What Darkness Brings

Chapter 50



“I

don’t know how I can ever properly thank you,” said Yates.

The two men were walking along the Serpentine in Hyde Park, the evening sun glittering on the breeze-ruffled expanse of water, the long grass and frost-nipped leaves of the nearby stand of oaks and walnuts drenched with a rich golden light. Sebastian noticed Yates kept lifting his face to the setting sun and breathing deeply of the crisp fresh air, as if savoring every subtle nuance of his new freedom.

Sebastian said, “You actually don’t have much to thank me for, as it turns out. I had nothing to do with the authorities’ decision to set you free. That was all Jud Foy’s doing—however inadvertent that may have been.”

“They’re saying he killed Daniel Eisler.”

“It’s always possible.”

Yates glanced over at him. “But you don’t believe it?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So how do you explain the pouch of diamonds they’re saying was found in his possession?”

“Easy enough to plant evidence on a man’s dead body, thus casting suspicion in his direction. He’s not exactly able to defend himself against the accusation, now, is he?”

“No. But . . . why bother? The authorities were already convinced they had the killer—me—in custody.”

“You don’t find his death rather convenient, given the timing of the decision to set you free?”

Yates glanced over at him, a troubled expression drawing his brows together. “And will you still continue looking for the killer?”

Sebastian paused to watch a duck lift off the surface of the canal, wings beating the soft evening air, its quack echoing across the water. After a moment, he said, “I wish I could believe it’s all over. But I don’t.”

Yates drew up beside him, his gaze, like Sebastian’s, on the duck’s awkward flight. He said, “Kat doesn’t trust Jarvis.”

Sebastian shook his head and blew out a long, heavy breath. “Neither do I.”



Sebastian was walking up Brook Street when he noticed a tall, dark-haired man striding toward him with the long-legged gait of a soldier who has covered many, many miles.

One hand in his coat pocket, Sebastian paused and let Jamie Knox come up to him.

“Looking for me?” Sebastian asked quietly.

Knox drew up, his yellow eyes narrowed to thin slits, his jaw set hard. “Jud Foy is dead.”

“I know.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I did not.”

Knox chewed the inside of one cheek. “I’m thinking he’s dead because I told you where to find him.”

“I don’t think so. But I could be wrong.”

Knox nodded. “You remember when you promised that if you ever discovered I shot that French lieutenant, you’d see me hang?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll understand when I say that if I find out you did kill Foy, you’re a dead man.”

Knox started to turn away.

Sebastian said, “I didn’t realize Foy was a friend of yours.”

Knox paused to look back at him. “He wasn’t. Bloody hell, the man was crazy.”

Sebastian started to laugh. And after a moment, Knox joined him.



Sebastian walked into the house, poured himself a glass of burgundy, and went to stand staring thoughtfully out the dining room window at the black cat, who was lying on the top step of the terrace, fastidiously engaged in the never-ending task of bathing its long, silky fur. An idea was forming in his mind, a suspicion borne of a series of subtle inconsistencies and improbabilities almost too amorphous to name.

He drained his wine and sent for Jules Calhoun.

“What can you tell me about Bertram Leigh-Jones?” he asked when the valet appeared.

The valet looked vaguely surprised. “You mean the chief magistrate at Lambeth Street Public Office?”

“I do, yes.”

Calhoun opened his eyes wide and blew out a long breath. “Well, he’s a piece of work, no doubt about that.”

“Meaning?”

“He runs that district like it’s his own private fiefdom. Makes the publicans give him a cut if they want to be certain he’ll renew their licenses. And I suspect his handling of the vestry’s poor fund wouldn’t bear too close an inspection either.”

“In other words, he’s not exactly what one might call an honest man.”

“Actually, I’d say he’s fairly typical of East End magistrates.”

“Someone from Lambeth Street seems suddenly to have been moved to interview the woman at the greengrocer’s on the corner of Fountain Lane. I’d be interested to know when that conversation took place.”

“I’ll see what I can discover, my lord.”

Sebastian nodded. “Just be careful. This is a magistrate who thinks hanging half a dozen men before breakfast is good sport.”