C. Harris - What Darkness Brings

“I don’t think Foy is our killer. But he might well have known who the killer was.”

“The man was a pauper. How else could he have acquired those stones?”

“I don’t know,” said Sebastian. But it was only a half-truth. Because Sebastian could think of at least two plausible scenarios. One involved Napoleon’s unknown agent.

The other implicated Matt Tyson.

Sebastian spent the next couple of hours talking to several veterans of the Peninsular War, including an organ-grinder in Russell Square who’d lost a leg at Barossa and a sergeant who lived in one of the almshouses funded by Benjamin Bloomsfield.

By the time he reached Matt Tyson’s lodgings in St. James’s Street, the morning’s rain had ended and the low, heavy clouds were beginning to break up. A ragged, barefoot boy in a cut-down man’s coat held together with string was busy sweeping the mud and manure from the crossing with a worn broom of bundled twigs lashed to a stick. Sebastian tipped him tuppence as he crossed the street and watched the boy’s eyes go wide. It shamed him to realize that before Hero had embarked on the research for her article, the army of half-starved urchins who eked out miserable livings as crossing sweeps had been largely invisible to him, a necessary nuisance whose existence he acknowledged without really questioning it.

He was just reaching the far flagway when Tyson exited his lodging and paused to close the door behind him. He was as impeccably dressed as always, in buff-colored breeches and a military-styled dark blue coat, his handsome face hardening as his gaze clashed with Sebastian’s.

“We need to talk,” said Sebastian.

“I have nothing further to say to you.”

“Actually, I rather think you do. You see, I’ve just had an interesting conversation with several veterans of the 114th Foot.”

Tyson ran his tongue across his perfect top teeth. “Very well. Do come in.”

His rooms on the first floor were spacious and elegantly furnished with the same exquisite taste-and expense-he lavished on the raiment of his person. The hangings were of figured burgundy satin, the furniture of the finest gleaming rosewood. He did not invite Sebastian to sit, but simply stood with his back to the closed door, his arms crossed at his chest. “Say what you have to say and then get out.”

Sebastian let his gaze rove over the shelves of leather-bound books, the gilt-framed oils, the marble bust of a Roman boy. Tyson appeared to be doing quite well for a younger son who’d just sold his commission.

As if aware of the drift of Sebastian’s thoughts, Tyson said, “One of my maiden aunts recently died, leaving me her portion.”

“And then of course there’s whatever you cleared from the sale of the spoils of Badajoz.”

Tyson tightened his jaw and said nothing.

Sebastian went to stand before a tasteful oil depicting a foxhunt. “You told me Jud Foy’s injuries came from a mule. Only, that was never actually established, was it? In fact, there’s a good possibility someone tried to cave in his head with the butt of a rifle.”

“Now, why would anyone want to do that?”

Sebastian continued his study of the room. “I think you paid Foy to perjure himself. Then you tried to kill him in order to eliminate the possibility that he might be inspired to tell the truth at some point in the future-and maybe even so that you could take back whatever you’d used to bribe him .”

“Believe me, if I’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.”

“Actually, he is dead. Someone bashed in his head last night in St. Anne’s churchyard-fatally this time.”

Sebastian watched the other man’s face carefully.

But Tyson remained impassive, his only reaction a faint tightening of his lips into the suggestion of a smile. “I’d be tempted to say, ‘How tragic.’ Except that, given the fact the poor sot’s life was hardly worth much at this point, ‘How ironic’ might be more appropriate. Or perhaps, ‘How poetic’?”

Sebastian felt no inclination to return the man’s smile. “Interestingly enough, he had a small pouch of loose diamonds in his pocket when he was found.”

“Am I to take it you’re suggesting the gems implicate me in some way? And here I thought you believed me addicted to stealing jewels as opposed to using them to decorate the bodies of my alleged victims.”

“I think you failed the first time you tried to kill Foy, after Talavera. But since he couldn’t recall anything, it served your purpose just as well. Only, then he started remembering things, didn’t he? Not everything, perhaps, but enough to realize that you owed him. So he came looking for you, and you decided to shut him up permanently. You lured him into the churchyard on the pretext of paying him off with a pouch of small diamonds, and then you bashed in his head while he was distracted by the gems.”

Tyson’s smile hardened. “And then left them? What a curious thing to have done.”

“I can think of two logical explanations. It’s possible Foy had the diamonds in his hand when he fell, and in the darkness you couldn’t immediately find them. Then the sexton came to investigate the racket he’d heard, and you had to abandon the search and simply run.”

“And the second explanation?”

“You deliberately planted the diamonds on Foy to make it look as if he murdered Eisler.”

“So you’re suggesting-what? That I also killed Eisler? You can’t be serious.”

“I am, actually. You see, Eisler liked collecting damaging information about people, and you have a dangerous secret. One you share with Beresford. And Yates.”

Tyson laughed out loud.

Sebastian said, “You’re the only person I know with a motive to kill both men.”

Tyson was no longer laughing. “That doesn’t mean that I did it. Foy was mad. He’d discovered I recently sold a number of gems to Eisler, and he somehow convinced himself they were rightfully his. Eisler told me the fool accosted him one night, demanded Eisler turn over what he considered ‘his’ property. Threatened to kill him if he didn’t.”

“What would you have me believe? That Foy killed Eisler and stole the pouch of diamonds from him? And then. . what? Fell victim to footpads?”

“It’s possible.”

Yes, it was possible, Sebastian thought. Foy himself had admitted to watching Eisler’s house, and he was just crazy enough to kill Eisler and take the jewels he considered rightfully his. But Sebastian didn’t think so.

He kept his gaze on the former lieutenant’s hard, even-featured face. “We both know you’re capable of murder.”

Tyson smiled. “That’s something we have in common, isn’t it? Captain .”

That afternoon, Kat Boleyn drove her high-perch phaeton to the Physic Garden in Chelsea. Leaving her horse in the care of her groom, she walked briskly down a dripping, mist-shrouded path to a secluded pond. When the days were fine, Kat could lose herself for hours in the old apothecary garden’s lush border beds and vast plantings. But on this day, she was in no mood to linger.

The man she had come to meet was already waiting for her at the water’s edge. He turned as she approached, a tall, powerful figure in shiny Hessians, fawn-colored breeches, and a well-tailored dark coat.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to you,” he said, exaggerating his brogue. His name was Aiden O’Connell, and he was the younger son of the Earl of Rathkeale, an ancient Irish family long infamous for their enthusiastic cooperation with the invading English. Kat still found it difficult to believe that this man-young, handsome, rich-had chosen to risk everything by quietly working for Irish independence. Like Kat before him, he had decided that one of the best ways to help the Irish and weaken the English was to assist their enemies, the French.