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.