C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“So you told him about Nathan?”

“Yes. And he said he knew this bigwig at the Admiralty and offered to write him on our behalf.”

“When was this?” Sebastian asked. “That you encountered him, I mean.”

“A couple of weeks ago, I suppose. I can’t say for certain.”

“Did you ever meet with him again?”

Miss Bateman nodded. “Yes. He came to see us here—or rather, at the Ship and Pilot—several days later. In order to look at our supporting documents and confirm his understanding of the events before he actually wrote the letter. Unfortunately, I suspect he died before he was able to finish the letter, for he was to send it with our documents, and he never did.”

“So you never saw him again after that?”

Father and daughter exchanged guarded glances.

“Well, did you?” prompted Sebastian.

“Not exactly.”

Sebastian shook his head. “What does that mean?”

She said, “We saw him—last Friday evening, here, in Stepney. But he didn’t speak to us.”

Sebastian studied her pale, strained face. “Where was this?”

“Not far from here. Papa had been drinking a glass of the waters, and we were walking back toward the Ship and Pilot. Mr. Ross came out of one of the houses on Market Street, but he turned and walked away very quickly. As I said, I don’t think he saw us.”

“You’re certain it was him?”

“Oh, yes,” said Bateman. “It stays light quite late these days. I may be old, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.”

“Do you remember the house? Would you be able to show it to me?”

“Gladly,” said Bateman, setting aside his glass and making a move to get up.

His daughter put out her hand, stopping him. “Not until you’ve finished your waters, Papa.”

He made a face but dutifully drank it all down.

They walked together across the field, past a vast rope walk where sweating men were turning cables nearly a foot in girth. The air was thick with the scent of sun-warmed grass and tar and the smells of the river. Just beyond the field they came to a lane bounded on one side by modest but well-kept houses, and Miss Bateman drew up.

“This one,” she said, nodding to the small, tidy house with whitewashed bricks and yellow trim and shutters that stood near the corner. She turned to look at Sebastian, her brows drawing together with thought. “It’s Ross you’re really interested in, isn’t it? This all has something to do with his death.”

Sebastian saw no reason to deny it. “Yes. But if there is any way I can help your brother, I will.”

Her nostrils flared. “You English. You like to talk about justice and personal freedom. But the truth is, they’re just meaningless, hollow phrases that only serve to make you feel good about yourselves. The only thing that matters to you is maintaining the maritime supremacy you’ve enjoyed since Trafalgar.”

There was something about this woman—her obvious intelligence, or perhaps it was simply her passion—that reminded Sebastian of Hero Jarvis. She might lack Miss Jarvis’s polish and inbred acumen, but the two women shared a similar inner strength and determination and calm resourcefulness.

“That may well be,” he said. “But somehow I doubt that expressing those sentiments to the Admiralty will do much to advance your brother’s cause.”

She colored. “No; you’re right, of course. I do beg your pardon. It’s just ...”

“I understand your frustration. I promise, I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He stood for a moment, watching her support her father down the flagway, toward the Ship and Pilot. Then he turned to walk up the short path to the front door.

He was just reaching the front step when the door opened. Mr. Carl Lindquist came bustling out onto the front stoop, then drew up sharply, his eyes widening at the sight of Sebastian.

“My Lord Devlin,” exclaimed the Swedish trader. “ Herregud, you startled me. I vas not expecting you.”

“To be frank, I wasn’t expecting you, either.” Sebastian squinted up at the house’s simple facade. “You live here?”

Lindquist hesitated, as if tempted to deny it. Then he obviously realized the folly of the effort, for he said, “ Ja. It is hopelessly unfashionable, I know. But very near the docks.” He stared owlishly at Sebastian.

Conscious of standing on the doorstep, Sebastian said, “I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

Rather than invite Sebastian inside, Lindquist pulled the door closed behind him and nodded briskly. “If you vish, my lord. I am on my vay to visit one of my storehouses.”

They walked through increasingly mean streets crowded with blue-smocked men and lolling seamen. Sebastian said, “I understand Alexander Ross visited you last Friday evening.”

“Friday? No, no.”

“He was seen coming out your door.”

The Swede put on a great show of remembrance. “Ah, now dat you mention it, I do recall he came to see me. Ja, ja.”

“Cut line,” said Sebastian dryly. “You lied to me. Why?”

The trader’s lips tightened. “I do not see how it is any concern of yours.”

“Ross is dead. Someone killed him. Would you rather talk to Bow Street? That can be arranged.”

“No, no,” said Lindquist quickly. “It’s yoost . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

The man gave a nervous laugh. “It is yoost a touch embarrassing, you see. Ross and I, uh, ve shared an interest in spiritualism. Ve met together from time to time vith other like-minded individuals in an attempt to contact the spirits of the dead.”

Sebastian stared at him. “Are you telling me Ross came to your house for a séance?”

Lindquist stared back, as if daring Sebastian to disbelieve him. “Ja.”

“I see. And precisely who were you attempting to contact?”

“My vife. She died two years ago, in childbirth.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Sebastian.

Lindquist nodded solemnly in acknowledgment. “And Mr. Ross, he vas interested in contacting his father.”

“Were either of you successful?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“And who else was at this, er, séance?”

Lindquist ran the fingers of his right hand up and down his watch chain. “I am sorry, but you must understand dat I cannot betray the confidentiality of the other participants.” He drew up before a vast brick warehouse with a massive overhead iron catwalk that joined it to its twin across the street. “But I can tell you dis: Mr. Ross was obviously disturbed dat night. He apologized for it aftervards. Agitation of one of the participants can sometimes interfere vith one’s ability to make contact, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Do you have any idea what had ‘agitated’ him?”

“All I know is dat someone had come to his rooms, yoost as he vas preparing to leave. I gather they had quite a confrontation. But what the argument vas about or who vas involved, I am afraid I cannot tell you. I did not feel it vas my place to press him.”

Sebastian studied the Swede’s watery blue eyes. He had no doubt it was all a hum. But it occurred to him that he could do worse than ask Madame Champagne about the visitors to Alexander Ross’s rooms the Friday before his death.

Angelina Champagne’s seat beside the window in the Je Reviens coffee shop was empty.

Following the directions of the burly Frenchman behind the counter, he found her on a rustic bench overlooking the reservoir in Green Park. Despite the fierceness of the afternoon sun, she wore a hat with only a short brim and held no parasol. An assortment of ducks and pigeons and sparrows fluttered around her. She smiled as she watched him walk up to her.