C. Harris - What Darkness Brings

He tipped his hat, a lazy smile deepening the two improbable dimples in his lean cheeks. “Is it too much to be hoping that you’ve had a change of heart and are willing to work with us again?”

“You know me better than that,” she said as they turned to walk along the banks of the pond, the mist wafting cold and damp against their faces.

“Ah, so I feared,” he said with a mournful sigh. “Then why, pray tell, are we braving one of the coldest September mornings I can remember to meet?”

“Because Russell Yates is about to hang for a murder he didn’t commit, and more people are dying every day.”

When the man beside her remained silent, she said, “You know about the French Blue?”

He squinted at the ghostly shapes of the chestnut trees on the far side of the pond. “I do, yes.”

“I need to find out who Napoleon has tasked with its recovery.”

“That I don’t know.”

She swung to face him, the heavy woolen skirts of her carriage dress swirling around their ankles. “Don’t know-or won’t tell?”

A soft light of amusement gleamed in the depths of his hooded green eyes. “Don’t know. . but wouldn’t tell if I did.”

“Then at least tell me this: Is he English?”

“In truth, I don’t know. It may even be a woman, for all I’ve been told. But I do know this: Napoleon is not happy with his agent’s performance. He’s dispatched someone else-someone from Paris-to assist in the gem’s recovery. Someone who’s said to be quick and clever and very dangerous.”

“A man with a pockmarked face?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t seen him.”

“I have. He tried to kidnap me from Covent Garden Market.

O’Connell’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I heard about that.”

“From your French masters?”

His nostrils flared, his head rearing back. “ Bloody hell. Is that what you think? That I had a hand in that?”

“What else am I to think?”

“I heard about what happened the same way everyone else in London heard of it-it’s all over town! Besides which, why the devil would Napoleon’s agents want to get their hands on you anyway?”

“It makes sense if they think Yates killed Eisler and took the French Blue. Steal Yates’s wife, and offer to make a trade.”

O’Connell was silent.

“Well, doesn’t it?” she said.

The Irishman drew in a long, ragged breath. “I suppose it’s possible. But if it is true, I know nothing about it.” He reached to gently touch the back of one hand ever so briefly to her cheek. “And remember this: The French are no more my masters than they were yours. I work with them-not for them.”

She searched his deceptively open, handsome face. But he was a man who, like Kat herself, played a dangerous game and had learned long ago to give nothing away. She said, “Is there anything you can tell me that I might be able to use?”

O’Connell shook his head. “Only this: I don’t envy whoever has been set to this task. The potential rewards are undoubtedly great. But should they fail to recover the diamond, Napoleon is bound to suspect he’s been betrayed-that his agents have simply decided to keep the gem for themselves.”

“In other words, if they fail, they’ll be killed,” said Kat.

“More than likely, yes. And they know it. Which means that whoever you’re dealing with is doubly dangerous, because their very survival depends on the successful completion of their mission. Get in their way, and you’re liable to end up dead.”

He hesitated a moment, then added, “You might consider giving the same warning to Lord Devlin.”

This was the part of a murder investigation that Sebastian always dreaded, when the bodies of witnesses and potential suspects started piling up, and for every question answered, two more arose. With a growing sense of urgency, he left St. James’s Street and headed toward Tower Hill.

The rain might have ended, but the wind blowing off the river was bitter cold and felt more like December than the end of September. He found the surgeon whistling an old Irish drinking ditty as he bent over the granite slab in the center of his small outbuilding. Naked and half-eviscerated, the shrunken corpse of Jud Foy looked faintly blue in the thin morning light.

“Ah, there you are,” said Gibson, looking up. He set aside his scalpel with a clatter and reached for a rag to wipe his gory hands. “Thought I might be seeing you, then.”

Sebastian nodded to the cadaver’s ruined head. “I take it that’s what killed him?”

“It did, indeed. Most effectively.”

“What can you tell me about it?”

“Well. . The blow appears to have come from his left, which would be consistent with an attacker who is right-handed.”

“Unless he was struck from behind.”

Gibson shook his head. “Judging from the angle, I’d say he was facing his killer.”

Sebastian hunkered down to study the pulpy mess. “Any idea what he was hit with?”

“Something long and heavy, and wielded with powerful force. I’d say whoever hit him was aiming to kill, not incapacitate.”

“Seems a curious choice of weapon. I mean, why bludgeon him? Much easier-and surer-to simply stick a knife between his ribs.”

“The bludgeon is a common weapon amongst footpads.”

“There is that. The intent could have been to make it look as if he’d been set upon by common thieves.”

Gibson tossed his rag onto a nearby shelf. “You do know this wasn’t the first time someone tried to cave in his head, don’t you? From what I can see, it’s a miracle the man was alive.”

Sebastian straightened. “I heard he was kicked in the head by a mule in Spain.”

“A mule?” Gibson shook his head. “That was no mule.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve seen men kicked in the head by mules, and I’ve seen what a rifle butt can do to a human skull when swung with a measure of force and skill.”

Sebastian nodded to the gaping wound. “Could this have been done by a rifle butt?”

“No. More likely a length of lead pipe.”

“Lovely.” He went to stand in the open doorway and draw the cold, damp air into his lungs.

“I heard some interesting talk down at the pub a while ago when I popped in for a bite to eat,” said Gibson, limping over to join him. “They’re saying the authorities have decided to set Russell Yates free.”

Sebastian stared at him. “What?”

“Mmm. Something about a pouch of Eisler’s jewels found on our friend here. They’re saying it’s more than likely that he’s the killer.”

“But. . I don’t think he is.”

Gibson studied Sebastian’s face through narrowed eyes. “And here I was thinking you’d be over the moon, hearing that Yates might be freed.”

Sebastian shook his head. He was remembering what Kat had told him, about the visit Jarvis had paid to Yates’s cell that first night-and the worry in her eyes when she said it. “Nothing about Yates’s incarceration has felt right from the very beginning,” he said. “Somehow this just seems all a piece with the rest of it.”

“Could be just a rumor.”

Sebastian pushed away from the doorframe. “Only one sure way to find out.”

A supercilious clerk at the Lambeth Street Public Office informed Sebastian that Fridays were not one of Bertram Leigh-Jones’s days of attendance.

“He attends Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays,” said the clerk, casting a sour glance toward the rear of the hall, where a blowsy doxy in a tattered purple satin gown and improbably red hair was haranguing a constable in a high-pitched cockney whine.

“I didn’t do nothin’ o’ the sort,” she screeched . “I’m a good girl, I am.”