Abigail glanced over at her. “A knife with a black hilt is only used to summon evil spirits. It’s dipped in the juice of hemlock and the blood of a black cat.”
“Oh, God,” whispered Hero. “That’s what the cat was for.”
“And it explains why Eisler kept all those birds,” said Devlin, picking up the vellum to study it again.
Abigail nodded. “They would also have been used for sacrifices. White animals and birds are typically sacrificed to good spirits, and black to evil spirits.”
“He did seem to favor the black,” said Devlin.
Abigail laced her hands together in her lap so tightly the knuckles showed white. She looked like a simple, red-haired spinster, prim and plain—until one remembered she was surrounded by texts on magic and the darkest secrets of the occult. “He was not a nice man,” she said, her voice oddly strained, tight. “I’m glad he’s dead.”
“You sound like Hero,” said Devlin, looking up.
“He caused great harm and unhappiness to many. True justice is rare in this world, but this time, at least, I think we have seen it in action.”
“Unless an innocent man hangs for his murder.”
Abigail’s anger seemed to drain away, leaving her looking troubled. “You will be able to prove that this man Yates is innocent, won’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Devlin carefully rolled the white sheet of vellum. “You said this is called the fourth pentacle of Saturn. What is it used for?”
“Operations of ruin, destruction, and death.”
“I wonder whose death he was trying to cause,” said Hero.
Devlin’s gaze met hers. “If we knew that, we might know who killed him.”
Chapter 37
“A
h, Lord Devlin,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy when Sebastian stopped by Bow Street to see him later that afternoon. “I was just about to send a message round to Brook Street. I’ve discovered some interesting information about that fellow you asked me to look into.”
“You mean Jud Foy?”
“That’s the one, yes.”
“You’ve found him?”
“Not yet, no. But I thought you might like to know that it seems he was once a rifleman.”
“With what regiment?”
“The 114th Foot. He was invalided out in 1809.”
“Good God, is he Sergeant Judah Foy?”
“He is, yes.” Something of Sebastian’s reaction must have shown on his face, because Lovejoy’s eyes narrowed. “You know him?”
“You could say that.”
Tyson was cupping wafers at Menton’s Shooting Gallery when Sebastian came to stand off to one side and quietly watch. The man’s movements were smooth and assured, his aim as flawless as one might expect of someone who’d purchased his first pair of colors at the age of sixteen.
He shot three more times before looking over at Sebastian and saying, “I take it you’re not here for the entertainment value?”
Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and smiled. “Don’t mind me.”
Tyson’s handsome features remained impassive. But Sebastian saw his eyes darken. He handed his flintlock to the attendant and stripped off the leather guards he wore to protect his cuffs from the powder. “I’ve finished.”
Sebastian watched him walk over to pour water into a basin and wash his hands. “Tell me about Jud Foy.”
Tyson paused for a moment, then went back to soaping his hands. “Who?”
“You do remember Sergeant Judah Foy, don’t you? He was a rifleman with your regiment. Not only that, but he’s the sergeant who testified in your defense at your court-martial. If it hadn’t been for him, you’d have hanged.”
“I remember him.”
“I must admit,” said Sebastian, “his appearance has changed so radically that I didn’t recognize him.”
Tyson shook the water from his hands and reached for the towel offered by an attendant. “I’m not surprised. He got kicked in the head by one of the supply wagon’s mules. He’s never been right since then, which is a polite way of saying the man belongs in a madhouse.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find him?”
“Did you try Bedlam?”
Sebastian shook his head. “He’s very much a free man. And he seems to be laboring under the opinion that he’s suffered some sort of injustice. Do you know anything about that?”
Tyson tossed the towel aside. “As I recall, after the accident he had difficulty distinguishing between his own property and that of others. Why? What does any of this have to do with me?”
“I don’t know that it does.”
Tyson reached for his coat and shrugged into it. “I told you, the man is mad.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“He may well be.” Tyson adjusted his cuffs. “Do you think him involved in Eisler’s murder in some way?”
“Was Foy acquainted with Eisler?”
“Now, how would I know? The man was a sergeant—not exactly one of my intimates.”
“Unlike Beresford?”
Tyson looked over at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you know Eisler was in the habit of acquiring information about people and then using it against them?”