C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“Because Foley killed him before he had gathered enough evidence. Ross wouldn’t have made that kind of accusation lightly.”

She pressed a thumb and forefinger against the high arch of her nose and looked pained.

Sebastian smiled. “That’s what happens when you eat ices too fast.”

“It’s melting in this heat.” She kept her fingers pinched on her nose. “So why did de La Rocque lie to you?”

“Because by that point he’d come up with what he thought was a clever scheme: He was going to blackmail Foley. And that’s why Foley killed him.”

She resumed eating her chocolate ice and considered this in silence. “I’ll admit it makes sense, except for Carl Lindquist. Why would Foley kill him? The payments to Sweden were an important part of Sir Hyde’s push for an alliance between Britain and Russia.”

Sebastian blew out a long breath. “That’s the one part that’s difficult to fit.”

Miss Jarvis scraped the bottom of her cup. “The way I see it, the only ones with any motive to kill Lindquist are the French. His death obviously won’t stop the transfer of gold to Sweden, but it will delay things—and make future clandestine arrangements between our two nations more difficult.”

Sebastian handed the empty cup to the passing waiter, then leapt up onto the seat beside her to take the reins. “Ah, yes; the nameless, faceless French agents,” he said as Tom stepped away from the horses’ heads and scrambled back to his perch.

She gave Sebastian a long, steady look. “Some of them have names. And faces.”

He stared back at her, wondering if she meant who he thought she meant. Then he reminded himself that she was Jarvis’s daughter, and he realized that she probably did.

But she simply opened her parasol and tilted it toward the sun as they moved out from beneath the dappled shade cast by the leafy maples in the square.

Sebastian was concerned that Miss Jarvis might insist on accompanying him to Downing Street. Instead, she seemed almost anxious to bid him adieu.

Arriving in Westminster, he found the entire stretch of Whitehall from Charing Cross to the Houses of Parliament in an uproar, with a stream of panting runners carrying messages back and forth between the Foreign Office, the Horse Guards, the Admiralty, Parliament, and Carlton House. Sebastian pushed his way through the crowded labyrinth of corridors to the chambers of the Undersecretary.

“Sir!” yelped a tall, emaciated clerk as Sebastian strode through the antechamber toward Sir Hyde’s office. Sebastian kept going.

Trembling, the man thrust up from his seat and scrambled out from behind his desk. “You can’t go in there! Sir Hyde is composing an important briefing and he’s been most insistent that he not be disturbed. Most insistent.”

“I’ll tell him I held a gun to your head,” said Sebastian, and threw open the door.

Sir Hyde paused in the act of reaching his pen toward the nearby inkwell and looked up. “What the devil?”

Sebastian closed the door in the face of the still-pleading clerk. “We need to talk. Now.”

Sir Hyde slammed down his quill. “Are you mad? I’ve no time for this! Have you not heard what has happened?”

“I have,” said Sebastian, tossing hat, gloves, and walking stick onto the littered surface of the desk. “I’ve also just learned that Alexander Ross discovered nearly two weeks ago that the Americans had declared war. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Ross what ? But ... how is that possible?”

For a moment, the look of utter astonishment and incredulity on the Undersecretary’s face gave Sebastian pause. “He had it from an American ship called the Baltimore Mary that docked in Rotherhithe the day he died. As soon as he heard, he went straight to your house, to tell you. And that’s why you killed him—him and the American who brought the news.”

“But ... that’s absurd! What possible reason could I have to do such a thing?”

“Because war with America means the end of any chance of sending British troops to Russia—something you have been working very hard to achieve. In fact, you’ve virtually staked your career on it.” Sebastian watched the Undersecretary’s jaw tighten, and knew he’d touched a raw nerve. “What exactly did you think? That you were close enough to achieving your aim that you could force through a commitment before official news of the American war declaration reached London?”

“We were close. So bloody close. If it hadn’t been for Hendon, the alliance would have been signed weeks ago.” Foley pushed up from his desk and went to stand at the window overlooking the courtyard below. He was silent for a moment, his lips pursed as if in thought. Then he said, “Ross did come to my house that Saturday evening—I’ll not deny it. But I wasn’t home. He left a note claiming he had something urgent to tell me. Only, when I went round to his lodgings some hours later, he wasn’t there—or at least, he didn’t answer the door. If he had early warning of the declaration of war, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Sebastian frowned. “What time was this?”

“That I went round to his rooms? I don’t know. Midnight, perhaps?”

Sebastian drew in a deep breath as a new possibility occurred to him.

Foley said, “You do realize how preposterous your suggestion is, don’t you? You obviously forget that Ross worked under me. Had I wished him to keep his knowledge of the war silent for a time, all I’d have needed to do would be to give him an order. No need for murder.”

“According to everything I’ve learned, Alexander Ross was a passionately honorable man. I’m not convinced you could have prevailed upon him to keep quiet.”

“It’s all in the way you phrase things. Good of the realm and all that rot.” Foley smiled. “It’s the earnest, honorable ones who are the easiest to manipulate.”

Sebastian was aware of his hands curling into fists at his sides; he forced them to relax. “I’m curious about one thing: If you didn’t kill Ross, why not tell me about the message he’d left at your house that night? Or your visit to his rooms at—what time did you say? Eight?”

“Midnight.” Again, that tight little smile. “Do you take me for a fool? I’m perfectly aware of how it would have looked.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s thin, sharp-featured face. “Are you saying that when Ross’s valet called you to his master’s bedside that next morning, you knew he’d been murdered?”

“I didn’t know it, no. But I had my suspicions, yes.”

“When you searched his rooms, did you find the copy of the French briefing that Ross was to deliver to Chernishav the previous night?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“You don’t find that curious?”

“Of course I find it curious. Obviously, whoever murdered Ross took the briefing too.”

“Perhaps,” said Sebastian. “What about the intruder who died breaking into Ross’s rooms the night of Sir Gareth Ross’s return to Oxfordshire? Was he one of your men?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Foley cast a quick glance at the elaborately carved wooden clock hanging on the far wall and turned to gather his papers. “Now, my lord, you’ll have to excuse me. Castlereagh has been closeted with Liverpool in his offices since news of this latest crisis arrived, and I’m scheduled to meet with them again at three.”

According to Miss Jarvis, Castlereagh and Liverpool had been in seclusion with the Prince at Carlton House since early morning. But all Sebastian said was, “You actually had two reasons to kill Ross.”

Foley laughed. “Another reason? You can’t be serious.”