C. Harris - What Darkness Brings

Sebastian huffed a soft laugh. Leigh-Jones should have known better than to demand that Bow Street stay out of his district’s affairs. “And?”

“The constable couldn’t find anyone who would admit to being in the area at the time of the murder.” Sir Henry cast Sebastian a quick sideways glance. “You’ve heard that two men were found dead at Eisler’s house early this morning? One stabbed in the house, the other shot down in the rear alley.”

“I’d heard, yes.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Sebastian kept his gaze on the crowded market square before them, its rickety stalls piled high with turnips and potatoes, cabbages and squash. “Have they been identified?”

Sir Henry nodded. “They have, yes. The ruffian in the house was Morgan Aldrich, a man well-known to the authorities in the area, whilst the body in the alley belonged to his young brother, Piers.”

“How did they manage to enter the house?”

“I understand they worked the bars loose at a window in the basement light well, then used a diamond-tipped blade to cut the glass.”

“Unusually sophisticated for common ruffians.”

“It is, yes. Curiously, however, the bolt on the back door also appears to have been tampered with. It was very subtle-so subtle I suspect most people would have missed it entirely. Only, Eisler’s old retainer, Campbell, noticed it.”

“He would,” said Sebastian.

“One suspects,” continued Sir Henry, looking at Sebastian intently, “that some unknown personage, desirous of concealing his illicit entry, gained admittance through the back door, and that unknown personage is the one responsible for the deaths of the Aldrich brothers, who came in through the basement with no regard for whatever evidence of their housebreaking they were leaving behind.”

“An interesting theory. Only, how likely is it that two different sets of ruffians would break into the same house at the same time, and take to murdering one another?”

“I suppose that would depend on what they were looking for. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas, would you?”

Sebastian kept his features carefully schooled. “Mr. Eisler was known to possess a number of valuable items.”

“So he was.” Lovejoy paused, his attention momentarily caught by a Punch and Judy professor set up beneath the nearest arcade, then walked on. “Ah, I almost forgot; my constable did uncover one interesting piece of information. One of the individuals with whom he spoke-a chandler’s apprentice-recalled seeing Mr. Yates standing on the pavement before the victim’s house the morning of the murder. Eisler himself was in his open doorway, and the two men were engaged in what the apprentice described as a ‘right royal row.’”

Sebastian felt his jaw tighten with a spurt of quiet rage. Yates had assured him quite emphatically that he’d had no quarrel with Eisler. “The apprentice knew Yates by name?”

“No. But his description of the man involved was unmistakable. There can’t be many sun-darkened gentlemen in London who wear their hair long and affect a gold pirate’s hoop in one ear.”

“And the apprentice was certain the argument he witnessed occurred Sunday morning?”

“He was, yes. Seems he encountered the altercation on his way home from services at Holy Trinity.”

“Did he happen to hear the subject of their quarrel?”

“He did not. He did, however, catch the final, heated exchange of words. Seems Eisler told Yates, ‘Don’t even think about crossing me. I can destroy you and you know it.’”

Sebastian squinted up at the templelike facade of the church overlooking the square. “And did he manage to catch Yates’s reply?”

“I’m afraid he did. He says Yates laughed out loud and said, ‘I can split your gullet from stem to stern quicker than a Haymarket whore can pick your pocket, and don’t you forget that , you bloody little bastard.’” The magistrate paused to look out over the churchyard’s jumble of gray, moss-covered tombstones. “Of course, Eisler was shot, not stabbed. But still. . it doesn’t look good for Mr. Yates.”

“No,” said Sebastian, drawing up beside him. “No, it doesn’t.”

Russell Yates had drawn his cell’s slat-backed chair up to a small table and was busy writing when the turnkey opened the iron-banded oak door for Sebastian. In the last twenty-four hours, the ex-privateer had managed to shave and change into clean clothes. A feather bed and warm blankets softened his cot; a pitcher of water and a basin stood on a plain shelf beside a bottle of good cognac and a crystal glass. Prison could be surprisingly comfortable for those wealthy enough to make the appropriate arrangements.

But it was still prison.

“I ought to let you hang,” said Sebastian without preamble as the turnkey locked the heavy door behind him. “I swear to God, if it weren’t for Kat, I would.”

Yates pushed awkwardly to his feet, his leg irons throwing him off balance. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“It means that if you can’t be honest with me, then you’re just wasting my time-and yours. And the way I see it, you don’t have much time left to waste.”

A muscle ticked along the ridge of the man’s jawbone. “What do you think I’m lying to you about?”

Sebastian gave a humorless laugh. “Have you told me so many bouncers that you can’t be certain which ones I’ve caught on to? I’m talking about last Sunday morning. When you stood in the middle of Fountain Lane and threatened to gut Eisler from stem to stern. The chandler who witnessed the exchange will doubtless be testifying at your trial. What do you think the chances of your acquittal are now?”

Yates simply stared at him, his face pale.

Sebastian said, “You claimed you had no quarrel with Eisler. What the hell was it about?”

Yates sank into his chair again, one splayed hand pressing against his cheek with such force that it distorted his features.

“What was the quarrel about?” Sebastian demanded again when the other man remained silent.

Yates shifted his hand so that it covered his lower face and mouth. “The old bugger was trying to cheat me. He’d somehow managed to acquire certain information. . I don’t suppose I need go into detail as to its nature. He thought he could use it to his advantage.”

“Why the devil didn’t you tell me this before?”

A faint flush darkened the other man’s face. “I suppose I thought if you knew I had a reason to kill him, you wouldn’t help me. But I didn’t shoot him. I won’t deny that I considered it. But I didn’t actually do it.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s pinched features. The ponderous British legal system called men such as Yates “sodomites” and punished them with a rare viciousness. But they tended to call themselves “mollies.” They had created a shadowy culture of their own in London, a hidden but vibrant subworld of pubs and coffeehouses called molly houses where they felt free to mingle and meet, to dance and cut up a lark. Yet the threat of disgrace, imprisonment, and death hung over them always. The men who moved through that world lived in constant fear of both detection and extortion.

Sebastian said, “Where did Eisler acquire this information?”

“The bastard traded in other people’s secrets, the same way he traded in gems and fine furniture and art objects. He was always getting nasty bits of information out of people who owed him money.”

“You mean he was a blackmailer?”

“Not in the strictest sense. He was more subtle than that. But he certainly used what he knew about people to his own advantage.”

“Exchanging shouted threats in the street doesn’t exactly sound subtle to me.”