Von Riedesel pressed his lips into a thin, flat line, then nodded curtly. “Yes.”
Sebastian gave up on his breakfast and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve served and protected the Duke’s daughter for more than a decade. I can’t see you standing idly by while a nasty little diamond merchant threatened her.”
“You are suggesting—vhat? That I vent to his home Sunday night and put a bullet through him?” If the Brunswicker’s face had been pale before, it was now suffused with color. “As it happens, I spent last Sunday evening in the company of a voman of my acquaintance—and no, I have no intention of telling you her name.” He pushed to his feet, the movement so violent the chair toppled over, startling the cat. “Good day to you, sir!”
He had almost reached the door when Sebastian said, “Tell me this: Did the Prince know about Eisler’s interest in his wife’s affairs?”
Von Riedesel paused at the door to look back at him. “No. But I’ll tell you who did know.”
“Who?”
A gleam of malicious triumph flashed in the Brunswicker’s small brown eyes. “Jarvis. Jarvis knew.”
Half an hour later, Sebastian was on the verge of leaving to make a formal call on his father-in-law when he received a message from Sir Henry Lovejoy. Jud Foy had been discovered sprawled against one of the tombstones in St. Anne’s churchyard.
Dead.
Chapter 46
S
ebastian found Sir Henry standing in the lee of the church’s soot-stained, redbrick walls, his shoulders hunched and the collar of his greatcoat turned up against the morning drizzle.
Jud Foy still lay sprawled where he had been discovered, half-propped against a mossy tombstone like a man who’d stretched out for a nap. Except that his eyes were wide and staring, and someone had bashed the side of his head into a bloody pulp.
“Given your interest in the fellow, I thought you’d want to know,” said Sir Henry when Sebastian walked up to him.
“Who found him?”
“The sexton. He tells us he heard a commotion late last night but saw nothing when he went to investigate. It was only this morning he noticed the corpse.”
Sebastian went to hunker down beside the body. In death, Foy seemed to have shriveled to little more than a loose collection of rags drummed into the mud by the previous night’s rain. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to touch the dead man’s sunken cheek.
He was cold.
Looking up, Sebastian squinted through the drizzle to where a couple of constables were working their way across the overgrown churchyard. “Have they found anything?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid.” Sir Henry paused. “I heard about last night’s shooting in St. Giles. You weren’t hurt?”
Sebastian shook his head. “They weren’t shooting at me.”
Sir Henry nodded to the dead man beside them. “Does this make any sense to you?”
“None of it makes any sense to me.”
The magistrate frowned. “One wonders what he was doing in a churchyard.”
“Meeting someone, perhaps?”
“Surely a tavern would have been more suitable . . . not to mention warmer and dryer?”
“It would also have been more public.”
“There is that.” Sir Henry reached for his handkerchief and wiped his nose with a sniff.
Sebastian said, “You’ll be sending the body to Gibson?”
The magistrate’s eyes narrowed in a thoughtful frown. But all he said was, “Indeed. I’ve just dispatched one of the lads to the Mount Street dead house for a shell.”
Sebastian was pushing to his feet when something half-hidden beneath the dead man’s greasy, ragged coat caught his eye. He reached for it and found himself holding a small leather pouch embossed with the stylized initials DE. He’d seen the device before; it was Daniel Eisler’s.
Loosening the pouch’s rawhide tie, he shook some half a dozen small stones into the palm of one hand. They winked up at him, somehow snatching a measure of light from the dreary, overcast day and turning it into a brilliant rainbow of fire.
“What is it?” Lovejoy asked, leaning forward to see.
“Diamonds,” said Sebastian. “I think they’re diamonds.”
After the men from the dead house had carried off what was left of Jud Foy toward Tower Hill, Sebastian bought Sir Henry a cup of hot chocolate from a coffeehouse on Leicester Square.
“Is Foy the ruffian I hear accosted Lady Devlin in Charing Cross yesterday?” asked Sir Henry, his hands wrapped around his steaming mug. His nose was red, and Sebastian noticed he kept sniffing.
“Yes.”
The magistrate reached for his handkerchief. “Remarkable woman, her ladyship. Quite remarkable. Not to mention formidable.”
“She didn’t bash in Foy’s head.”
Sir Henry’s eyes widened above his handkerchief. “Good heavens. I hope you don’t think I was suggesting any such thing?”