What Darkness Brings

Chapter 27



S

ebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Hero seated at the library table calmly cleaning a tiny muff flintlock with a burnished walnut stock and engraved gilt mounts that had been a gift from her father.

He said, “Is this general maintenance, or did you shoot some-

one?”

She looked up at him. There was no humor in her face, only a cold purposefulness that reminded him disconcertingly of Lord Jarvis. “Ever hear of a man named Jud Foy?”

He thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”

“Because he was waiting for me when I came out of Abigail McBean’s house today—the same man who was watching this house last night. He said his name is Jud Foy, and he wanted me to give you a message.”

“Bloody hell. How did he know where you were?”

She shook her head. “I’ve no notion. But he called you ‘captain.’ He said, ‘Tell the captain I’m owed what I’m owed.’”

“‘Owed’? What does he think he’s owed?”

“He didn’t specify. Whatever it is, though, he seems to believe it’s your responsibility to see that he gets it. You may not remember him, but he obviously thinks you should.”

Sebastian walked over to where a bottle of burgundy stood with glasses on a tray. He poured himself a drink, then stood with the glass in one hand, his thoughts far away.

Jud Foy. Jud Foy? He tried to put the name together with the wet, disheveled, skeletally thin man from last night, and knew it again, that vague sense of an elusive memory gone before it was quite grasped.

Hero said, “You told me last night that you thought he looked familiar.”

“He did. But I still can’t place him.” Sebastian took a slow sip of his wine. “I thought last night that he must have something to do with my investigation into the murder of Daniel Eisler. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Because he knows you were in the army?”

Sebastian nodded. “Although I suppose it’s possible he’s linked in some way to Matt Tyson. When he said, ‘I saw you coming out of his house,’ I assumed he was talking about Eisler’s house. But he could have meant Hope’s house.”

She listened to him, her face impassive, while he told her of his conversations with Francillon and Perlman. Then she said, “Is it possible Foy could have something to do with your friend Rhys Wilkinson? You’ve visited his lodgings several times in the last few days, haven’t you?”

“I suppose that’s possible too, although I doubt it.” He set aside his glass and reached for his hat and gloves.

“Where are you going?”

“To ask Sir Henry to look into this Foy. And then I think it’s time Lieutenant Tyson and I had a little talk.”



“Jud Foy?” Sir Henry Lovejoy frowned, his lips pursing thoughtfully as he shook his head. “The name’s not familiar to me. But I can ask one of the lads to look into him. Do you want him arrested?”

“He hasn’t exactly done anything,” said Sebastian.

They were walking down Bow Street. The rain had eased up again, but the narrow lane was dark and wet and crowded with a crush of ragged costermongers and squeaky carts overflowing with produce from the nearby market of Covent Garden. The scent of damp earth and sweaty, unwashed bodies hung thick in the air.

Sir Henry said, “I had a visit yesterday evening from Mr. Bertram Leigh-Jones.”

Sebastian looked over at him. “Oh?”

“Your name came up in conversation. He made a number of demands.” Sir Henry pulled at his earlobe, the faintest hint of a smile playing about his normally serious features. “Unfortunately, I can’t seem to recall what any of them were.”

“He’s a very prickly magistrate, Mr. Leigh-Jones.”

“Most West End magistrates are—with good reason.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

They turned down the short stretch of Russell Street that led to the open market square. The press had become a nearly intolerable squeeze, and Sebastian noticed that Lovejoy was careful to keep his hand in his pocket, guarding his purse.

The magistrate sniffed. “Let’s just say that a parliamentary inquiry into the licensing of pubs in a number of parishes might uncover a pattern of irregularity.”

“Interesting.”

“Mmm. After he left, I decided to send one of my lads over to Fountain Lane to make a few inquiries. Given the quick apprehension of Mr. Yates, I suspected Lambeth Street might have neglected to interview some of the locals not directly involved.”

Sebastian huffed a soft laugh. Leigh-Jones should have known better than to demand that Bow Street stay out of his district’s affairs. “And?”

“The constable couldn’t find anyone who would admit to being in the area at the time of the murder.” Sir Henry cast Sebastian a quick sideways glance. “You’ve heard that two men were found dead at Eisler’s house early this morning? One stabbed in the house, the other shot down in the rear alley.”

“I’d heard, yes.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Sebastian kept his gaze on the crowded market square before them, its rickety stalls piled high with turnips and potatoes, cabbages and squash. “Have they been identified?”

Sir Henry nodded. “They have, yes. The ruffian in the house was Morgan Aldrich, a man well-known to the authorities in the area, whilst the body in the alley belonged to his young brother, Piers.”

“How did they manage to enter the house?”

“I understand they worked the bars loose at a window in the basement light well, then used a diamond-tipped blade to cut the glass.”

“Unusually sophisticated for common ruffians.”

“It is, yes. Curiously, however, the bolt on the back door also appears to have been tampered with. It was very subtle—so subtle I suspect most people would have missed it entirely. Only, Eisler’s old retainer, Campbell, noticed it.”

“He would,” said Sebastian.

“One suspects,” continued Sir Henry, looking at Sebastian intently, “that some unknown personage, desirous of concealing his illicit entry, gained admittance through the back door, and that unknown personage is the one responsible for the deaths of the Aldrich brothers, who came in through the basement with no regard for whatever evidence of their housebreaking they were leaving behind.”

“An interesting theory. Only, how likely is it that two different sets of ruffians would break into the same house at the same time, and take to murdering one another?”

“I suppose that would depend on what they were looking for. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas, would you?”

Sebastian kept his features carefully schooled. “Mr. Eisler was known to possess a number of valuable items.”

“So he was.” Lovejoy paused, his attention momentarily caught by a Punch and Judy professor set up beneath the nearest arcade, then walked on. “Ah, I almost forgot; my constable did uncover one interesting piece of information. One of the individuals with whom he spoke—a chandler’s apprentice—recalled seeing Mr. Yates standing on the pavement before the victim’s house the morning of the murder. Eisler himself was in his open doorway, and the two men were engaged in what the apprentice described as a ‘right royal row.’”

Sebastian felt his jaw tighten with a spurt of quiet rage. Yates had assured him quite emphatically that he’d had no quarrel with Eisler. “The apprentice knew Yates by name?”

“No. But his description of the man involved was unmistakable. There can’t be many sun-darkened gentlemen in London who wear their hair long and affect a gold pirate’s hoop in one ear.”

“And the apprentice was certain the argument he witnessed occurred Sunday morning?”

“He was, yes. Seems he encountered the altercation on his way home from services at Holy Trinity.”

“Did he happen to hear the subject of their quarrel?”

“He did not. He did, however, catch the final, heated exchange of words. Seems Eisler told Yates, ‘Don’t even think about crossing me. I can destroy you and you know it.’”

Sebastian squinted up at the templelike facade of the church overlooking the square. “And did he manage to catch Yates’s reply?”

“I’m afraid he did. He says Yates laughed out loud and said, ‘I can split your gullet from stem to stern quicker than a Haymarket whore can pick your pocket, and don’t you forget that, you bloody little bastard.’” The magistrate paused to look out over the churchyard’s jumble of gray, moss-covered tombstones. “Of course, Eisler was shot, not stabbed. But still . . . it doesn’t look good for Mr. Yates.”

“No,” said Sebastian, drawing up beside him. “No, it doesn’t.”