What Darkness Brings

Chapter 17



A

fter Bloomsfield’s departure, Sebastian stood with his back to the fire and watched as his wife calmly poured herself another cup of tea. Both her posture and occupation were typically feminine and domestic. Only, he knew there was nothing typical about Hero.

She set aside the heavy silver pot and reached for a spoon to stir her tea. “I gather it’s the Frenchman Collot from the unsavory Pilgrim in Seven Dials who told you about this mysterious blue diamond?”

“It was, yes. He claims Eisler was selling the gem for Thomas Hope.”

She looked up. “Thomas, not Henry Philip?”

“That’s right. Hope denies it, of course.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

Sebastian smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t have a very trusting nature.” He felt his smile harden.

“There’s something else,” she said, watching him. “What?”

“Am I so transparent?”

“At times.”

He shifted his gaze to the burning coals beside him. “I ran into a man coming out of Hope’s house—a lieutenant in the 114th Foot named Matt Tyson. I knew him in Spain.”

“I take it he was not exactly one of your boon companions?”

“He was not. I sat on his court-martial board.”

“What had he done?”

“He was accused of murdering a Spanish woman and her two children so that he could steal their gold and jewels. Their throats were slit.”

“Did he do it?”

“He claims he did not. He says he happened upon the scene just in time to see another man—an ensign—commit the crime. Unfortunately, since Tyson shot the man dead, the ensign was not in any position to defend himself against the charge. Personally, I think Tyson and the ensign committed the murders together, and then Tyson killed his accomplice when he realized they were about to be discovered by a British patrol.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Tyson and I might not have been boon companions, but he and the ensign were.”

“Ah. Yet Tyson was acquitted?”

“He was, yes. A sergeant with the riflemen came forward to testify that he heard the woman screaming and then saw Tyson rush into the house in a futile attempt to save her. My fellow officers believed him.”

“Yet you did not. Why?”

“The patrol that came upon the murder scene said Tyson was covered with blood; the ensign was not. I think Tyson bribed the sergeant to perjure himself.”

She took a slow sip of her tea. “What manner of man is he, this Tyson?”

“About twenty-five, remarkably handsome. He comes from an old, respected family in Hereford. Did well at Eton. On first meeting, he comes off as affable. Engaging. Frankly likeable. But it’s all a carefully calculated facade. Beneath it lies one of the coldest, most brutally self-interested men I’ve ever met.”

“You think he could be Daniel Eisler’s killer?”

“I don’t know. There is no doubt in my mind that Matt Tyson is a killer and a thief. But that doesn’t mean he’s necessarily behind this killing and theft.” He hesitated, then said, “Interesting that Mr. Bloomsfield should choose this particular moment to pay you a visit.”

She set aside her teacup. “Actually, I went to see him this afternoon, but he was out. So technically, he was returning my call.”

“Ah.” His gaze went beyond her, to where Eisler’s tattered old manuscript lay on the table near the bowed front window. “I take it you showed him the manuscript?”

“I did. He says it’s called The Key of Solomon and it does indeed appear to be some sort of magic handbook.”

“So you were right,” said Sebastian, going to pick it up.

“I was, although I’m afraid poor Mr. Bloomsfield was quite shocked by the contents. He translated a few passages for me, then refused to have anything more to do with it.”

“Had he heard of it before?”

She shook her head. “No. But he found an inscription inside the frontpiece that indicates it was copied in Amsterdam. He says it’s written in Sephardic cursive script.” She came to watch as he leafed through the strange text. “I have a friend named Abigail McBean who is something of an expert on these old magic texts. She told me once that they’re called ‘grimoires’ and—” She broke off, her eyes narrowing as he looked up at her and smiled. “What’s so funny?”

At that, he laughed out loud. She was friends with a motley collection of brilliant, fascinating, and decidedly unfashionable people, from scholars and poets to reformers and artists. She knew geologists and architects, antiquaries and engineers; he should have expected that she’d be acquainted with at least someone whose specialty was ancient magic texts.

The amusement faded as it occurred to him that there was something decidedly off about a man accepting his wife’s help in his attempts to prove the innocence of his former mistress’s new husband. He said, “You don’t need to be doing this.”

She reached over to tweak the manuscript from his grasp. “Yes, I do.”

She started to turn away from the window, the book in her hands, then paused, her gaze on the darkening scene outside.

The rain had settled into a steady downpour, the clouds hanging dark and low to steal whatever light had been left in the sky. Women with shawls pulled over their heads hurried through the gathering gloom, their pattens clicking, the murky glow from the oil lamps reflecting in a dull gleam off rain-washed paving stones. A landau emblazoned with a coronet and drawn by a matched team of dapple grays dashed past, its spinning red wheels throwing up a fan of water from the gutter to spray over the footpath. It wet the trouser legs of a man standing near the area steps of the house across the street, his slouch hat pulled low over his face. He neither flinched nor moved but simply stood, his gaze fixed on their house.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked, watching Hero’s expression change.

“That man. He’s been standing there staring at the house for nearly an hour. I noticed him when I was showing Mr. Bloomsfield the manuscript. We brought it here to the window so that he could catch the last of the daylight and—”

But Sebastian was already pushing away from the window to stride rapidly toward the door.