C. Harris - What Darkness Brings

Sebastian kept his gaze on the clerk’s thin, bony face. “So you’re saying he was not in attendance last Monday?”

“He was not.”

“Then how did he come to be involved in the committal of Russell Yates?”

“As it happens, Mr. Leigh-Jones was in the vicinity of Fountain Lane when the hue and cry was raised. As such, he took charge of the pursuit and capture of the suspect and the interrogation of the witnesses before formally committing the villain to Newgate. He was here until dawn.”

“Commendable.”

The clerk sniffed. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties, with greasy dark hair plastered to a prominent skull and a nose to rival that of Wellington himself. “Mr. Leigh-Jones is a most conscientious magistrate.”

“And where might I find him?”

From the depths of the hall came the doxy’s loud, strident complaint: “I tell ye, I never! ’ Tis nothin’ but a Banbury Tale, the lot o’ it!”

The clerk was forced to raise his own voice to compete. “Mr. Leigh-Jones does not like to be disturbed on his off days. You may come back on Saturday, if you wish. We open at eleven.”

“I’m afraid this won’t wait.”

The clerk went back to writing in his ledger. “Unfortunate, under the circumstances. You could see Mr. Dixon, the magistrate currently in attendance. Or you can return on Saturday. The choice is yours.”

“And here I thought you just said Mr. Leigh-Jones was a most conscientious magistrate. I don’t think you’ll find him inclined to reward you for your zeal in protecting him from the Palace.”

“The Palace?” The clerk looked up, a wave of conflicting emotions passing over his face, doubt followed by indecision chased by annoyance and chagrin.

Sebastian started to push away from the desk. “I’ll tell His Highness-”

“No! One moment, please.”

Sebastian paused.

The clerk threw a quick look around, then leaned forward to lick his thin lips and whisper, “His house is in the Crescent, off the Minories. Number four.”

“Thank you,” said Sebastian, just as the doxy let out a high-pitched, ear-shattering squeal.

“Oooo. Say that again, ye whore’s son, an’ I’ll scratch yer bloomin’ eyes from yer ’ead and feed ’em to the bleedin’ chooks!”

Bertram Leigh-Jones lived in a comfortable eighteenth-century town house built of good sturdy brown brick with white-painted window frames and a shiny green door. Sebastian half expected the magistrate to refuse to see him. But a few minutes after he sent up his card with the thin, mousy-haired young housemaid who’d answered his knock, she reappeared to say meekly, “This way, my lord.”

He found Leigh-Jones in a small chamber overlooking the Crescent. The room had been fitted up as a workspace, with a large, sturdy table in the center and an array of shelves piled high with a jumble of paints, pots, tools, and bins filled with pieces of fine wood; the air was thick with the smell of linseed oil and a pot of hot hide glue. The magistrate himself sat perched on a high stool, a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose as he focused on fitting a minute piece of rigging to a partially constructed model of a Spanish galleon.

He cast a quick glance at Sebastian before returning his gaze to the model. “You have some nerve, coming here,” he said, his big, blunt figures surprisingly nimble at their task.

“I’m told you believe the pouch of diamonds found on Jud Foy’s body came from Daniel Eisler.”

“Oh? Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

“As it happens, it is, yes.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“The initials, of course. You did notice them, didn’t you? Not only that, but a woman at the greengrocer’s on the corner remembers seeing Foy watching Eisler’s house.” Leigh-Jones sighed and straightened, his hands coming to rest at the edge of his worktable. “One would think you’d be pleased to hear that evidence has come to light suggesting your friend Yates is not, in fact, the murderer of Mr. Eisler.”

“You’re saying that Jud Foy is?”

“Was,” corrected Leigh-Jones, pushing to his feet to putter around to the other side of his worktable. “In Foy’s case, the verb is most definitely ‘was.’”

“You’ll be releasing Yates?”

The magistrate’s focus was all for his model. “I believe so, yes. We’re simply waiting on a few more pieces of information.”

“Such as?”

Leigh-Jones looked at him over the rims of his glasses. “You can read about it in the papers along with everyone else.”

“So who are you suggesting killed Foy?”

“Footpads, most likely. Fortunately, the sexton frightened them off before they were able to relieve the scoundrel of his ill-gotten gains.”

“And Collot? Who killed him?”

“Who?”

“Jacques Collot. He was shot by a rifleman near Seven Dials last night.”

“Ah, you mean the French thief. What has he to do with anything?”

“Quite a lot, actually.”

“I rather think not.” The magistrate’s protruding belly shook with his breathy laughter, although Sebastian could see little real humor in the man’s face. “I’ve no doubt it’s a blow to your pride, having some common East End magistrate solve a murder that stumped you. But if it’s any consolation, I myself was wrong about Yates, now, wasn’t I? The important thing is that Eisler’s murder has been solved, the man responsible is dead, and the good people of London can go to sleep in their beds at night without needing to worry there’s some madman wandering in their midst.”

Sebastian studied Leigh-Jones’s fleshy, florid face: the watery, blinking hazel eyes; the small mouth pulled back into a self-satisfied grin. He’d learned long ago that for far too many people, it wasn’t really important that justice be done. Unless they were personally involved in some way, most cared little if an innocent man was hanged. What mattered was that those in authority be seen as having successfully fulfilled their duty to keep the people safe from fear or any perceived threat that might disrupt the tranquility of their lives. In that sense, Jud Foy dead was far more useful than Jud Foy alive. Dead men told no tales and answered no questions.

Sebastian said, “And if Foy wasn’t actually responsible?”

The magistrate’s cheeks darkened suddenly to an angry hue as he punched the air between them with one glue-smudged finger. He was no longer smiling. “No one will thank you for that kind of talk. You hear me? No one.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree that should be a factor here,” said Sebastian, and left him there with his bits of wood and hemp and his pot of simmering glue.

Sebastian was crossing Pall Mall, headed toward Carlton House, when he heard himself hailed by Mr. Thomas Hope.

“My lord,” said Hope, panting slightly from the unaccustomed exertion of hurrying up the street. “This is fortuitous indeed. If I might have a word with you for a moment?”

“Of course,” said Sebastian, moderating his pace to the other man’s slower gait. “Is something wrong?”

The banker’s mouth worked furiously back and forth. “You’ve heard, I assume, that Yates is to be released from prison?”

“I had heard, yes. Do I take it you find that troubling?”

“What? Oh, no. It’s not Yates’s release that worries me, per se. It’s what we’re hearing about the death of this fellow Jud Foy. All these deaths associated with the diamond! It’s as if it’s cursed or something. First King Louis and Marie Antoinette, then the Duke of Brunswick. And now Eisler and Foy and that French thief whose name for the moment escapes me. To be frank, I’m worried about Louisa.”