Sebastian nodded. “Rumor has it he was also in the clutches of some moneylender.”
She stared down at the mound of glass vials. “Good heavens. Do you think all these people killed themselves because of Eisler?”
“I suspect so.”
She reached for another vial. “This one says . . .”
“What?” he prompted when her voice trailed off.
Her gaze met his. “This one says, ‘Rebecca Ridgeway.’”
Sebastian studied her strained, suddenly pale face. “That’s significant; why?”
“Rebecca Ridgeway was Abigail McBean’s sister. The one who died last spring.”
Miss Abigail McBean sat on the comfortably worn sofa in her cozy little drawing room, her head bowed, the small, dirt-filled vial in her hand. On the cushion beside her lay one of Daniel Eisler’s leather-bound account books opened to a page where the third name from the bottom read, Marcus Ridgeway, 2000 pounds. Beside that, Eisler had scrawled, Paid in full, 2 April 1812.
Hero sat in an armchair near the fire; Sebastian stood on the far side of the room.
After a moment, Abigail cleared her throat painfully and said, “Rebecca was my younger sister. She was . . . quite different from me. Pretty. Delightfully vivacious. Always far more interested in parties than books. She married Marcus when she was just nineteen. Unfortunately, my late brother-in-law was a handsome and charming but sadly flawed man: weak, irresponsible, and capable of breathtaking selfishness. He was constantly in debt, but somehow he always found a way to right himself again.”
“What happened last spring?” asked Hero gently.
“Rebecca came to me in tears, just before Easter. She said Marcus had fallen deep into the clutches of some St. Botolph-Aldgate moneylender and was on the verge of ruin. I’d helped Marcus in the past, but he never paid me back, and I . . . I live on a very limited income.”
“You told her you couldn’t help her?”
Abigail nodded without looking up. “Yes. A week later, they were both dead.”
“How?”
She traced her sister’s name on the vial’s label with trembling fingertips. “Marcus was found floating in the Thames near the Wapping Stairs.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“Marcus?” She shook her head. “In my experience, suicide generally requires a measure of either guilt or despair. But Marcus had a gift for convincing himself that nothing was ever his fault. And no matter how desperate his situation, he was always certain he’d somehow come about.”
Hero nodded to the open ledger. “He obviously did. Somehow.”
Abigail’s brows drew together in a crinkling frown.
“And your sister?” Sebastian asked quietly.
“They pulled Rebecca’s body out of the river the next day.”
A heavy silence settled on the room, broken only by the distant sound of a child’s voice, chanting, “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s. . . .”
Hero said, “What do you think happened to them?”
“In truth?” Abigail looked up, her face mottled and puffy with unshed tears. “I think Rebecca killed him. And then she killed herself. Although I could be wrong. It could have been an accident. The coroner’s court returned a verdict of death by misadventure.”
“Why did Eisler have a glass vial of dirt with your sister’s name on it?”
“I don’t believe he knew Rebecca was my sister,” she said quietly.
“‘When will you pay me?’ say the bells of Old Bailey,” chanted the child in the garden below.
Sebastian said, “How long before he died had Eisler been coming to you for consultation on his work with the grimoires?”
“Several years.”
“So when your sister told you about her husband’s St. Botolph-Aldgate moneylender, you must have suspected who she was talking about?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian was aware of Hero’s hard gray eyes upon him. But all he said was, “Eisler had a collection of these vials. I recognized several of the names of young men who recently committed suicide.”
Abigail’s hand closed around the vial. “Some people believe that those who take their own lives will haunt anyone they blame for driving them to it. There are numerous operations in the various grimoires for binding the souls of suicides. Most are best performed with earth from the graves of the dead.”
“Chip-chop, chip-chop, the last man’s dead!”
An outburst of children’s laughter drew Sebastian’s attention again to the window overlooking the garden, where a fair-haired little girl had collapsed with her brother in a fit of giggles. He was remembering what John Francillon had told him, that Eisler feared dead men. He now understood what the lapidary had meant.
Abigail said, “Did you find a vial for Marcus?”