by C. S. Harris
To the west of the gatehouse ranged a long, two-story stone building that might once have been an attached guesthouse or almonry but had long since degenerated into mean lodgings. Now the buildings stood vacant, windows and doorways gaping, roof tiles broken and missing, their supporting timbers collapsing. All other traces of the abbey had vanished long ago; beyond these few ruined fragments stretched only market gardens and open fields, empty beneath the wind-bunched clouds scuttling and thickening across the black sky.
Jenny Davie and Bertram Leigh-Jones had disappeared.
Pausing in the shadows of the gatehouse’s arched passageway, Sebastian stood still, listening. He heard the scuff of a heavy tread overhead, a girl’s frightened gasp. Then came Leigh-Jones’s voice, pitched to a coaxing croon that did little to disguise the gruff anger roiling beneath. “I’m not going to hurt you, girl. All I want is the diamond. Just give me the diamond and I’ll let you go.”
“Ye take me fer a flat?” yelled Jenny, her voice high-pitched with fear and defiance. “Don’t ye come near me!”
Moving quietly, Sebastian crept up the tightly wound medieval staircase that opened to one side of the vaulted passage. The old stone treads were worn into such deeply sunken grooves in the center that the awkwardness of each step twisted his injured knee and stole his breath. By the time he reached the single chamber above, it was empty.
At one time, this had been a grand space, with oak-paneled walls and a sandstone fireplace built into the opposite wall. But much of the paneling had been torn down and burned for firewood, while part of the chimney had collapsed into a cascade of rubble strewn across the room’s scarred wooden floor. At the far end of the chamber, a crude ladder led to the loft above. Sebastian had one foot on the first rung when Jenny screamed again.
“Get back,” she cried. “I’m telling ye!”
“What are you doing, you fool girl?” growled Leigh-Jones. “Don’t go out there! Are you mad? You’ll slip and fall to your death.”
“I told ye! Stay away from me!”
“You stupid strumpet! Get back in here. I get my hands on you, I swear to God, I’m going to kill you!”
Sebastian scrambled up the ladder to find himself in a low-pitched garret musty with age and damp and rot. Patches of black sky showed through a jagged hole in the roof; most of the row of casement windows built into the gabled end were gone, their casings gaping vacant to the wet, windy night.
Crossing swiftly to the opening, Sebastian found himself star-
ing out over the roof of the adjoining structure. Straddling the ridge beam the way a man would ride a horse, the magistrate had stripped off his cumbersome greatcoat and was carefully scooting his way forward on his rump. Jenny Davie was already some ten to fifteen feet ahead of him. She was small and light enough to scramble over the tiles on her feet, although she was bent over nearly double, using her hands to help steady her balance on the wet, mossy slates.
“Come back here, you bloody doxy,” Leigh-Jones roared.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed, her step faltering as she reached the gable end.
There was another, smaller building that abutted this one, but its roof was some three or four feet below where she stood and of a steeper pitch. Sebastian saw her creep closer to the edge, then waver.
“Jenny, don’t jump!” Sebastian shouted. “Stay where you are!”
Leigh-Jones jerked around to stare at him, his jaw thrusting out in annoyed fury, while Jenny screamed, “Go away and leave me alone! All of you!”
If she had turned onto her stomach and eased herself carefully over the gabled point, she might have made it. Instead, she rose and jumped.
Sebastian heard the clatter of breaking, falling tiles as she landed, lost her footing, and went down, vanishing from his sight. She let out a sharp scream, and Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat. But she must somehow have managed to grab a handhold and stop her descent, because he heard her gasp, then fall utterly silent.
“Jenny!” Sebastian shouted, swinging his legs over the broken sill to the slates below. “Hang on!”
“You bloody interfering bastard,” growled the magistrate. Grasp-
ing the roof’s peak, he managed with surprising agility to swing his legs up and around, reversing his position so that he now faced Sebastian. “I should have had you killed when I had the chance.”
“Give it up, Leigh-Jones,” said Sebastian, hunkering down to lower his center of gravity. “You’ve had a good run, but the game’s up now.”
Leigh-Jones picked up a broken slate and chucked it at Sebastian’s head. “I’ll see you in hell.”
Sebastian managed to duck the first two broken tiles; the edge of the third sliced open a long cut across his forehead. “God damn it,” he swore. He took another step forward.
And felt his right foot punch through the rotten roof.
Chapter 59
T
he collapsing roof pitched Sebastian sideways. He grabbed the ridge of slate at the peak with his left hand, stopping his fall. But he was now pinned by his injured right leg, with his other leg splayed out awkwardly to the side and only one hand free.
“Looks like you’re in trouble, don’t it?” said the magistrate. Breaking off a long, jagged piece from the tile at his side, Leigh-Jones inched himself forward, the pointed slate clutched in his right fist like a knife.
The wind gusted up, carrying a splattering of raindrops that pattered on the mossy slate and stung Sebastian’s face. Smiling, Leigh-Jones slashed downward with his blade, aiming straight for Sebastian’s heart.
Sebastian clamped his free hand around the magistrate’s wrist, stopping the slate’s descent.
Still grinning, Leigh-Jones wrapped his other fist around his right wrist and leaned his considerable weight into his hands. The improvised blade inched lower.
Sebastian could feel the blood pounding in his head, hear his breath coming in ragged gasps. A warm wetness coursed from his cut forehead to sting his eyes. He scraped his left bootheel over the slates, desperate to find some purchase. Then the roofing under his left boot gave way, plunging his leg down into the emptiness beneath.
For a moment, he thought the entire roof was collapsing beneath their combined weights. Then he realized the ridge beam still held and that he was now effectively straddling it.
Shifting his weight, he locked his ankles together beneath him. “You greedy, traitorous son of a bitch,” he snarled, freeing his left hand to slam a punch up into the magistrate’s plump face.
The magistrate reeled back, his massive bulk no longer pressing the jagged slate toward Sebastian’s heart. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian grasped the magistrate’s wrists with both hands and drove the deadly point straight down into Leigh-Jones’s own gut.
He saw the magistrate’s eyes widen, saw his full cheeks expand with a mingling of shock and fury. Then he slipped sideways, shattering slates and smashing fragile timbers as his heavy body picked up speed. He flung his arms out, fingers scrabbling, frantic for a handhold. But his momentum was too great. He slid to the roof’s edge and shot off it into the void.
He gave one high-pitched scream that was cut off by the thump of his body hitting the cobbles far below.
His breath still coming in harsh gasps, Sebastian wiped the mingling sweat and blood from his face with his forearm. Then, unlocking his ankles and carefully balancing his weight on both hands, he levered himself up out of the twin holes he’d punched through the roof’s rotten fabric.
“Jenny!” he called, cautiously inching his way to the end of the building.
He could see her now. She lay facedown at the edge the lower roof, her skirts and petticoats a torn, rucked-up froth around her.
“Hold on,” he said, easing himself down to the smaller, steeper roof. “I’m here to help you.”
Clamping one arm around the rough brickwork of the chimney that thrust up at the juncture of the two buildings, he leaned forward as far as he dared to where the girl clung
to the edge. But he still couldn’t quite reach her.
“Grab my hand,” he told her, and prayed the damned chimney would take their combined weights.
“Why should I trust you?” she shouted, her voice snatched away by the buffeting wind.
“Because if all I wanted was the diamond, damn it, I’d let you fall off this damned roof and simply take the bloody stone from your dead body. That’s why.”
She lay still, her face a white mask of terror and indecision. Then, very slowly, she reached out a trembling hand toward him.
Tiny, clawlike fingers clamped around his arm. Sebastian clasped his own hand around her wrist, then said gently, “I’ve got you. All you need to do now is climb toward me, slowly.”
She inched her way up the steep, mossy slope. The wind snatched at her skirts; the rain poured. Once, a fragment of slate broke beneath her foot and spun away into the darkness below. She let out a soft whimper but kept climbing.
When she was close enough, he shifted his grip on the chimney and hauled her up to him. They sat side by side, their backs pressed to the chimney’s rough brick, their breath sawing in their chests, the wind driving the cold rain in their faces.
After a moment, she swallowed hard and said, “How do we get down from here?”
Sebastian looked over at her and grinned. “Very carefully.”
Chapter 60
Sunday, 27 September
B
rilliant and breathtakingly beautiful, the sapphire blue diamond lay nestled in a velvet-lined box on Sir Henry Lovejoy’s desk.
Sir Henry frowned down at it a moment, then raised his gaze to Sebastian. “You’re certain you wouldn’t rather return the gem to Mr. Hope yourself?”
“I think not.”
Sir Henry cleared his throat. “And this girl you were telling me about, the one who took the diamond from Eisler’s house—what was her name again?”
Sebastian kept his features carefully composed. “Jenny.”
“Just—Jenny?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I see. And she slipped away into the night before you could secure her so that she might face charges for the theft?”
“Just so.”
Sir Henry went to stand at the window overlooking the morning bustle of Bow Street. “So you’re saying Major Wilkinson shot Eisler, but Bertram Leigh-Jones killed Jacques Collot because the French-
man found out Leigh-Jones was working for Napoléon?”
“Yes.”
“And Leigh-Jones killed Jud Foy for essentially the same reason—so that his surreptitious interest in the diamond’s whereabouts would remain unknown?”
“That, and so that he could plant the evidence on Foy’s body to make it look as if the rifleman had killed Eisler.”
“But Leigh-Jones already had a strong case against Yates.”
Sebastian shrugged. “Given that Leigh-Jones had figured out that Yates wasn’t the killer, he probably worried that the case against Yates might crumble. And the last thing Leigh-Jones wanted was renewed public interest in the murder.” Sebastian also had a sneaking suspicion Leigh-Jones was under pressure from Jarvis to release Yates, but he kept that possibility to himself.
“Yes, it all makes sense,” said Sir Henry after a moment. “But without the girl’s testimony, your explanation of the events that likely transpired the night of Eisler’s murder—while certainly plausible—must of necessity remain unproven. I therefore see no purpose in reopening an investigation that has already been officially closed.” He paused to look around, one eyebrow raised. “Unless, of course, you know where the girl might be found.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Sorry. No.”
That, at least, was the truth. He saw no reason to add that his ignorance was deliberate, or that Hero knew exactly where Jenny Davie had found refuge.
“Unfortunate.” Sir Henry ran the thumb and forefinger of one hand up and down his watch chain while he chewed his inner lip. “I’ve been contacted by the Palace. It seems the Prince’s advisers have decided that the populace would be better off without the knowledge that a prominent London magistrate was actually working for the Emperor Napoléon. The people will therefore be told that Leigh-Jones was killed in the process of apprehending a dangerous French agent.”
“How is the dangerous French agent doing, by the way?”
“He’s still alive, but I’m told he won’t be for much longer. He’s never regained consciousness.” Sir Henry hesitated, then added, “Leigh-Jones is to be given a hero’s funeral. There’s even talk of the Prince himself attending.”
“How . . . ironic.”
“It is, yes. But necessary.”
“I wonder how long he’d been working for the French.”
“If his bank account is anything to go by, I’d say quite some time. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, how many others like him are out there? People who are both known and respected, yet whose allegiance is elsewhere.”
“I suppose we’ll never know,” said Sebastian, limping slightly as he turned toward the door.
“Lord Devlin—”
Sebastian paused to look back at him.
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
Sebastian nodded. But he did not trust himself to speak.
Leaving Bow Street, Sebastian drove to the southwestern corner of Hyde Park. Once there, he left the horses in Tom’s care and cut across the rough grass to the canal near which Rhys Wilkinson’s body had been found.
The rain had been heavy during the night, leaving the long grass wet and sodden, and battering the last of the frost-tinged leaves clinging to the surrounding trees. There was a loneliness here that sank deep into a man, a yawning melancholy that seemed a part of the white empty sky and the tracery of branches and the haunting call of the geese lifting off the surface of the canal. He stood for a time beside the frost-nipped reeds, his gaze on the flat pewter expanse of the water before him. He thought about the laughing, devil-may-care officer he’d once known, and of the despair Rhys must have felt when he looked his last upon this scene.
Shrugging the image away, Sebastian began to walk along the edge of the canal, crisscrossing purposefully back and forth, his gaze on the cold, wet mud oozing up between the reeds at his feet. Lovejoy’s constables had searched here before him, he knew, but he suspected their effort had been halfhearted, their explanation for the invalid officer’s death already running to seizure or heart failure.
It was some minutes before he found what he was looking for: a light blue bottle some four inches high, its stopper gone, but with the dark yellow label proclaiming LAUDANUM: POISON still largely intact. Reaching down, he picked it up, the silt-laden water lapping cold against his hand as his fingers closed around the bottle, empty now but for a faint, reddish brown smudge in one corner.
There was no way of knowing how long it had lain here; an hour, a day, a week? It suggested everything but proved nothing. Sebastian felt his fist tighten around the heavy glass with an unexpected surge of raw anger. Drawing back his arm, he hurled the bottle far out into the waterway.
It hit with a plopping splash, then sank quickly out of sight. Sebastian stood and watched the ripples fade to stillness.
Then he turned and walked away.
“Do you blame him for what he did?” Hero asked.
She was seated in the armchair beside the fire in her chamber, with Sebastian on the rug beside her. “Wilkinson, you mean?” He leaned his head back against her knee and drew in a deep breath. “I’m still not convinced he went there to kill Eisler. He could have had some other scheme in mind.”
“A way to bell the cat?”
“Perhaps. Only, events got away from him—as they have an unfortunate tendency to do.”
“And then he killed himself,” she said quietly. “To spare his family the shame of the trial, and to give his wife and child a chance at a better life without him.” He felt her fingers playing with the hair that curled at the nape of his neck. “We don’t
take good care of the men we ask to risk their lives and health for us, do we? We use them, and then when they’re no longer of value, we toss them away.”
“‘King George commands and we obey,’” quoted Sebastian. “‘Over the hills and far away.’” He turned to face her, his hands coming to rest on the growing swell of her belly. “Lately, I find myself wondering what the world will be like when she grows up.”
“He,” said Hero firmly.
Sebastian laughed. “You’re certain of that, are you?”
Her lips curved into a slow smile, and he thought she’d never looked more beautiful. “Yes.”
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Author’s Note
T
he theft of the French Crown Jewels from the Garde-Meuble in Paris in September of 1792 was essentially as described here, although the involvement of Danton and Roland, while suggested, has never been proven. Napoléon’s determination to recover the French Crown Jewels, as well as the ruthlessness of the methods he employed, was likewise real.
The identification of the Hope Diamond as the recut French Blue is now generally accepted. An old lead cast of the French Blue with a label saying it belonged to “Mr. Hoppe of London,” recently discovered in a drawer in the French National History Museum in Paris, was donated in 1850 by a descendant of the Archard family. Interestingly enough, Charles Archard was both a close associate of the Hopes and one of the lapidaries tasked by Napoléon to recover the French Crown Jewels. How Hope acquired the diamond is not known, although multiple theories exist. I have chosen the one best suited to my story. It is significant that Napoléon, who surely knew more than we do about the events of September 1792, always believed that the Duke of Brunswick (father of the Princess of Wales, Caroline) had been bribed with the diamond not to attack Paris. There is also considerable evidence to support the belief that Brunswick sent his jewels to Caroline when his duchy was threatened by Napoléon, and that she sold them after his death.
