Sebastian smiled and shook his head. Then his smile faded. “I hear Yates is scheduled to stand trial tomorrow morning.”
“He is, yes. I’m told they’re so confident of conviction that the keeper has already ordered the construction of the gallows for Monday morning.”
Sebastian took a sip of his coffee and practically scalded his tongue. “Perhaps the deaths of two men linked to the case will lead the authorities to reconsider.”
“It might if we were dealing with anyone other than Bertram Leigh-Jones.” Lovejoy touched his handkerchief to his nose again. “Although there’s no denying Foy’s possession of that pouch of diamonds is certainly suggestive.”
“I don’t think Foy is our killer. But he might well have known who the killer was.”
“The man was a pauper. How else could he have acquired those stones?”
“I don’t know,” said Sebastian. But it was only a half-truth. Because Sebastian could think of at least two plausible scenarios. One involved Napoléon’s unknown agent.
The other implicated Matt Tyson.
Sebastian spent the next couple of hours talking to several veterans of the Peninsular War, including an organ-grinder in Russell Square who’d lost a leg at Barossa and a sergeant who lived in one of the almshouses funded by Benjamin Bloomsfield.
By the time he reached Matt Tyson’s lodgings in St. James’s Street, the morning’s rain had ended and the low, heavy clouds were beginning to break up. A ragged, barefoot boy in a cut-down man’s coat held together with string was busy sweeping the mud and manure from the crossing with a worn broom of bundled twigs lashed to a stick. Sebastian tipped him tuppence as he crossed the street and watched the boy’s eyes go wide. It shamed him to realize that before Hero had embarked on the research for her article, the army of half-starved urchins who eked out miserable livings as crossing sweeps had been largely invisible to him, a necessary nuisance whose existence he acknowledged without really questioning it.
He was just reaching the far flagway when Tyson exited his lodging and paused to close the door behind him. He was as impeccably dressed as always, in buff-colored breeches and a military-styled dark blue coat, his handsome face hardening as his gaze clashed with Sebastian’s.
“We need to talk,” said Sebastian.
“I have nothing further to say to you.”
“Actually, I rather think you do. You see, I’ve just had an interesting conversation with several veterans of the 114th Foot.”
Tyson ran his tongue across his perfect top teeth. “Very well. Do come in.”
His rooms on the first floor were spacious and elegantly furnished with the same exquisite taste—and expense—he lavished on the raiment of his person. The hangings were of figured burgundy satin, the furniture of the finest gleaming rosewood. He did not invite Sebastian to sit, but simply stood with his back to the closed door, his arms crossed at his chest. “Say what you have to say and then get out.”
Sebastian let his gaze rove over the shelves of leather-bound books, the gilt-framed oils, the marble bust of a Roman boy. Tyson appeared to be doing quite well for a younger son who’d just sold his commission.
As if aware of the drift of Sebastian’s thoughts, Tyson said, “One of my maiden aunts recently died, leaving me her portion.”
“And then of course there’s whatever you cleared from the sale of the spoils of Badajoz.”
Tyson tightened his jaw and said nothing.
Sebastian went to stand before a tasteful oil depicting a foxhunt. “You told me Jud Foy’s injuries came from a mule. Only, that was never actually established, was it? In fact, there’s a good possibility someone tried to cave in his head with the butt of a rifle.”
“Now, why would anyone want to do that?”
Sebastian continued his study of the room. “I think you paid Foy to perjure himself. Then you tried to kill him in order to eliminate the possibility that he might be inspired to tell the truth at some point in the future—and maybe even so that you could take back whatever you’d used to bribe him.”
“Believe me, if I’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.”
“Actually, he is dead. Someone bashed in his head last night in St. Anne’s churchyard—fatally this time.”
Sebastian watched the other man’s face carefully.
But Tyson remained impassive, his only reaction a faint tightening of his lips into the suggestion of a smile. “I’d be tempted to say, ‘How tragic.’ Except that, given the fact the poor sot’s life was hardly worth much at this point, ‘How ironic’ might be more appropriate. Or perhaps, ‘How poetic’?”
Sebastian felt no inclination to return the man’s smile. “Interestingly enough, he had a small pouch of loose diamonds in his pocket when he was found.”