by C. S. Harris
“Eisler had your diamonds?”
“He did.”
“How did he get them?”
“Somebody sold them to him.”
“Define ‘somebody.’”
“Never give me my share, he didn’t.”
“Who? Who never gave you your share?”
“I can’t remember.”
Sebastian studied the man’s skeletally thin face, the gaunt, beard-stubbled cheeks, and rainwater gray eyes lit by an unearthly gleam. And he found himself wondering not for the first time just how much of the man’s madness was real and how much was put on for effect. “You say you were watching Eisler’s house on Monday?”
“I was.”
“Eisler was dead by then.”
“I know that.”
“Were you watching the house the evening before?”
“I was.”
“Did you see who came in and out that evening?”
“I did.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“Why should I?”
Sebastian took a menacing step toward him again.
Foy threw up his hands and skittered sideways along the wall. “All right, all right!”
“Who did you see?” Sebastian demanded.
Foy’s tongue flicked out to wet his dry, cracked lips. “Well, first there was this gentleman.”
“Who?”
“How would I know? Never seen him before.”
“How old?”
Foy shrugged. “Forty? Fifty? Hard to tell sometimes, ain’t it?”
“What did he look like?”
“You think I can remember?”
“Tall? Thin? Short? Fat?”
A frown contorted the man’s face. “Tallish. I think. Dressed dapper. I told you, I don’t exactly remember. I didn’t pay him no mind. Why would I?”
“How long did he stay?”
“Not long. Ten minutes. Maybe less.”
“What time was this?”
“’Bout the time it was gettin’ dark, I reckon. I didn’t see him too good.”
Sebastian tamped down a welling of frustration. “Who else did you see?”
Foy screwed up his face again in thought. “I think the doxy came next.”
“A woman? When did she come?”
“Maybe an hour later.”
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
Foy shook his head. “It were dark by then. Can’t nobody see in the dark.”
“How did she arrive?”
“Some gentleman brung her in a hackney. He waited in the carriage while she got down and went into the house. Then he drove off. And I didn’t see him, so there ain’t no use in asking me what he looked like.”
“If you didn’t see him, then how did you know he was a gentleman?”
“Because I seen his outline in the window when he leaned forward. He had a dapper hat on.”
“His hat? You know he was a gentleman by the silhouette of his hat?”
“Aye. He had one of them folding, two-corner jobs, like what the gentry wears to the opera.”
“You mean, a chapeau bras?”
“You think I know what they’re called?”
“And then what happened?”
Foy twitched one thin, ragged shoulder. “I dunno. I left not too long after that.”
“You didn’t see the woman come out again?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone else hanging around while you were watching the house?”
“No. It’s nearly all warehouses and storerooms down there now; have you noticed?” A tic had started up to the left of the man’s mouth, the grainy, filth-encrusted skin twitching in tiny, uncontrollable spasms.
Sebastian said, “I think you’re holding back on me, Foy. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Foy stared at him with vacant, rheumy eyes.
It might have been impossible to tell how much of the man’s madness was feigned, how much was acquired, and how much had always been there, but Sebastian did not make the mistake of believing the ex-soldier harmless. Madness was always dangerous, especially when coupled with brutal self-interest. Yet he suspected that Foy was outclassed in perhaps all but evil by those into whose orbit he had now drifted.
Sebastian said, “I don’t know how much of what you’re telling me is true, and how much is sheer, unadulterated balderdash—”
“That’s a right hurtful thing to say, it is.”
“—but I think you’ve stumbled into something you don’t understand here. Something that could get you killed.”
Foy grinned, opened his eyes wide, and pursed his lips to push his breath out in a mocking sound. “Ooo-ooo. Think I should be scared, do you? I’m missing a chunk of my skull and a part of my brain, and I’m still here, ain’t I? I reckon I’m a pretty hard fellow to kill.”
“No one’s hard to kill,” said Sebastian, and left him standing at the base of the stairs, a skeletal figure clothed in tattered rags that hung like a shroud about the frame of a man long dead.
Charles, Lord Jarvis, leaned back in his chair, his feet stretched out toward the hearth in his Carlton House chambers as he studied the man who stood before him. He found Bertram Leigh-Jones a slob of a man, big and unkempt but full of bluster and self-importance tinged, Jarvis suspected, with no small portion of vice.
Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. “I trust you understand your instructions?”
“I do, my lord. But—”
“Good.” Jarvis closed his snuffbox with a snap. “That will be all.”
“But—”
Jarvis raised one eyebrow.
Mr. Leigh-Jones’s full cheeks darkened. He set his jaw, said, “As you wish, my lord,” and bowed himself out.
Jarvis was gazing after him, a thoughtful frown on his face, when one of the ex-military men in Jarvis’s employ appeared at the entrance, his dark, rain-splattered cloak swirling as he swung it from his shoulders.
Jarvis smiled. “Ah, Archer. Come in and close the door. I have an assignment for you.”
Chapter 43
A
lthough both men had already denied it, Sebastian suspected that the shadowy chapeau bras glimpsed by Foy through the windows of a hackney the night of the murder in all likelihood belonged to either Blair Beresford or Samuel Perlman.
He decided to start with the young Irish poet.
It took a while, but Sebastian finally traced Beresford to the churchyard of a small eighteenth-century chapel that lay just to the northeast of Cavendish Square, where the younger man was winding his way among the tombstones. Pausing beneath the arched lych-gate, Sebastian watched as Beresford stood beside one of the newer monuments, removed his hat, and bowed his head in prayer.
Beresford prayed silently for some minutes before replacing his hat and turning toward the street. Then he saw Sebastian and drew up, an angry flush mottling his cheeks. “What? A man can’t even pray over his own dead sister without being spied on?”
“You have a sister buried here?” said Sebastian in surprise.
“My younger sister, Elizabeth. Louisa invited her to London two years ago, for the Season. It was a dream come true for her. I’d never seen her so excited.”
A breeze rattled the yellowing leaves of the hawthorns in the churchyard and brought them the scent of damp earth and dying grass. “What happened?”
“She died of fever just five weeks after she arrived.”
“I’m sorry.”
A muscle jumped along the younger man’s jaw, but he said nothing.
Sebastian turned to leave.
Beresford stopped him by saying, “I take it you wanted to speak to me a
bout something?”
Sebastian shook his head. “It can wait for a more appropriate time.”
“Why? Out of respect for my sister? She’s dead. If you’ve something to say to me, just say it.”
Sebastian squinted up at the chapel’s awkward, neoclassical facade. “I have a witness who says he saw a man in a hackney carriage drop a woman of the street at Eisler’s house an hour or so after sunset the night of the murder. A man wearing a chapeau bras.”
Beresford’s face hardened in a way that made him look considerably older—and less gentle. “If you’re asking if that man was I, the answer is no. I already told you that.”
“So you did. Then tell me this: When was the last time you saw Eisler?”
“The Saturday before he died.”
The readiness of the man’s answer took Sebastian by surprise. “Was that the last time you provided him with a woman?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I saw him here.”
“Here?” Sebastian wasn’t certain he’d understood right. “At Portland Chapel?”
“That’s right.”
Sebastian stared out over the rows of graying, moss-covered tombstones. The chapel was less than a century old, and already the churchyard was filled to overflowing. He said, “When was this?”
“Late Saturday afternoon.”
“What was he doing here?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“I did. I hadn’t intended to, but he approached me. Accused me of following him. If you ask me, he’d been drinking. He was talking wild—said he knew ‘they’ were watching him. He even accused me of working for ‘them.’ But when I asked who ‘they’ were, he just started ranting about some Frenchman named Collot.”
“Jacques Collot?” asked Sebastian sharply. “What about Collot?”
“I told you, the old goat was obviously foxed. He was practically raving. Nothing he said made much sense. He said it was all Collot’s fault.”
“What was Collot’s fault?”
Beresford shrugged. “I assumed he meant the fact that someone was watching him. I don’t really know—I tell you, he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow.”
The wind gusted up again, scuttling dead leaves across the overgrown path and ruffling the younger man’s soft golden curls. After a moment, Beresford said, “Look . . . I know you think I killed him, but I didn’t. I’m not saying I didn’t want to. To be frank, I even thought about it a few times—about how I could maybe do it. But I’m too much of a coward to ever go through with something like that.” His features twisted with what looked very much like self-loathing. “I let that little piece of human excrement use me as a tool to satisfy his sick carnal urgings. He talked to me like I was filth. Threatened me. And I took it. Because I was too weak and afraid to do anything about it.”
“Sometimes admitting that you’ve been weak takes more courage than walking into a man’s house and putting a bullet in his chest.”
Beresford gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “No.” Then his features sharpened.
“What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.
“I was just remembering something else Eisler said—about that Frenchman, Collot.”
“What about him?”
“He said he had a big mouth.”
Darkness was just beginning to fall, the last of the light leaching from the sky as Sebastian walked the narrow streets and alleys of St. Giles looking for Jacques Collot. The reek of newly lit tallow candles and torches filled the air, mingling with the smell of roasting mutton and spilled ale and cheap gin.
He tried the Pilgrim first, then a string of ale shops along Queen Street, then the tavern where he’d spotted the Frenchman in consultation with his three confederates.
Nothing.
He was passing the smoke-blackened ruins of what looked like an old coaching inn when a low, anxious voice hissed at him from out of the darkness.
“Pssst.”
Sebastian turned to find Collot hovering in the shadows of the burned inn’s scorched, refuse-filled arch. He had his hat brim pulled low over his forehead and the collar of his greatcoat turned up, although it was not cold.
“Why are you hiding in the shadows?” asked Sebastian, walking up to him—but not too close.
“Why? Because I am nervous! Why do you think?” He cast a quick, harried glance around. “Many people are looking for me, asking about me. Why are you stirring up trouble by looking for me again?”
Sebastian stared through the arch at the abandoned yard beyond. It appeared deserted, its piles of blackened timbers and rubble standing quiet and still in the deepening darkness. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“The last time you talked to me, you ripped my coat. See? Look here.” He turned sideways to display a large rent down one shoulder.
“My apologies,” said Sebastian. “I want to know how you discovered that Eisler had in his possession a certain big blue diamond.”
“Why should I tell you? Hmm? Give me one reason why I should tell you.”
“To save your coat?”
Collot’s wayward eye rolled sideways. “I am a man with many contacts. I hear many things. Who can say where I learn things?”
“I suspect you could say where.” Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. “If the alternative becomes unpleasant enough.”
“Monsieur.” Collot threw up his hands like a man warding off evil. “Surely this is unnecessary.”
“How did you discover Eisler had the diamond?”
“He showed it to a woman I know. A putain. She told me.”
“A whore? Why would Eisler show a priceless gem to a woman off the streets?”
“Why? Because he was a sick salaud; that is why.” Collot hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and turned his head to spit. “You would not believe some of the things I could tell you.”
“Try me.”
But Collot only shook his head.
Sebastian said, “How did Eisler find out you knew about the diamond?”
“What makes you think that he did?”
Sebastian smiled. “You’re not the only one who hears things.”
Collot sniffed. “He knew because I wanted him to know. He cheated me, you see—in Amsterdam. It might have been twenty years ago, but Collot does not forget these things. I brought him my share of the gems from the Garde-Meuble. We agreed on a price. Then, after I handed them over, he paid me a third of what he had promised. Said if I set up a squawk, he would tell the authorities I had tried to rob him. He was a respected merchant; I was a known thief. What could I do? He said I was lucky he had given me anything at all for the jewels. I should have killed him right there.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Collot squared his shoulders with a strange kind of pride. “I am a thief, not a murderer.”
“So what did you hope to accomplish by going to him now, after all these years?”
“I told him I wanted the rest of the money he owed me, and that if he did not give it to me, I would tell the French he had the diamant bleu de la Couronne.”
Sebastian was aware of a burst of laughter from the throng of drunken men in the street behind him. The last of the light had vanished from the evening sky, leaving the narrow lane dark and windswept. “And? What did he say?”
“The old bastard laughed at me. He laughed! Then his face changed, and suddenly he was shaking with rage. It was as if he had been possessed by a demon. He said if I ever thought of breathing a word to Napoléon’s agents, he would see me buried alive in an unmarked grave. Who talks like that? Hmm?”
“When was this?”
“Friday.”
“So what did you do?”
Collot rolled his shoulders in an expansive Gallic shru
g. “I told.”
“Who? Who did you tell?”
“Why, the agent of Napoléon, of course. Who else? Eisler did not think I would do it. He did not believe I would have the courage. But I did. He should never have said those things to me.”
Sebastian studied the Parisian thief’s mobile, beard-shadowed face. “Are you telling me that you know the identity of one of Napoléon’s agents in London?”
Collot’s elastic mouth curved into a grin. “Like I said, I know things.”
“So who is it?”
The old thief gave a deep, husky laugh. “Believe me, you do not want to know.”
“But I do.”
Collot shook his head, his smile still wide, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I could tell you it is someone you know. More than that: It is someone you trust.” He laughed out loud. “But I won’t.”
Sebastian resisted the urge to grab the man and shake him. “Tell me this: Were you handsomely compensated for your information?”
Collot’s face fell.
“No?” said Sebastian, watching him. “Why not?”
“They said they already knew. They said they had known for weeks.”
Sebastian was aware of a dark carriage being driven slowly up the street. He said, “You do realize that they are probably the ones watching you? They killed Eisler, and now they’re going to kill you.”
“Non.”
“Yes. Tell me who they are.”
“Non.” Collot started to back away, his head shaking from side to side, his wayward eye going wild. “You are trying to get me killed! What do you take me for? A f—” He broke off, his expressive face going slack with shock as the explosive crack of a rifle echoed in the narrow street and the front of his coat dissolved into a pulpy sheen.
“God damn it!” swore Sebastian, barreling the crumpling French-
man deep into the fetid, protective darkness of the old archway. He caught the man’s falling body beneath the arms, propping him upright so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. But it was already too late.
He saw Collot’s eyes roll back into his head, heard the rattle in his throat, felt the essence of his life ease away, leaving Sebastian holding a silent, empty husk that seemed to collapse and diminish before his eyes.