Where Shadows Dance

by C. S. Harris

  “I’m not suggesting he did it personally,” Sebastian said quietly.

  “You think he hired someone?” It was obvious this possibility had never occurred to her. She was silent a moment, then shook her head. “No. I still don’t believe it. You say the American, Kincaid, was killed that same night, in the same way. Well, don’t you see? Jasper had no reason to kill Kincaid. Ezekiel Kincaid had as much interest in keeping the information quiet as Jasper—if not more.”

  Sebastian said, “The only link between Alexander Ross and Ezekiel Kincaid is this house and the sensitive information both men possessed. The only one who knew they had that information was your brother. And you.”

  “But other people did know! By the time I talked to him, Alexander had already told several people.”

  “Who?”

  She took a quick turn around the room, one hand brushing the curls off her forehead in a distracted gesture. “Sir Hyde Foley, for one. When Alexander left here that evening, he went straight to Sir Hyde’s house.”

  “You seriously expect me to believe that the Undersecretary knew the Americans had declared war on us and kept it quiet for nearly two weeks?”

  She turned to face him, her fists clenched to her sides. “I don’t understand it myself. But it’s true.”

  Sebastian studied her pale, strained face. “You said Ross told several people. Who else?”

  “Some Americans he knew. A man and his daughter—I don’t recall their names. The man’s son is a seaman who has been impressed by the British Navy, and Alexander had volunteered to see what he could do to help get the son released.”

  “You mean, the Batemans? Why would Ross tell them?”

  “Yes, that was their name: Bateman. Alexander said he wanted to warn Mr. Bateman to keep quiet about his son’s nationality, since once it became known that Britain and the United States were at war, any seaman identified as an American would probably be thrown in the brig. He thought Bateman would have a better chance of surviving the war as a British seaman than as a prisoner on some fever-infested hulk on the Thames.”

  Sebastian could understand why the Batemans would decide to keep their knowledge of the outbreak of the war to themselves. But he wondered why they had in the end ignored Ross’s recommendation and asked Sebastian for help in petitioning the Admiralty. Then he realized that as the weeks passed, father and daughter had no doubt come to the conclusion that Alexander Ross’s warning of war had been nothing more than a false rumor.

  By now, of course, they would know the truth—that war between the two countries had indeed broken out, and that their attempts to save their loved one from the clutches of the British Navy had perhaps succeeded only in putting his life at even greater risk. Sebastian intended to hold firm to his promise to do what he could for the man—although under the circumstances, he wondered exactly how much he could do to help.

  Sebastian glanced again at the governess, Mrs. Forester, her head still bent over her embroidery as if she were indeed oblivious to the conversation in the room. He said, “Who else did Ross tell? Besides Foley and the Americans?”

  “I don’t know of anyone else. But don’t you see? Word of the declaration of war never did become known. Which means that both Foley and the Batemans kept the news quiet for some reason.” She was shivering now, trembling with the need to persuade him—and herself—of her brother’s innocence.

  But in truth, Sebastian was far from convinced of Jasper Cox’s guilt. Because while Jasper Cox might have had a powerful motive for silencing Alexander Ross and Ezekiel Kincaid, the fact remained that the wealthy, ruthless merchant had no conceivable reason to kill Carl Lindquist, Antoine de La Rocque, or Yasmina Ramadani. In fact, as far as Sebastian knew, Cox was completely unaware of the existence of any of the other three.

  Sir Hyde Foley, on the other hand, was now clearly linked to all five victims.

  Chapter 48

  “So I was right,” said Miss Jarvis from where she sat on the high seat of Sebastian’s curricle. “Both Kincaid and Alexander Ross did know of the American declaration of war.”

  “You were right.” Sebastian leaned against the iron fence of Berkeley Square, his arms crossed at his chest. “They did indeed.”

  They were outside Gunter’s Tea Shop, which was the only establishment for refreshment where an unmarried young lady could be seen in the company of a gentleman who was not a relative without fear of provoking a scandal. The lady stayed in the carriage, while the gentleman lounged in the street beside her. Sebastian had noticed that however scornful Miss Jarvis might be of society’s strictures, she was still careful not to fall afoul of them.

  “And now you think the killer is Sir Hyde, don’t you?” she said, watching their waiter dart across the street toward the curricle. She didn’t sound as if she agreed.

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Sebastian waited while the tea shop’s boy handed a cup of chocolate ice up to Miss Jarvis. “News of the American declaration of war has effectively ended all talk of committing British troops to support the Russians. That’s a powerful defeat for people like Foley who’ve been pushing for an active alliance.” He hesitated, then added, “People like Foley and your father.”

  “My father did not kill Alexander Ross and Ezekiel Kincaid.”

  “Probably not,” Sebastian agreed.

  She let out a soft hmph. “I find it difficult to believe that even Foley would delay the dispatch of reinforcements to Canada for weeks longer than necessary, simply to buy extra time to convince the doubters in the government to back an active alliance with the Czar.”

  “Yet he has, hasn’t he? Kept quiet about it, I mean.”

  Miss Jarvis thrust her spoon into the ice. “Ross could have told Sabrina a lie to make her give up and stop pressing him. Perhaps he intended to tell Foley but hadn’t yet done so.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Sebastian conceded.

  “And while I can imagine Foley might well kill Yasmina if he discovered she were a spy, why on earth would he kill de La Rocque? The book collector was a vitally important link in the transfer of the French dispatches from Paris to the Foreign Office.”

  Sebastian stared out over the gently rustling tops of the maples in the square. “I think de La Rocque told Ross about Foley’s indiscretions with Yasmina.”

  “I thought de La Rocque suggested to you that Ross was the one ensnared by Yasmina?”

  “He did. But bear with me here. We know that de La Rocque met with Ross on Wednesday, to deliver the latest dispatches. I think that’s when he told Ross about Foley and Yasmina. Ross wouldn’t simply have taken the accusation at face value, but he certainly would have investigated the possibility that de La Rocque was onto something. I suspect that by the time Ross encountered Ramadani at Vauxhall Gardens that night, he either knew it was true or had strong suspicions.”

  Hero swallowed another spoonful of her ice. “Which actually gives Ramadani a motive for the murders of Ross, Jasmina, and de La Rocque, although not Lindquist and Kincaid.”

  “Can we just focus on Sir Hyde and de La Rocque for a moment?” said Sebastian, pushing away from the fence. “The way I see it, de La Rocque knew Sir Hyde’s sexual indiscretions were putting his own activities at risk. That’s why, when he delivered the dispatches to Ross on Wednesday, de La Rocque demanded more compensation. It’s also why he went to see Ross again on Friday—because he was expecting more money. But for some reason, Ross refused.”

  Hero said, “The only way Ross could have increased de La Rocque’s remuneration would have been to go to Foley himself—which he obviously couldn’t do in this situation—or to go over Foley’s head, to Castlereagh. So why didn’t he do that?”

  “Because Foley killed him before he had gathered enough evidence. Ross wouldn’t have made that kind of accusation lightly.”

  She pressed a thumb and forefinger against the high arch of her nose and looked pained.

  Sebastian smiled. “That’s what happens when you eat
ices too fast.”

  “It’s melting in this heat.” She kept her fingers pinched on her nose. “So why did de La Rocque lie to you?”

  “Because by that point he’d come up with what he thought was a clever scheme: He was going to blackmail Foley. And that’s why Foley killed him.”

  She resumed eating her chocolate ice and considered this in silence. “I’ll admit it makes sense, except for Carl Lindquist. Why would Foley kill him? The payments to Sweden were an important part of Sir Hyde’s push for an alliance between Britain and Russia.”

  Sebastian blew out a long breath. “That’s the one part that’s difficult to fit.”

  Miss Jarvis scraped the bottom of her cup. “The way I see it, the only ones with any motive to kill Lindquist are the French. His death obviously won’t stop the transfer of gold to Sweden, but it will delay things—and make future clandestine arrangements between our two nations more difficult.”

  Sebastian handed the empty cup to the passing waiter, then leapt up onto the seat beside her to take the reins. “Ah, yes; the nameless, faceless French agents,” he said as Tom stepped away from the horses’ heads and scrambled back to his perch.

  She gave Sebastian a long, steady look. “Some of them have names. And faces.”

  He stared back at her, wondering if she meant who he thought she meant. Then he reminded himself that she was Jarvis’s daughter, and he realized that she probably did.

  But she simply opened her parasol and tilted it toward the sun as they moved out from beneath the dappled shade cast by the leafy maples in the square.

  Sebastian was concerned that Miss Jarvis might insist on accompanying him to Downing Street. Instead, she seemed almost anxious to bid him adieu.

  Arriving in Westminster, he found the entire stretch of Whitehall from Charing Cross to the Houses of Parliament in an uproar, with a stream of panting runners carrying messages back and forth between the Foreign Office, the Horse Guards, the Admiralty, Parliament, and Carlton House. Sebastian pushed his way through the crowded labyrinth of corridors to the chambers of the Undersecretary.

  “Sir!” yelped a tall, emaciated clerk as Sebastian strode through the antechamber toward Sir Hyde’s office. Sebastian kept going.

  Trembling, the man thrust up from his seat and scrambled out from behind his desk. “You can’t go in there! Sir Hyde is composing an important briefing and he’s been most insistent that he not be disturbed. Most insistent.”

  “I’ll tell him I held a gun to your head,” said Sebastian, and threw open the door.

  Sir Hyde paused in the act of reaching his pen toward the nearby inkwell and looked up. “What the devil?”

  Sebastian closed the door in the face of the still-pleading clerk. “We need to talk. Now.”

  Sir Hyde slammed down his quill. “Are you mad? I’ve no time for this! Have you not heard what has happened?”

  “I have,” said Sebastian, tossing hat, gloves, and walking stick onto the littered surface of the desk. “I’ve also just learned that Alexander Ross discovered nearly two weeks ago that the Americans had declared war. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Ross what? But ... how is that possible?”

  For a moment, the look of utter astonishment and incredulity on the Undersecretary’s face gave Sebastian pause. “He had it from an American ship called the Baltimore Mary that docked in Rotherhithe the day he died. As soon as he heard, he went straight to your house, to tell you. And that’s why you killed him—him and the American who brought the news.”

  “But ... that’s absurd! What possible reason could I have to do such a thing?”

  “Because war with America means the end of any chance of sending British troops to Russia—something you have been working very hard to achieve. In fact, you’ve virtually staked your career on it.” Sebastian watched the Undersecretary’s jaw tighten, and knew he’d touched a raw nerve. “What exactly did you think? That you were close enough to achieving your aim that you could force through a commitment before official news of the American war declaration reached London?”

  “We were close. So bloody close. If it hadn’t been for Hendon, the alliance would have been signed weeks ago.” Foley pushed up from his desk and went to stand at the window overlooking the courtyard below. He was silent for a moment, his lips pursed as if in thought. Then he said, “Ross did come to my house that Saturday evening—I’ll not deny it. But I wasn’t home. He left a note claiming he had something urgent to tell me. Only, when I went round to his lodgings some hours later, he wasn’t there—or at least, he didn’t answer the door. If he had early warning of the declaration of war, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Sebastian frowned. “What time was this?”

  “That I went round to his rooms? I don’t know. Midnight, perhaps?”

  Sebastian drew in a deep breath as a new possibility occurred to him.

  Foley said, “You do realize how preposterous your suggestion is, don’t you? You obviously forget that Ross worked under me. Had I wished him to keep his knowledge of the war silent for a time, all I’d have needed to do would be to give him an order. No need for murder.”

  “According to everything I’ve learned, Alexander Ross was a passionately honorable man. I’m not convinced you could have prevailed upon him to keep quiet.”

  “It’s all in the way you phrase things. Good of the realm and all that rot.” Foley smiled. “It’s the earnest, honorable ones who are the easiest to manipulate.”

  Sebastian was aware of his hands curling into fists at his sides; he forced them to relax. “I’m curious about one thing: If you didn’t kill Ross, why not tell me about the message he’d left at your house that night? Or your visit to his rooms at—what time did you say? Eight?”

  “Midnight.” Again, that tight little smile. “Do you take me for a fool? I’m perfectly aware of how it would have looked.”

  Sebastian studied the other man’s thin, sharp-featured face. “Are you saying that when Ross’s valet called you to his master’s bedside that next morning, you knew he’d been murdered?”

  “I didn’t know it, no. But I had my suspicions, yes.”

  “When you searched his rooms, did you find the copy of the French briefing that Ross was to deliver to Chernishav the previous night?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “You don’t find that curious?”

  “Of course I find it curious. Obviously, whoever murdered Ross took the briefing too.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sebastian. “What about the intruder who died breaking into Ross’s rooms the night of Sir Gareth Ross’s return to Oxfordshire? Was he one of your men?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Foley cast a quick glance at the elaborately carved wooden clock hanging on the far wall and turned to gather his papers. “Now, my lord, you’ll have to excuse me. Castlereagh has been closeted with Liverpool in his offices since news of this latest crisis arrived, and I’m scheduled to meet with them again at three.”

  According to Miss Jarvis, Castlereagh and Liverpool had been in seclusion with the Prince at Carlton House since early morning. But all Sebastian said was, “You actually had two reasons to kill Ross.”

  Foley laughed. “Another reason? You can’t be serious.”

  “Mmm. Something that had nothing to do with those pesky upstart former colonials. Ross knew about your indiscretions with Yasmina Ramadani.”

  Foley paused in the act of shoving his papers into a case. Then he very deliberately fastened the buckles and lifted the case off his desk. “Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned toward the door. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation at another time?”

  Sebastian stood in the shadowy doorway of the Cat and Bagpipe, his gaze on the bustling, crowded flagway across the street. Tom held the chestnuts nearby.

  They had not long to wait. A moment later, Sir Hyde Foley exited the Foreign Office and turned toward Whitehall. At the top of the
street he paused for a moment to take a nervous look around. Then he turned right, walking quickly toward the hackney stand on Parliament Street.

  Chapter 49

  Driving his curricle, Sebastian trailed the Undersecretary’s hackney through a snarled throng of wagons, carriages, and carts. Drivers shouted; horses snorted and sidled restlessly; dogs barked. He was careful to keep well back from his quarry, lest Foley chance to glance around and see him. As a result, he nearly lost him first on the Haymarket, then again on Piccadilly.

  “Where is he going?” muttered Tom from his perch at the rear of the curricle as they followed Foley onto Park Lane.

  “Wherever it is,” said Sebastian, “I doubt we’re going to find either Castlereagh or Liverpool awaiting him.”

  They were just swinging onto Oxford Street, headed toward the Tyburn Turnpike, when Sebastian reined in hard. A milling herd of sheep filled the rutted roadway, the angry voices of their drover and the gatekeeper drifting over the plaintive chorus of baas and bleats.

  “Four pence? Four pence, you say? Can’t you count? There’s thirty sheep ’ere, not forty!”

  “You’re the one who can’t count! It’s four pence, I say.”

  “Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian as he watched Foley’s hackney bowl away up Uxbridge Road. He handed the reins to Tom, along with ten pence for the toll. “Here. Follow as soon as you can.”

  “Aye, gov’nor!”

  Slipping past the toll gate on foot, Sebastian pushed his way through the last of the bleating, crowding sheep. Then he began to run, his Hessians kicking up little eddies of dust in the unpaved road.

  From here, the vast acres of Hyde Park and Kensington stretched away to the south; to the north, facing the parklands across Uxbridge Road, rose the new blocks of St. George’s Row. But beyond that lay only the burial grounds, a few more scattered houses, and then the open fields of Paddington.

  Where in the bloody hell was Foley going?

  Then he realized the hackney was pulling up before the cemetery’s plain, small chapel. Sebastian slowed to a walk. As he watched, Foley paid off the jarvey, pulled his hat low, and strode quickly through the gates to the burial ground.