“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that after all these years, it looks as if Wellington is finally turning the tide against the French. I should think it would be a time of great opportunity for a man of your . . . talents.”
Tyson’s eyes narrowed. But all he said was, “Sometimes a man just gets tired of killing.”
“Not all men.”
Tyson threw him a quick sideways glance. “You did.”
It had been two years now since Sebastian had sold out for a complicated crescendo of reasons he’d yet to come to grips with. But then, he had never been the kind of man who took pleasure in killing.
Tyson had.
Sebastian said, “What was your business with Daniel Eisler?”
The man’s faint smile broadened. “My, my, you have been busy, haven’t you?”
“What was it?” Sebastian said again.
Tyson shrugged. “Eisler bought jewels. I had some to sell. And no, I didn’t slit some se?orita’s throat or rape a convent full of nuns to get them. I took them off a dead French colonel at Badajoz. Where he got them is really none of my affair, now, is it?”
The bodies of the French dead were routinely stripped of their valuables, uniforms, and boots before being buried or burned. The spoils of war had long been considered a natural supplement to the King’s shilling. Officers didn’t usually join in the looting of the dead, although some did.
But the systematic looting of civilians was something else again. Wellington had always discouraged the age-old tradition of subjecting a conquered city to three days of ritual pillage by marauding, drunken soldiers—both because it was bad for discipline and because the British liked to portray themselves as saviors rather than conquerors. But Badajoz would remain forever a stain on the honor of the modern British army, for the fortified Spanish frontier city had endured days of savage rape, murder, and pillage after being stormed by Wellington’s troops last March. Tyson might claim his booty came from the body of a French colonel, but Sebastian suspected otherwise.
He said, “And did Eisler give you a fair price for your ‘items’?”
“He did, yes. Otherwise, why would I have done business with him?”
“Who suggested him to you? Thomas Hope?”
Tyson shook his head. “A friend from Spain. And I haven’t been anywhere near the old goat in weeks, so if you’re looking for someone besides Yates to pin this murder on, you’re just going to have to keep looking.”
In Sebastian’s experience, most people had a tendency to fidget when they lied; they hesitated, or their voices rose in pitch, or their demeanor shifted in some subtle way. But there were those who could meet your gaze, smile, and lie with a careless grace born of a complete absence of either guilt or fear of detection. Matt Tyson was one of those men.
“I might actually believe you,” said Sebastian, “if I hadn’t sat on your court-martial board.”
A quick flare of anger tightened the lieutenant’s features before being carefully smoothed away. He turned his head to watch an elegant red barouche dashing up the street. After a moment, he said, “I did see something at Eisler’s house the last time I was there, which you might find relevant.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“A woman was leaving Fountain Lane just as I arrived. A young, nicely dressed gentlewoman. I couldn’t tell you who she was—she was heavily veiled and got into a hack that was waiting for her. I assumed at first she was there for much the same reason I was—to sell Eisler a piece of her jewelry, probably to pay off a gaming debt. Then I saw Eisler.”
“And?”
“The old goat had his flap buttoned awry. He must have taken her right there in the parlor because I could still smell the stink of his lust in the air. I’ve since heard it’s where he always took his women—whores and ladies alike.”
“You’re saying he made a practice of it?”
“Didn’t you know?” Smug amusement bordering on derision suffused the other man’s face. “He was quite the nasty old sot, your Eisler. He’d loan money to pretty young things, and then when they couldn’t pay his ruinous interest rates, he’d offer them a choice: Either let him tumble them on that ratty old couch or have whatever trinket they’d pledged declared forfeit. He offered the same deal to men who were late on their payments—if they had a pretty wife.”
When Sebastian remained silent, Tyson laughed out loud. “Don’t believe me? Ask that sybaritic nephew of his.”
“You mean Perlman? What would he know of it?”
“Far more than you might think. I’ve heard that one of the ways Perlman kept in his uncle’s good graces was by providing him with whores.” Tyson paused as the church bells of the city began to chime the hour, one after the other ringing out over the wet streets. “And now, you really must excuse me. I did mention I was meeting someone at four.”