Sir Henry went to stand at the window overlooking the morning bustle of Bow Street. “So you’re saying Major Wilkinson shot Eisler, but Bertram Leigh-Jones killed Jacques Collot because the French-
man found out Leigh-Jones was working for Napoléon?”
“Yes.”
“And Leigh-Jones killed Jud Foy for essentially the same reason—so that his surreptitious interest in the diamond’s whereabouts would remain unknown?”
“That, and so that he could plant the evidence on Foy’s body to make it look as if the rifleman had killed Eisler.”
“But Leigh-Jones already had a strong case against Yates.”
Sebastian shrugged. “Given that Leigh-Jones had figured out that Yates wasn’t the killer, he probably worried that the case against Yates might crumble. And the last thing Leigh-Jones wanted was renewed public interest in the murder.” Sebastian also had a sneaking suspicion Leigh-Jones was under pressure from Jarvis to release Yates, but he kept that possibility to himself.
“Yes, it all makes sense,” said Sir Henry after a moment. “But without the girl’s testimony, your explanation of the events that likely transpired the night of Eisler’s murder—while certainly plausible—must of necessity remain unproven. I therefore see no purpose in reopening an investigation that has already been officially closed.” He paused to look around, one eyebrow raised. “Unless, of course, you know where the girl might be found.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Sorry. No.”
That, at least, was the truth. He saw no reason to add that his ignorance was deliberate, or that Hero knew exactly where Jenny Davie had found refuge.
“Unfortunate.” Sir Henry ran the thumb and forefinger of one hand up and down his watch chain while he chewed his inner lip. “I’ve been contacted by the Palace. It seems the Prince’s advisers have decided that the populace would be better off without the knowledge that a prominent London magistrate was actually working for the Emperor Napoléon. The people will therefore be told that Leigh-Jones was killed in the process of apprehending a dangerous French agent.”
“How is the dangerous French agent doing, by the way?”
“He’s still alive, but I’m told he won’t be for much longer. He’s never regained consciousness.” Sir Henry hesitated, then added, “Leigh-Jones is to be given a hero’s funeral. There’s even talk of the Prince himself attending.”
“How . . . ironic.”
“It is, yes. But necessary.”
“I wonder how long he’d been working for the French.”
“If his bank account is anything to go by, I’d say quite some time. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, how many others like him are out there? People who are both known and respected, yet whose allegiance is elsewhere.”
“I suppose we’ll never know,” said Sebastian, limping slightly as he turned toward the door.
“Lord Devlin—”
Sebastian paused to look back at him.
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
Sebastian nodded. But he did not trust himself to speak.
Leaving Bow Street, Sebastian drove to the southwestern corner of Hyde Park. Once there, he left the horses in Tom’s care and cut across the rough grass to the canal near which Rhys Wilkinson’s body had been found.
The rain had been heavy during the night, leaving the long grass wet and sodden, and battering the last of the frost-tinged leaves clinging to the surrounding trees. There was a loneliness here that sank deep into a man, a yawning melancholy that seemed a part of the white empty sky and the tracery of branches and the haunting call of the geese lifting off the surface of the canal. He stood for a time beside the frost-nipped reeds, his gaze on the flat pewter expanse of the water before him. He thought about the laughing, devil-may-care officer he’d once known, and of the despair Rhys must have felt when he looked his last upon this scene.
Shrugging the image away, Sebastian began to walk along the edge of the canal, crisscrossing purposefully back and forth, his gaze on the cold, wet mud oozing up between the reeds at his feet. Lovejoy’s constables had searched here before him, he knew, but he suspected their effort had been halfhearted, their explanation for the invalid officer’s death already running to seizure or heart failure.
It was some minutes before he found what he was looking for: a light blue bottle some four inches high, its stopper gone, but with the dark yellow label proclaiming LAUDANUM: POISON still largely intact. Reaching down, he picked it up, the silt-laden water lapping cold against his hand as his fingers closed around the bottle, empty now but for a faint, reddish brown smudge in one corner.
There was no way of knowing how long it had lain here; an hour, a day, a week? It suggested everything but proved nothing. Sebastian felt his fist tighten around the heavy glass with an unexpected surge of raw anger. Drawing back his arm, he hurled the bottle far out into the waterway.
It hit with a plopping splash, then sank quickly out of sight. Sebastian stood and watched the ripples fade to stillness.
Then he turned and walked away.