C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“So. How progresses your investigation, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

“Not as well as one might wish,” admitted Sebastian, settling on the bench beside her. He watched her crumple a piece of stale bread and toss it to her feathered friends, who fluttered, cooed, and quacked around her. “You come here often, I take it?”

“Every afternoon.” She broke off another chunk of bread. “They abuse me dreadfully if I am late.”

They sat side by side for a moment in companionable silence, watching the birds. She said, “On the southern tip of the island of Pellestrina, near Venice, is a beach known as Ca’ Roman. It’s a lovely, quiet spot, famous for its birds. Your mother used to go there often. She especially liked the colonies of little terns and Kentish plovers. During the migration periods, you could sometimes see hoopoes and nightingales, too.”

Sebastian watched a mallard drake waddle off toward the water’s edge. This was a side of his mother he had never known. In his memories, her enthusiasms had all been for silks and ribbons, masquerades and routs. He wondered whether she missed England, when she watched those Kenti sh plovers dip and glide over a foreign lagoon.

He wondered whether she missed him.

His voice quiet, he said, “Was she happy, do you think?”

“Happiness comes in spurts, does it not? Especially when one has lost so many of those one holds most dear.” She was referring to his mother, of course. But he knew she spoke, also, of herself.

He studied her flawless profile, the still-smooth line of her cheek, the sensuous curve of her generous mouth, the softly fading fair hair that hid much of the slender silk tie that held her eye patch in place. Then she turned her head to look directly at him, and he experienced again the visceral shock that came with the reminder of that hidden, ruined eye. He realized that for her it must be a constant, inescapable reminder of all that she had suffered, all that she had lost.

He said, “Do you miss France?”

She glanced away again to gaze out over the sun-sparkled water. “I miss the France that once was. I miss the life I lived there, those I loved.” A shadow of a smile fluttered across her features, then was gone. “Perhaps what I really miss is the past, which they say is a sign of growing old, yes? To mourn for all that once was and is now gone is to stop looking forward and prefer the past.”

Her words reminded him of something. He said, “Would you know if Alexander Ross had an interest in spiritualism?”

“Spiritualism?”

“ Séances. Mediums. Contacting the spirits of the dead. That sort of thing.”

“Ah.” She shook her head. “No. I never heard him speak of such things. But that is not to say he had no interest in them. Those who do rarely speak of their beliefs openly.” She tipped her head, her remaining eye narrowing as she studied Sebastian’s face. “You think that is what’s involved here? Spiritualism?”

“Frankly? No. I suspect it’s more than likely a cover for something else. But I’m also told Ross quarreled violently with someone who came to his rooms the Friday evening before he died. Would you know anything about that?”

“As a matter of fact, I heard them.” Her lip curled. “His father may have been a nobleman, but Antoine de La Rocque has the manners and breeding of a peasant.”

“Ross’s argument was with de La Rocque?”

“Yes. I told you he visited Ross frequently. I believe he came that Wednesday, and then he returned again, on the Friday before Alexander’s death.”

“Do you know what the argument was about?”

“I didn’t hear most of what was said. Only de La Rocque’s parting shot, which he delivered as he was descending the stairs so that it echoed through the stairwell.”

“Which was?”

“I don’t recall the exact words, only that de La Rocque evidently believed his life was in danger and he wanted Ross to give him more money because of it. Ross refused.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

She gave him a crooked smile. “You didn’t ask.”

He found himself returning her smile. “What else do you know that you’re not telling me?”

She looked troubled at that and seemed to withdraw into herself. Scattering the last crumbs of her bread, she pushed to her feet and turned toward the path. “I know nothing more. Nothing.”

After she left, Sebastian stayed for a time, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin resting on his hands as he gazed thoughtfully out over the wind-ruffled surface of the pool.

Then he returned to St. James’s Street.

Glancing in the oriel window, he saw that she had still not resumed her accustomed seat. He entered the side door and ran up the stairs to Ross’s rooms.

His knock was answered by the valet, Poole, who blanched at the sight of him. “My lord! I was ... ” He looked like a frightened rabbit seeking a place to hide. “I was just going out.”

“I won’t be long,” said Sebastian, brushing past him into the room.

All traces of the broken table that had once stood beside the door were gone. The valet had made surprising progress in his efforts, boxing up some items to be sent to Charlbury Priory, disposing of others. The plump little man had obviously managed to secure a new position and was now eager to move on.

“Just a few questions,” said Sebastian. “I’ve been wondering about the clothing Ross was wearing the night he died.”

Poole looked confused. “My lord?”

“His coat, shirt, breeches, stockings, cravat—everything he had on when last you saw him. Where was he in the habit of leaving the clothing he removed at night? On a chair? The floor?”

“His linens he dropped on the floor, my lord, to be washed. If his coat, waistcoat, or breeches required attention, he would place them on the daybed. Otherwise, he frequently put them away himself.” Poole paused. “Unless he was foxed, of course.”

“And when you found Mr. Ross dead on Sunday morning, were his clothes from the previous night on the floor?”

“His linens, yes, my lord.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Nothing was missing?”

“No, my lord.”

Sebastian frowned. A stiletto thrust to the base of the skull would have caused considerable bleeding. The killer would have needed to strip off Ross’s bloodstained clothing, stop the bleeding, manhandle the body into a nightshirt, dump it into the bed, then remove the bloody clothes. But the missing clothes would have presented a problem, for a valet would notice immediately if his master’s clothing was not lying in its habitual place the next morning.

Sebastian supposed it was possible the killer had substituted items from Ross’s cupboards—a shirt and cravat deliberately crumpled, perhaps, as if worn. But ...

“His coat and breeches were in the cupboard?”

Both of Poole’s chins disappeared back into his neck. “To be honest, my lord, I did not check immediately. But I have now done a complete inventory.”

“And?”

“As I said. Nothing was missing, my lord. Nothing.”

Antoine de La Rocque was straightening the towering shelves of his dusty, overcrowded collection on Great Russell Street when Sebastian walked in the front door and closed it behind him with a soft click. “I should perhaps have warned you,” he said, “that I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

De La Rocque turned, eyes widening. “Lied to, my lord? But . . . I don’t understand.”

“Allow me to refresh your memory. You said you’d last seen Alexander Ross the Wednesday before he died. Now I discover you had a spectacular set-to with Ross at his rooms that Friday. I want to know what it was about.”