What Darkness Brings

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.”

“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 rain. 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.