A faint flush darkened the other man’s face. “I suppose I thought if you knew I had a reason to kill him, you wouldn’t help me. But I didn’t shoot him. I won’t deny that I considered it. But I didn’t actually do it.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s pinched features. The ponderous British legal system called men such as Yates “sodomites” and punished them with a rare viciousness. But they tended to call themselves “mollies.” They had created a shadowy culture of their own in London, a hidden but vibrant subworld of pubs and coffeehouses called molly houses where they felt free to mingle and meet, to dance and cut up a lark. Yet the threat of disgrace, imprisonment, and death hung over them always. The men who moved through that world lived in constant fear of both detection and extortion.
Sebastian said, “Where did Eisler acquire this information?”
“The bastard traded in other people’s secrets, the same way he traded in gems and fine furniture and art objects. He was always getting nasty bits of information out of people who owed him money.”
“You mean he was a blackmailer?”
“Not in the strictest sense. He was more subtle than that. But he certainly used what he knew about people to his own advantage.”
“Exchanging shouted threats in the street doesn’t exactly sound subtle to me.”
Yates gave a ghost of a smile. “True. But then, I was refusing to play his game.”
“You weren’t afraid?”
The privateer’s jaw hardened. “Men have tried extortion with me before.”
Sebastian had heard about the schemes often run against the mollies. Two confederates would cruise the parks and byways known to be frequented by London’s mollies. Then they’d separate, with one of the pair—usually young and attractive—approaching a likely target to “make a bargain.” Once the target was in a compromising position, the second confederate would rush in on the couple and threaten to denounce the extortion victim to the authorities unless he paid them. Handsomely and repeatedly.
“And what did you do to those who thought you a likely victim for extortion?” asked Sebastian. “Kill them?”
Yates simply stared back at him.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian.
“Would you have me believe you wouldn’t do the same, in my position?”
The two men’s gazes met. Clashed.
Yates said, “If I’d killed Eisler, I would tell you. I didn’t kill him.”
Sebastian went to stare out the small barred window overlooking the Press Yard below. They called it the Press Yard because, until recently, it was where those who refused to enter a plea against charges were literally pressed: Increasing loads of weights were placed upon the accused’s chest until he—or she—agreed to plead.
Or until they were crushed to death, at which point the legal niceties were no longer relevant.
He said, “I’m told Daniel Eisler was in the process of trying to sell a large blue diamond—a very large blue diamond. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“What about a man named Jud Foy? Ever hear of him?”
“Foy?” Yates shook his head. “I don’t think so. What does he look like?”
“Thin. Disheveled. Like he belongs in Bedlam.”
A smile flickered across the ex-privateer’s features. “Really, Devlin, I’ll admit I associate with some rougher sorts, but I do draw the line somewhere.”
“What about a former army lieutenant named Tyson?”
“You mean Matt Tyson?”
“So you do know him.”
“I’ve met him a few times, here and there. Why?”
“Know if he had any dealings with Eisler?”
Yates thought about it a moment, then said, “He must have. I remember running into him once in Fountain Lane, although it was some time ago now. Perhaps as much as a month or so ago.”
“Do you know why he was there?”
“No. Why? What does Tyson have to do with this?”
Sebastian pushed away from the window. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
Lieutenant Matt Tyson was about to enter Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon when Sebastian walked up to him and said, “We need to talk. Come walk with me.”
Tyson paused, the faintest hint of a smile tightening the sun-darkened flesh beside his thin lips as he shook his head. “Sorry; I’m meeting someone here at four.”
Sebastian kept his voice pleasant. “We can have our conversation inside, if you prefer. I’ve no doubt Jackson’s other patrons would find the sordid details of your court-martial fascinating.”
Something flashed in the lieutenant’s eyes, something almost immediately hidden by his carefully lowered lids. “I was acquitted; remember?”
“Not by me.”
Without glancing at him again, Tyson resettled his hat on his head and turned his steps toward Piccadilly. A thick bank of dark clouds still hung low over the sodden city. Water dripped from overhanging eaves and misted windowpanes; the pavement glistened dark and wet.
“When did you sell out?” asked Sebastian, falling into step beside him.
“A couple of months ago, if you must know. What the devil difference does it make to you?”
“Curious timing.”