C. Harris - What Darkness Brings

“Ah.” Her friend’s gaze shifted again to the children playing in the garden. For a moment, Hero thought she was about to say something. But she didn’t.

Hero said, “Do you know where I could find an English version of The Key of Solomon ?”

Miss McBean rose to her feet in a waft of lavender mixed oddly with musk. “I have several. I’d be happy to lend you one.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t let you do that.”

“No, please; none of the copies I have are especially valuable. Let me do this.”

“All right. Thank you.”

The version she lent Hero was smaller, only about eight inches tall, but written in a beautiful, flowing hand and exquisitely illustrated in rich shades of ultramarine and cinnabar and vermilion. Hero glanced through it, her eyes widening. “You said most spells deal with wealth, sex, power, or revenge. Which would you say interested Eisler the most?”

Miss McBean thought about it a moment. “He seemed particularly obsessed with invocations to constrain the spirits of the dead.”

“Invocations to- Good Lord.”

“I’m not so sure the good Lord has aught to do with any of this,” said Abigail McBean, her plump, pretty face taking on an oddly pinched look, her frizzy red hair like a flame in the rainy day’s gloom. “Read the book. You’ll see.”

Outside Abigail McBean’s deceptively normal-looking little house, a faint drizzle was still falling from the gray sky. The air hung heavy with the smell of wet grass and fading roses and the acrid bite of smoke from the endless rows of chimneys. As she walked down the short garden path to where her carriage waited at the kerb, Hero’s attention was all for the task of keeping the rain off the two manuscripts in her arms. She didn’t notice the dark-haired man in the slouch hat and too-big coat until he reared up before her.

“There y’are. Been waitin’ for you, I have,” he said, his grin wide and vacuous, like a man who laughs at his own private joke-or long ago took leave of his senses.

Hero’s gaze flew to her yellow-bodied carriage, the horses’ hides gleaming blue-black in the rain. She saw her footman, George, start forward, face going slack with sudden alarm. She knew she was in no real danger. Yet she felt her skin crawl, her breath quicken in that way common to all living things when confronted with evidence of madness.

“Excuse me,” she said, making to go around him.

Bony and filthy, his hand snaked out, his fingers digging into the sleeve of her carriage dress. “Don’t go yet. Got a message for the captain.”

Quivering with revulsion, Hero jerked her arm away from the man’s grasp with such force that she nearly sent the two manuscripts in her hands flying. “What captain?”

“Captain Lord Devlin. Tell him I’m owed what I’m owed, and he ought by rights to see that I get it. Maybe he don’t remember Jud Foy. But he should. Oh, yes, he should.”

“My lady?” said George, coming up beside her. “Is this person bothering you?”

Foy held his splayed hands up and out to his sides. His grin never faltered and his gaze never wavered from Hero’s face. “You tell him. Hmm?”

Then he thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and sauntered away, elbows swinging, lips puckered into a tuneless whistle quickly lost in the patter of the rain.

Sebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Hero seated at the library table calmly cleaning a tiny muff flintlock with a burnished walnut stock and engraved gilt mounts that had been a gift from her father.

He said, “Is this general maintenance, or did you shoot some-

one?”

She looked up at him. There was no humor in her face, only a cold purposefulness that reminded him disconcertingly of Lord Jarvis. “Ever hear of a man named Jud Foy?”

He thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”

“Because he was waiting for me when I came out of Abigail McBean’s house today-the same man who was watching this house last night. He said his name is Jud Foy, and he wanted me to give you a message.”

“ Bloody hell. How did he know where you were?”

She shook her head. “I’ve no notion. But he called you ‘captain.’ He said, ‘Tell the captain I’m owed what I’m owed.’”

“‘Owed’? What does he think he’s owed?”

“He didn’t specify. Whatever it is, though, he seems to believe it’s your responsibility to see that he gets it. You may not remember him, but he obviously thinks you should.”

Sebastian walked over to where a bottle of burgundy stood with glasses on a tray. He poured himself a drink, then stood with the glass in one hand, his thoughts far away.

Jud Foy. Jud Foy? He tried to put the name together with the wet, disheveled, skeletally thin man from last night, and knew it again, that vague sense of an elusive memory gone before it was quite grasped.

Hero said, “You told me last night that you thought he looked familiar.”

“He did. But I still can’t place him.” Sebastian took a slow sip of his wine. “I thought last night that he must have something to do with my investigation into the murder of Daniel Eisler. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Because he knows you were in the army?”

Sebastian nodded. “Although I suppose it’s possible he’s linked in some way to Matt Tyson. When he said, ‘I saw you coming out of his house,’ I assumed he was talking about Eisler’s house. But he could have meant Hope’s house.”

She listened to him, her face impassive, while he told her of his conversations with Francillon and Perlman. Then she said, “Is it possible Foy could have something to do with your friend Rhys Wilkinson? You’ve visited his lodgings several times in the last few days, haven’t you?”

“I suppose that’s possible too, although I doubt it.” He set aside his glass and reached for his hat and gloves.

“Where are you going?”

“To ask Sir Henry to look into this Foy. And then I think it’s time Lieutenant Tyson and I had a little talk.”

“Jud Foy?” Sir Henry Lovejoy frowned, his lips pursing thoughtfully as he shook his head. “The name’s not familiar to me. But I can ask one of the lads to look into him. Do you want him arrested?”

“He hasn’t exactly done anything,” said Sebastian.

They were walking down Bow Street. The rain had eased up again, but the narrow lane was dark and wet and crowded with a crush of ragged costermongers and squeaky carts overflowing with produce from the nearby market of Covent Garden. The scent of damp earth and sweaty, unwashed bodies hung thick in the air.

Sir Henry said, “I had a visit yesterday evening from Mr. Bertram Leigh-Jones.”

Sebastian looked over at him. “Oh?”

“Your name came up in conversation. He made a number of demands.” Sir Henry pulled at his earlobe, the faintest hint of a smile playing about his normally serious features. “Unfortunately, I can’t seem to recall what any of them were.”

“He’s a very prickly magistrate, Mr. Leigh-Jones.”

“Most West End magistrates are-with good reason.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

They turned down the short stretch of Russell Street that led to the open market square. The press had become a nearly intolerable squeeze, and Sebastian noticed that Lovejoy was careful to keep his hand in his pocket, guarding his purse.

The magistrate sniffed. “Let’s just say that a parliamentary inquiry into the licensing of pubs in a number of parishes might uncover a pattern of irregularity.”

“Interesting.”

“Mmm. After he left, I decided to send one of my lads over to Fountain Lane to make a few inquiries. Given the quick apprehension of Mr. Yates, I suspected Lambeth Street might have neglected to interview some of the locals not directly involved.”