest might use. “Per sedem Adonay, per Hagius, o Theos,” she intoned, punctuating each phrase with a flick of the holy water. On the room’s scrubbed wooden floor was drawn a circle upon which were positioned a strange assortment of objects: an earthenware vessel filled with glowing coals; a naked sword blade; flasks of perfume. The pungent scents of myrtle and musk permeated the room. The robed figure was so focused on reading the incantations from her book and stepping precisely around the circle that she didn’t notice Hero until she was nearly upon her. Then she looked up, her step faltering, her jaw sagging, before she clamped it shut and went off into a peal of laughter.
“Losh!” she exclaimed in a pronounced Scottish brogue. “Frightened the sense out of me, you did. For one hen-witted moment, I actually feared all the laws of the universe had reversed themselves and the silly spell worked.”
“What? You were trying to conjure me, were you?”
Miss Abigail McBean pushed back her cowl and set aside her holy water. “Not you, exactly.” She pointed to a woodcut illustration in her book. “The angel Anael, who rules the tenth hour of Tuesday—or at least, he does according to Peter de Abano, who wrote this thing back in 1496.”
Hero studied the illustration. “You think I look like that, do you?”
In mock seriousness, the Scotswoman held up the open book with its illustration beside Hero, as if comparing the two. “Hmm. Well, you’re female, of course. And you don’t have black hair or six-foot gray wings. Not to mention a wand tipped with a pine cone and decorated with ribbons.”
Hero tweaked the book from her friend’s grasp and studied the title. “Heptameron,” she read aloud. “I take it this is one of your grimoires?”
“It is.” Miss McBean pulled the linen robe off over her head, transforming herself from an exotic, vaguely menacing figure into a plump woman in a simple sprigged muslin gown. She had a pretty round face with a small nose, full, rosy cheeks, and a head of riotously curling rust-colored hair that she’d tried rather unsuccessfully to contain in a bun. “Its English title is Magical Elements. I’ve been wanting to try this incantation for weeks, only I just got the hyssop.”
Hero studied her friend’s unlined, pleasant face. “If you don’t believe in these spells, why do them?”
“Because I know of no better way to understand what these men were trying to do and how they felt when they did it.” She nodded to the calfskin-bound manuscript Hero had tucked beneath her arm. “What’s that?”
Hero held it out to her. “I’m told it’s called The Key of Solomon. Ever hear of it?
Miss McBean took the manuscript with a hand that was suddenly not quite steady. “I’ve heard of it.”
Chapter 22
S
ebastian was careful to wait until after twelve o’clock to pay a call on the Park Street home of his aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne. The house was not, technically, the property of the Dowager but belonged to her son, the present Duke of Claiborne. But the Duke, a stout, mild-mannered man well into his middle years, knew himself to be no match for his formidable mother. Rather than assert his rights of ownership, he simply lived with his growing family in a much smaller house in Half Moon Street, leaving Henrietta in possession of the grand pile over which she had reigned as mistress for more than half a century.
Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the elder sister of the current Earl of Hendon, she was one of the few people who knew that she was not actually Sebastian’s aunt, although the world believed her to be. But neither Sebastian nor Henrietta was the type to allow technicalities to interfere in their affections.
He found her seated at her breakfast table, a half-eaten piece of toast and a cup of tea before her. Like her brother, she was big boned and fleshy, with a broad, plain face and the piercing blue eyes that were the hallmark of the St. Cyr family. She had never been a pretty woman, even when young. But she was every inch the earl’s daughter and made a splendid duchess. Always exquisitely groomed and imperious in manner, she was one of the grandes dames of society. And if at all possible she never left her dressing room before one o’clock.
“Good heavens, Aunt,” said Sebastian, bending to kiss her rouged cheek. “The clocks ha
ve barely struck twelve and I find you already on the verge of setting forth into the world. How . . . dreadfully unfashionable.”
She rapped him affectionately on the ear, chuckling as she straightened the towering purple turban he’d knocked slightly askew. “Impertinent jackanapes. As it happens, I did not sleep well last night. All that banging and booming; I swear it was enough to wake the dead. Now, stop looming over me and sit down and tell me why you are here. No, don’t bring him a cup of tea, you foolish man,” she told the hapless footman who was about to do just that. “Get him some ale.”
Sebastian drew out the seat beside her. “What makes you so certain I’m not here simply for the pleasure of your company?”
“Because I know you. And because I read the papers.” She paused, a hint of apprehension tightening the lines around her mouth. Henrietta might be leery of his recent marriage to the daughter of Lord Jarvis, but she had never approved of his relationship with Kat either. Sebastian knew she would frown on anything likely to bring him once more into the orbit of his ex-mistress.
She leaned forward, her gaze hard on his face. “But first, I want you to tell me how your new bride gets on. Is she well?”
“Hero? I doubt she’s ever been sick in her life. I wanted to ask—”
“I saw her in Bond Street the other day,” said Henrietta, ignoring his attempt to change the subject. “She looked ravishing—positively glowing, in fact, which is not a word I ever thought I would use to describe Hero Jarvis. She’s not by chance increasing, is she?” She looked at him archly.
Sebastian stared back at her. Her capacity to ferret out other people’s secrets had always struck him as bordering on the uncanny. He said, “Bit soon for that, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
Sebastian paused while her man placed a tankard of ale before him, then drank deeply. “I’m here to ask what you can tell me about the Hopes.”
A faint, enigmatic smile touched her lips. She took a delicate sip of her tea, then said, “Which ones?”
“Henry Philip and Thomas.”
“Ah. Well, there isn’t much to say about Henry Philip. He’s never married, you know, and seldom ventures out into company. Queer little man.”
“I understand he’s something of a gem collector.”
“He is, yes. I’ve heard it said he has the largest private collection of jewels in Europe, although I’ve never seen it personally.”
“What about Thomas? Does he share his brother’s interest in gems?”
“Not to my knowledge. Oh, he buys the odd piece for that wife of his.” Henrietta’s nose quivered in a way that told him Louisa Hope was not one of her favorites. “But for the most part he fancies himself something of an antiquary and patron of the arts.”
“Tell me about his wife.”
“Louisa de la Poer Beresford. Her uncle is the Earl of Tyrone and the Marquis of Waterford.”
“And her father?”
“Some clergyman. In Ireland, of all places.”
“So Thomas Hope was quite a catch for her.”
“He was, yes. Although I’ve heard there were tears when the match was first suggested to her.”
“He is rather . . . unattractive. Even if he is staggeringly rich.”
“True. But I believe there was more to it than that. She had formed a previous attachment to someone who was most unsuitable—a by-blow of her uncle or some such thing. There was no question of the family ever allowing anything to come of that. So in the end she gave up and married Hope.”
“Admirable,” said Sebastian with heavy sarcasm.
His aunt frowned at him. “Realistic.”
“A pity she doesn’t appear to have much of a fondness for Egyptian sarcophagi—or for Thomas Hope, for that matter.”
“Indeed. I fear she has turned into one of those females who seems to believe that just because they are unhappy they must needs devote their lives to an attempt to make the rest of the world miserable, as well.”
Sebastian smiled. “Not fond of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, are you, Aunt?”
“I always say there’s nothing wrong with a bit of vice as long as it’s not taken to the extreme. Give me someone with a touch of vice over someone with an excess of sanctimonious hypocrisy any day.”
He laughed and took another swallow of ale. “I understand she has a young cousin staying with her from Ireland. Have you met him?”
Henrietta’s scowl cleared. “I have, yes. Blair Beresford. Charming young man. As attractive as his cousin but with none of Louisa’s self-righteous drivel. I must say, however, that I do not care for that military man he has taken up with.”
“You mean Lieutenant Tyson?”
“I do, yes. He may be a fine figure of a man, and I know the Tysons are an old, respected Hereford family. But there’s something not quite right about him. And don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t.”
She drained her teacup, set it aside, then fixed him with a level stare. “Now, not another word will you get out of me until you tell me how the Hopes could possibly be involved in Eisler’s murder. And there is no point in trying to deny that’s what this is all about, because I know you.”
“I don’t know that they are involved.”
“Huh. Well, I certainly trust you don’t intend to start suspecting everyone who ever bought jewels from that dreadful man.”
“Good heavens,” said Sebastian, opening his eyes a little wider. “Aunt Henrietta. What did you buy from him?”
She put up a hand to straighten her turban again, although it was not in need of adjustment. “That lovely little diamond bracelet I wore to the Queen’s Drawing Room recently—the one Claiborne made such a fuss over when he saw it. Mind you, I didn’t deal with Eisler directly. But I had no doubt where the piece came from.”
“So with whom did you deal?”
“A lapidary named John Francillon. He has an establishment on the Strand. I actually saw him there a few days ago.”
“You mean you saw Francillon?”
“No. I mean that I saw Eisler in Francillon’s shop.”
“What day was this?”
“Saturday, I believe. The two were huddled together in the back when I first walked in. I wouldn’t have paid much attention if Eisler hadn’t been acting positively furtive about the entire affair.”
Sebastian smiled. “So naturally then you did pay attention.”
“I did, yes. Although I managed to get only a glimpse of the stone involved—what looked like an enormous blue sapphire. After Eisler left, I asked Francillon if the item was for sale. He became quite flustered when he realized I’d seen it and begged me not to tell anyone about it. Which I would not have done,” she added, “if Eisler weren’t dead.”
Sebastian stood and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. “Aunt Henrietta, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Where are you going?” she asked as he headed for the door.
“To pay a call on your Mr. Francillon.”
Chapter 23
T
he rain started up again long before Sebastian reached the Strand, the low-hanging clouds robbing the city of color to leave only gray: gray wet streets, flat gray light, gray sky. The air was heavy with the dank scent of wet stone and coal smoke and the pungent odors of the nearby river.
Leaving his horses in Tom’s care, Sebastian ducked beneath a trim black awning with the name FRANCILLON neatly lettered in gold. He pushed open the door, the shop bell jangling. An older man behind the counter paused in the act of hanging a botanical illustration of an exotic lily and turned.
He looked to be somewhere in his late sixties, his dark hair silvered at the temples, although his movements were full of energy, his small, wiry form still trim and upright. He had the high forehead, tight lips,
and thin Gallic nose of his ancestors, French Huguenots who had fled their homeland after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes more than a hundred years before. The Francillons had plied their trade in London for generations, yet his voice still carried a faint inflection when he asked, “May I help you?”
Sebastian went to rest his hands on the counter and lean into them. “My name is Devlin. I’m looking into the circumstances surrounding Daniel Eisler’s death, and I’m interested in the large blue diamond he was selling. I understand you saw it.”
Something flickered in the depths of the Huguenot’s pale brown eyes, only to be quickly hidden when he lowered his lashes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re quite certain of that?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian let his gaze travel, deliberately, around the small shop. A variety of gems, some cut, polished, and set, others still in the rough, crowded the cases. But the walls above were filled with paintings of birds and insects and shadow boxes displaying everything from exotic beetles to enormous, brilliantly colored butterflies. Francillon might have been trained as a lapidary, but his interests obviously included all aspects of natural history.
Sebastian said, “I would imagine the prosperity of an establishment such as this relies quite heavily on its reputation for honesty and integrity. Unfortunately, a good name, once lost, can be nearly impossible to reclaim.”
“Francillon has been a respected name for over a hundred—”
“So I am told. Which is why, I should think, it would be in your best interest not to have the name of your establishment linked to a notorious incident of theft and murder.”
The tactic was heavy-handed and crude, but effective. Francillon stared back at him, his jaw set hard, his voice tight with suppressed indignation. “Precisely what do you wish to know about the stone?”
“First of all, I’m curious as to why Eisler brought it to you.”
“I was asked to prepare an illustrated sales prospectus.”