by C. S. Harris
“And did you?”
“I did.”
“What exactly does that involve?”
“Generally? Tracing around the stone, weighing it, and preparing a colored rendering. In this case, both a plan and an elevation.”
“So you can describe it to me.”
“I could. However, I am not entirely convinced that I should.”
Once more, Sebastian let his gaze drift significantly around the shop.
Francillon cleared his throat. “The specimen in question was a brilliant-cut diamond of an extraordinary shade of sapphire blue, unset at the time of my inspection and weighing in at over forty-five carats.”
It was the first real confirmation Sebastian had received that such a diamond actually existed. He said, “To whom was Eisler planning to sell it?”
“I do not know. I was not made privy to that information.”
“Did he mention where it came from?”
“He did not.”
“But you have some ideas, don’t you?” said Sebastian, watching the lapidary’s face.
Francillon swallowed but remained silent.
Sebastian said, “I’m told large blue diamonds are quite rare. So rare in fact that an experienced lapidary such as yourself would surely be aware of all such gems in existence.”
“I am unaware of any forty-five-carat blue diamond in any known collections.”
“What about a collection that has been lost?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The French Blue was a large, sapphire-hued diamond, was it not? It disappeared along with the rest of the French Crown Jewels exactly twenty years ago this month. That doesn’t strike you as rather . . . coincidental?”
“The French Blue was larger—over sixty-seven carats. And of a different cut.”
“Diamonds can be recut, can’t they? It seems to me that anyone trying to sell the French Blue might well find it expedient to alter it.”
Francillon’s gaze met Sebastian’s before skittering away. “I don’t understand why you are here, asking me these questions.”
“I am here because Daniel Eisler is dead and I am beginning to believe it more and more likely that the French Blue had something to do with his murder.”
“But the authorities have already captured the man responsible!”
“They have committed a man to Newgate, yes. I don’t believe he’s guilty. And I have a fundamental objection to seeing innocent men hang.”
Francillon hesitated a moment, then reached below the counter to come up with a large folio, which he laid open atop the case. He flipped through the volume for a moment, as if looking for something, then swung the book around to face Sebastian. “There.” He pointed to a full-page colored illustration. “You see? Here is Louis XV’s insignia of the Golden Fleece.”
Sebastian found himself staring at a gaudy confection of gold and priceless gems. At the center of the piece coiled a magnificent red dragon exquisitely carved from a long oxblood-hued stone. Scores of what looked like small, clear diamonds formed the dragon’s wings and tail; above him rested an enormous clear hexagonal diamond, with a slightly smaller yellow stone above that. But the emblem’s true focus was the enormous deep sapphire blue diamond that nested in the tongues of flame shooting from the dragon’s mouth. From below that, nearly dwarfed by the big blue stone, dangled a golden ram, its fleece formed by dozens of small yellow stones set in gold.
“What’s the big clear diamond at the top, here?” asked Sebastian, pointing to it.
“That was called the Bazu. At nearly thirty-three carats, it was second in size only to the French Blue. The large yellow stones you see here”—he pointed to them—“and here are yellow sapphires, ten carats each. The five brilliant-cut diamonds were five carats each. And there were literally dozens of smaller stones. These here in the fleece were all yellow diamonds.”
“And none of these gems has ever been recovered?”
“Only the carved red dragon—known as the Côte de Bretagne. It was found almost by accident not long after the theft.”
“So we know the piece was broken up.”
“Yes.” Francillon closed the book and tucked it out of sight beneath the counter. “But you must understand that all of this is nothing more than sheer speculation on my part. Eisler said nothing—nothing—to lead me to suspect the diamond he showed me was the French Blue, recut.”
“Who was the sales prospectus intended for?”
“I told you, Eisler never said. But . . .”
“But?” prompted Sebastian.
“It is not hard to guess.”
“You mean Prinny, don’t you?”
Francillon shrugged and rolled his eyes but said nothing.
Sebastian studied the small Frenchman’s tightly held face. “When you first heard Eisler had been murdered, who did you think killed him?”
Francillon let out a startled huff of laughter. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”
Francillon cleared his throat again and looked pointedly away. “Well, then, if you must know, I naturally assumed Perlman might have had something to do with it.”
“Who?”
“Samuel Perlman. Eisler’s nephew.”
“Isn’t he the nephew who found Russell Yates standing over Eisler’s body?”
“There is only the one nephew, which is why he is Eisler’s sole heir.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Francillon nodded. “He is Eisler’s sister’s son. Eisler never made any secret of the fact he despised the lad. He was always threatening to disinherit him and leave his money to charity.”
“Exactly what did Perlman do to incur his uncle’s displeasure?”
“Mr. Eisler always considered his nephew . . . profligate.”
“Is he?”
Francillon scratched the tip of his nose. “Let us say simply that Mr. Perlman’s attitudes toward money and expenditures were considerably different from Mr. Eisler’s own. But there was more to the disaffection than that. Mr. Eisler was also beyond incensed by the lad’s recent marriage. He actually told me on Saturday that it was the last straw with him. The last straw.”
“His wife is unsuitable?”
“Eisler considered her so.” A faint smile tightened the skin beside the lapidary’s eyes. “Her father is the Archbishop of Durham.”
“Ah,” said Sebastian. “Tell me: Was Mr. Perlman in any way involved in his uncle’s diamond business?”
Francillon shook his head. “I’d be surprised if Mr. Perlman ever expressed any desire to become involved. But even if he had, Eisler would never have agreed.”
“Because he considered his nephew incompetent? Or dishonest?”
“Because Mr. Eisler never trusted anyone, even his own kin. In my experience, we all view the world through the prism of our own behavior. If a man is honest, he generally assumes that those he meets will deal honestly with him. As a result, he trusts people and takes them at their word—even when he should not. Since he does not lie or cheat himself, it does not occur to him that others might lie or deceive him.”
“And Eisler?”
“Let’s just say that Daniel Eisler went through life in terror of being deceived.”
“Did anyone ever succeed in deceiving him?”
The smile lines beside the lapidary’s eyes deepened. “Even the wiliest of men are sometimes deceived. But if you are asking me for names, I can’t give you any. Eisler kept his secrets well.”
Sebastian inclined his head and turned toward the door. “Thank you for your help.”
Francillon bowed and went back to tidying the wall behind his cases.
Sebastian walked out of the shop and stood beneath the awning, looking out at the rai
n. A housemaid hurried past, a shawl drawn up over her head, her pattens clicking on the pavement; at the corner, an urchin with a broom was working hard at clearing a pile of wet manure from the street.
Sebastian turned and went back into the shop.
“Can you think of anyone Eisler was afraid of?”
Francillon looked around again, his face pinched with thought. Then he shook his head. “Only dead men.”
It struck Sebastian as a peculiar statement.
But no matter how he pressed Francillon, the lapidary refused to be drawn any further.
Chapter 24
P
aul Gibson sat with his hands wrapped around a frothy tankard of ale and his head tipped back against the old-fashioned settle of his favorite pub on Tower Hill. His eyes were sunken and dark with exhaustion, his cheeks covered by a day’s growth of beard. Seated across from him, Sebastian took a sip of his own ale and said, “You look like hell.”
The surgeon gave a hoarse chuckle. “Sure then, but I must be getting old. Time was, I could spend all night fighting to save some poor lad’s life and then turn out to play a fine game of cricket early the next morning. Now I deliver a contrary babe in the wee hours and find I’ve a hard time crawling out of bed before Evensong.”
“And how did your contrary babe fare?”
“Mother and child are doing just grand, thank you.” Gibson’s eyes focused on Sebastian’s face. “You don’t exactly look too chipper there yourself, you know.”
Sebastian grunted. “The more I find out about Daniel Eisler, the more of a tangled mess events surrounding his murder appear to be.” He told Gibson of his previous night’s visit to the ancient house in Fountain Lane, of the young man who died in his arms, and of his interesting conversation with the lapidary, Francillon.
“Have you spoken to this nephew, Perlman?” asked Gibson.
Sebastian shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to drive out to see Annie again first. I take it you’ve finished Wilkinson’s autopsy?”
“I have.”
“Anything?”
Gibson shook his head. “I’ve listed the likely cause of death as Walcheren fever.”
Sebastian hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he let it ease out in a long, forceful exhalation. “Annie will be glad to hear that.”
“Think she’ll believe it?”
Sebastian met his friend’s troubled gaze. “Are you saying it isn’t true?”
“It could be. I did say ‘likely.’ The truth is, I simply don’t know for certain.” He took another deep draft of ale. “It must have been a living hell for a man like Wilkinson, to find himself reduced to a weak invalid.”
“Yet he told me recently he thought he was getting better.”
Gibson met Sebastian’s gaze and held it. “He lied.”
Leaving Tower Hill, Sebastian drove down to Kensington, where he found Annie Wilkinson seated on a bench in the small walled garden of the square near her lodgings, her gaze resting thoughtfully on Emma, who was sailing a small red boat in a puddle left by the rain. The day was misty and cool, but both mother and child were wrapped up warmly, and Sebastian thought he could understand the need that had driven them here, away from the memories that surely haunted their small rooms down the street.
“Devlin,” said Annie, rising quickly to her feet when she saw him. “Have you heard anything?”
“I’ve just spoken to Gibson. He says he’ll be reporting to the coroner that Rhys died of Walcheren fever.”
She pressed the fingers of one hand to her lips. “Thank God.”
They turned to walk together along the path, with Emma skipping happily ahead of them, her little wooden boat clutched in one fist. He said, “Annie, you told me Rhys went for a walk that night at around eight or nine. Do you know why?”
“He did sometimes, right before bed.” She looked over at him, her soft gray eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Had he seemed unusually troubled by anything that day?”
She drew up short, her head jerking back, her features tightening. “If he had, do you think I would tell anyone?”
“Annie,” he said gently. “I’m on your side. I just want to make certain we’re not missing anything.”
She brushed a soft tendril of hair off her forehead with a shaky hand. “I’m sorry.” She hesitated a moment, as if considering his question, then said, “Rhys hadn’t been himself for some time now. It can’t be easy, watching your health crumble, finding yourself unable to do even the simplest things. But he seemed no different Sunday than he had the day or the week before.”
“Had he any enemies that you know of?”
“Rhys? Good heavens, no. You knew him. He could sometimes be quick to judge, but he was never the kind of man who collects enemies. What are you suggesting? Surely you don’t think someone could have . . . that someone might have murdered him?”
“I don’t think it, no. But I wanted to be certain.”
They paused again as Emma squatted down to launch her boat in a new, larger puddle that ran along the edge of the path.
Watching her, Annie said quietly, “She remembers Rhys now, but she won’t for long. Soon he’ll just be someone she hears her mother talking about, someone no more real to her than the tortoise and hare in that book of fables you gave her.”
“She might remember him—or at least the warm glow of his love for her, even if it’s only because she grows up hearing you speak of it.”
“But she’ll never actually know him, just as he’ll never have the joy of watching her grow up into the woman she will become. And when I think of it, it’s almost more than I can bear.”
He wanted to say, Then don’t think about it. Dwelling on it now will only twist the pain of his death that much deeper. But he kept the thought to himself because he knew the truth was that no newly bereaved woman could help thinking these things.
As if echoing his thoughts, she said, “How dreadfully maudlin and female I must sound.”
“You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever known, Annie. It’s all right to give yourself time to grieve.”
She shook her head, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “You know what one of the worst parts of all this is? I find myself thinking that in some ways I lost Rhys—the Rhys I fell in love with—three years ago, when he sailed for that damned, diseased-ridden island. He was never the same afterward. Only, then I feel so small and selfish and contemptible that I can’t stand myself.”
“Annie, I understand.”
She pulled a face that reminded him so much of the girl she’d once been that he found himself smiling. “Listen to me,” she said. “More maudlin pap. And I haven’t even thanked you for coming all the way out here again to see me.”
“I’ll come again tomorrow, if I may. Perhaps next time Emma will let me read her a story.”
“I think she’d like that.”
He was aware of mother and child watching him as he let himself out of the garden and climbed up to his curricle’s high seat. But when he looked back, it was to see Annie hunkering down beside her daughter, the hem of her black mourning gown trailing unheeded in the puddle as she gave the small red boat a powerful push that sent it skimming across the water before an ever-expanding wake.
Chapter 25
B
y the time Sebastian finally tracked Samuel Perlman to Tattersall’s Subscription Rooms, he had learned much about Daniel Eisler’s flamboyant nephew.
Despite Francillon’s use of the term “lad,” Perlman was actually forty-two years old. A patron of the most exclusive establishments in Bond Street and Savile Row, he lived with his new bride in a lavish mansion on the north side of Hanover Square. The source of his wealth was a vast mercantile empire he had inherited from his own father some ten years before and then i
mmediately turned over to competent managers, preferring to devote himself to a life of pleasure and excess. As far as Sebastian could discover, he did not gamble, he kept no mistress, and he was not in debt.
Perlman was looking over the points of a delicate white-stockinged bay mare in Tattersall’s yard when Sebastian walked up to him. The rain might have eased off, but the colonnaded open market still glistened with scattered puddles through which men and horseflesh splashed. For one intense moment, Perlman’s gaze met Sebastian’s over the back of the mare. Then he rolled his eyes, blew out a weary, bored sigh, and said, “Oh, God, you’ve found me.”
“Were you hiding from me?” Sebastian asked pleasantly, propping one shoulder against a nearby column and crossing his arms at his chest.
Perlman huffed an incredulous laugh and returned his attention to the mare. “Hiding? What a fatiguing—not to mention decidedly plebian—activity. Hardly.”
He was tall and gangly, with curly dark hair framing a balding pate, and a sadly receding chin—a defect unfortunately accentuated by the excessively high shirt points and extravagantly tied cravat he affected. His coat was made skintight and nipped in at the waist; his pantaloons were of the palest yellow, his waistcoat of figured silk. Daniel Eisler’s extravagant nephew obviously had pretensions to dandyism.
Sebastian smiled. “If you know I’ve been looking for you, then I assume you also know why.”
“I gather you’ve taken an interest in my uncle’s murder. Although to be frank, I can’t imagine why, given that the brute responsible is already locked up fast in Newgate awaiting execution.”
“You mean awaiting trial.”
Perlman waived one long-fingered, exquisitely gloved hand through the air. “Technicality. The man is clearly guilty. I myself found him standing over my poor uncle’s lifeless body.”
“So I’m told. I was wondering: Why were you there?”
Perlman froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why did you choose to visit your uncle that night?”
“Why not? He is—or, I suppose one should say, he was—my only near relative.”
“And he disliked you excessively.”