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.
Chapter 24
P
aul Gibson sat with his hands wrapped around a frothy tankard of ale and his head tipped back against the old-fashioned settle of his favorite pub on Tower Hill. His eyes were sunken and dark with exhaustion, his cheeks covered by a day’s growth of beard. Seated across from him, Sebastian took a sip of his own ale and said, “You look like hell.”
The surgeon gave a hoarse chuckle. “Sure then, but I must be getting old. Time was, I could spend all night fighting to save some poor lad’s life and then turn out to play a fine game of cricket early the next morning. Now I deliver a contrary babe in the wee hours and find I’ve a hard time crawling out of bed before Evensong.”
“And how did your contrary babe fare?”
“Mother and child are doing just grand, thank you.” Gibson’s eyes focused on Sebastian’s face. “You don’t exactly look too chipper there yourself, you know.”
Sebastian grunted. “The more I find out about Daniel Eisler, the more of a tangled mess events surrounding his murder appear to be.” He told Gibson of his previous night’s visit to the ancient house in Fountain Lane, of the young man who died in his arms, and of his interesting conversation with the lapidary, Francillon.
“Have you spoken to this nephew, Perlman?” asked Gibson.
Sebastian shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to drive out to see Annie again first. I take it you’ve finished Wilkinson’s autopsy?”
“I have.”
“Anything?”
Gibson shook his head. “I’ve listed the likely cause of death as Walcheren fever.”
Sebastian hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he let it ease out in a long, forceful exhalation. “Annie will be glad to hear that.”
“Think she’ll believe it?”
Sebastian met his friend’s troubled gaze. “Are you saying it isn’t true?”
“It could be. I did say ‘likely.’ The truth is, I simply don’t know for certain.” He took another deep draft of ale. “It must have been a living hell for a man like Wilkinson, to find himself reduced to a weak invalid.”
“Yet he told me recently he thought he was getting better.”
Gibson met Sebastian’s gaze and held it. “He lied.”
Leaving Tower Hill, Sebastian drove down to Kensington, where he found Annie Wilkinson seated on a bench in the small walled garden of the square near her lodgings, her gaze resting thoughtfully on Emma, who was sailing a small red boat in a puddle left by the rain. The day was misty and cool, but both mother and child were wrapped up warmly, and Sebastian thought he could understand the need that had driven them here, away from the memories that surely haunted their small rooms down the street.
“Devlin,” said Annie, rising quickly to her feet when she saw him. “Have you heard anything?”
“I’ve just spoken to Gibson. He says he’ll be reporting to the coroner that Rhys died of Walcheren fever.”
She pressed the fingers of one hand to her lips. “Thank God.”
They turned to walk together along the path, with Emma skipping happily ahead of them, her little wooden boat clutched in one fist. He said, “Annie, you told me Rhys went for a walk that night at around eight or nine. Do you know why?”
“He did sometimes, right before bed.” She looked over at him, her soft gray eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Had he seemed unusually troubled by anything that day?”
She drew up short, her head jerking back, her features tightening. “If he had, do you think I would tell anyone?”
“Annie,” he said gently. “I’m on your side. I just want to make certain we’re not missing anything.”
She brushed a soft tendril of hair off her forehead with a shaky hand. “I’m sorry.” She hesitated a moment, as if considering his question, then said, “Rhys hadn’t been himself for some time now. It can’t be easy, watching your health crumble, finding yourself unable to do even the simplest things. But he seemed no different Sunday than he had the day or the week before.”
“Had he any enemies that you know of?”
“Rhys? Good heavens, no. You knew him. He could sometimes be quick to judge, but he was never the kind of man who collects enemies. What are you suggesting? Surely you don’t think someone could have . . . that someone might have murdered him?”