Italian canvases to exquisite Greek marbles lying about the house gathering dust, yet he hides these away.”
He moved on to the next, smaller chest. This one contained a curious assortment of objects, each carefully wrapped in squares of white or black silk and bound up with cord. He unwrapped a snuffbox, a vinaigrette, a gold chain with a locket such as a man might present to his bride as a wedding gift. Only, in this instance, the enameled pattern on the face of the locket was worked into the golden crown and three white feathers of the Prince of Wales.
He held it up. “Look at this.”
“Prinny?” said Hero reaching to open the locket. Inside lay a curled lock of golden-red hair.
“I think we now know what Eisler wanted from Princess Caroline.”
“A locket with the Prince Regent’s hair? But . . . why? It can’t be worth much.”
“It is to someone interested in magic ‘operations’ aimed at increasing their wealth and attracting the favor of princes.”
Hero peered into the chest. “Is that what all these items are? The personal possessions of powerful people he wished to influence by casting spells over them?”
“Influence or destroy.”
Hero went to hunker down beside the basket.
“What are they?” he asked, watching her lift one of the small glass containers.
“They look like vials filled with . . .” She eased open the cork and sniffed. “Dirt.” She turned it toward the light. “How very curious. Each is labeled with a name. This one says, ‘Alfred Dauncey.’”
“I knew Dauncey. He blew out his brains last year. They say he was deeply in debt—all rolled up.”
She picked up another vial. “This says, ‘Stanley Benson.’ Isn’t he the baronet’s son who slit his own throat last winter?”
Sebastian nodded. “Rumor has it he was also in the clutches of some moneylender.”
She stared down at the mound of glass vials. “Good heavens. Do you think all these people killed themselves because of Eisler?”
“I suspect so.”
She reached for another vial. “This one says . . .”
“What?” he prompted when her voice trailed off.
Her gaze met his. “This one says, ‘Rebecca Ridgeway.’”
Sebastian studied her strained, suddenly pale face. “That’s significant; why?”
“Rebecca Ridgeway was Abigail McBean’s sister. The one who died last spring.”
Miss Abigail McBean sat on the comfortably worn sofa in her cozy little drawing room, her head bowed, the small, dirt-filled vial in her hand. On the cushion beside her lay one of Daniel Eisler’s leather-bound account books opened to a page where the third name from the bottom read, Marcus Ridgeway, 2000 pounds. Beside that, Eisler had scrawled, Paid in full, 2 April 1812.
Hero sat in an armchair near the fire; Sebastian stood on the far side of the room.
After a moment, Abigail cleared her throat painfully and said, “Rebecca was my younger sister. She was . . . quite different from me. Pretty. Delightfully vivacious. Always far more interested in parties than books. She married Marcus when she was just nineteen. Unfortunately, my late brother-in-law was a handsome and charming but sadly flawed man: weak, irresponsible, and capable of breathtaking selfishness. He was constantly in debt, but somehow he always found a way to right himself again.”
“What happened last spring?” asked Hero gently.
“Rebecca came to me in tears, just before Easter. She said Marcus had fallen deep into the clutches of some St. Botolph-Aldgate moneylender and was on the verge of ruin. I’d helped Marcus in the past, but he never paid me back, and I . . . I live on a very limited income.”
“You told her you couldn’t help her?”
Abigail nodded without looking up. “Yes. A week later, they were both dead.”
“How?”
She traced her sister’s name on the vial’s label with trembling fingertips. “Marcus was found floating in the Thames near the Wapping Stairs.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“Marcus?” She shook her head. “In my experience, suicide generally requires a measure of either guilt or despair. But Marcus had a gift for convincing himself that nothing was ever his fault. And no matter how desperate his situation, he was always certain he’d somehow come about.”
Hero nodded to the open ledger. “He obviously did. Somehow.”
Abigail’s brows drew together in a crinkling frown.
“And your sister?” Sebastian asked quietly.
“They pulled Rebecca’s body out of the river the next day.”
A heavy silence settled on the room, broken only by the distant sound of a child’s voice, chanting, “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s. . . .”
Hero said, “What do you think happened to them?”
“In truth?” Abigail looked up, her face