Sebastian was walking up Brook Street when he noticed a tall, dark-haired man striding toward him with the long-legged gait of a soldier who has covered many, many miles.
One hand in his coat pocket, Sebastian paused and let Jamie Knox come up to him.
“Looking for me?” Sebastian asked quietly.
Knox drew up, his yellow eyes narrowed to thin slits, his jaw set hard. “Jud Foy is dead.”
“I know.”
“Did you kill him?”
“I did not.”
Knox chewed the inside of one cheek. “I’m thinking he’s dead because I told you where to find him.”
“I don’t think so. But I could be wrong.”
Knox nodded. “You remember when you promised that if you ever discovered I shot that French lieutenant, you’d see me hang?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll understand when I say that if I find out you did kill Foy, you’re a dead man.”
Knox started to turn away.
Sebastian said, “I didn’t realize Foy was a friend of yours.”
Knox paused to look back at him. “He wasn’t. Bloody hell, the man was crazy.”
Sebastian started to laugh. And after a moment, Knox joined him.
Sebastian walked into the house, poured himself a glass of burgundy, and went to stand staring thoughtfully out the dining room window at the black cat, who was lying on the top step of the terrace, fastidiously engaged in the never-ending task of bathing its long, silky fur. An idea was forming in his mind, a suspicion borne of a series of subtle inconsistencies and improbabilities almost too amorphous to name.
He drained his wine and sent for Jules Calhoun.
“What can you tell me about Bertram Leigh-Jones?” he asked when the valet appeared.
The valet looked vaguely surprised. “You mean the chief magistrate at Lambeth Street Public Office?”
“I do, yes.”
Calhoun opened his eyes wide and blew out a long breath. “Well, he’s a piece of work, no doubt about that.”
“Meaning?”
“He runs that district like it’s his own private fiefdom. Makes the publicans give him a cut if they want to be certain he’ll renew their licenses. And I suspect his handling of the vestry’s poor fund wouldn’t bear too close an inspection either.”
“In other words, he’s not exactly what one might call an honest man.”
“Actually, I’d say he’s fairly typical of East End magistrates.”
“Someone from Lambeth Street seems suddenly to have been moved to interview the woman at the greengrocer’s on the corner of Fountain Lane. I’d be interested to know when that conversation took place.”
“I’ll see what I can discover, my lord.”
Sebastian nodded. “Just be careful. This is a magistrate who thinks hanging half a dozen men before breakfast is good sport.”
Chapter 51
T
hat night, as Kat prepared to leave for the theater, a heavy fog rolled up from the river, swallowing the city in a thick white mist.
She was in the hall, easing the hood of her cloak up over her hair, when Yates appeared in the doorway from the library, a glass of brandy held in one hand. He’d been drinking steadily since his release from Newgate, although Kat couldn’t say she blamed him.
“I think perhaps it would be best if I were to ride with you in the carriage tonight,” he said.
“Good heavens, why?”
He met her gaze and held it. “You know why.”
She gave a soft laugh that sounded forced even to her own ears. “I’ve never heard of anyone holding up a carriage on the streets of London, if that’s what concerns you.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“If it comes to that, I’ve a footman and a coachman to protect me.”
He drained his glass and set it aside. “Humor me?”
She smiled, a genuine smile this time. “All right.”
They drove through streets shrouded in white and unusually light in traffic. Yates said, “Devlin tells me he intends to continue his pursuit of Eisler’s killer.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“In a way it does, yes. Eisler was a vile excuse for a human being. What does it matter who killed him? The world is well rid of him.”
“Perhaps. Yet more people are now dying.”
“An aging Parisian jewel thief and a half-mad ex-soldier?”
“Do you consider the world well rid of them too? I suspect there are many who would say the same of a Covent Garden actress—or an ex-pirate with a tendency to frequent the city’s most notorious molly houses.”
His lips quirked into a crooked smile. “I suppose you do have a point. Still—” He broke off, sitting forward suddenly.