mottled and puffy with unshed tears. “I think Rebecca killed him. And then she killed herself. Although I could be wrong. It could have been an accident. The coroner’s court returned a verdict of death by misadventure.”
“Why did Eisler have a glass vial of dirt with your sister’s name on it?”
“I don’t believe he knew Rebecca was my sister,” she said quietly.
“‘When will you pay me?’ say the bells of Old Bailey,” chanted the child in the garden below.
Sebastian said, “How long before he died had Eisler been coming to you for consultation on his work with the grimoires?”
“Several years.”
“So when your sister told you about her husband’s St. Botolph-Aldgate moneylender, you must have suspected who she was talking about?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian was aware of Hero’s hard gray eyes upon him. But all he said was, “Eisler had a collection of these vials. I recognized several of the names of young men who recently committed suicide.”
Abigail’s hand closed around the vial. “Some people believe that those who take their own lives will haunt anyone they blame for driving them to it. There are numerous operations in the various grimoires for binding the souls of suicides. Most are best performed with earth from the graves of the dead.”
“Chip-chop, chip-chop, the last man’s dead!”
An outburst of children’s laughter drew Sebastian’s attention again to the window overlooking the garden, where a fair-haired little girl had collapsed with her brother in a fit of giggles. He was remembering what John Francillon had told him, that Eisler feared dead men. He now understood what the lapidary had meant.
Abigail said, “Did you find a vial for Marcus?”
Sebastian shook his head. They had written down all the names on the vials and brought away with them Eisler’s account books. The rest they left as they had found it, carefully closing the section of paneling behind them. “No.”
Abigail pushed out her breath in a strange sound. “Eisler obviously realized Marcus wasn’t the type to do away with himself.” Her gaze returned to her brother-in-law’s name in the account book beside her, her brows twitching together in a troubled frown. “I wonder how Marcus managed to repay his debt.”
Sebastian and Hero exchanged silent glances.
But if Abigail McBean did not know the truth, Sebastian had no intention of telling her.
“Admit it,” Hero said to him later, as they drove away from Abigail McBean’s modest Camden Place house. “You think Abigail killed him.”
Sebastian looked over at her. “Don’t you?”
He expected her to leap to her friend’s defense and insist Abigail McBean was incapable of murder. Instead, she said, “Do you think Abigail knows that Marcus Ridgeway forced his wife to prostitute herself to Eisler in order to pay off his debt?”
“I suspect she does—if she killed Eisler. Otherwise . . . I hope not. She doesn’t need to live with that knowledge on top of everything else.”
Hero said, “I keep thinking about all those glass vials. So many men and women, driven to death by that loathsome man.”
“And by their own weaknesses.”
When Hero remained silent, Sebastian said, “Think about this: Abigail McBean has known for the last five months that Eisler was implicated in the death of her sister and brother-in-law. Yet she continued to assist him with his interpretation of the ancient grimoires and their magic operations. Why?”
Hero shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you understand just how frightened of the souls of dead men Eisler was.”
“You think Abigail was deliberately feeding that fear? To torment him?”
“Yes.”
“So why kill him? Why not simply continue to torment him, if she’d chosen that as her means of revenge?”
Sebastian stared out the window at the rolling, misty undulations of Green Park, deserted now in the cold and damp. “Perhaps she learned of another victim, someone she knew and also cared about. Someone who made her decide Eisler needed to be stopped—permanently.”
“What other victim?”
But Sebastian only shook his head, his gaze on a fog-shrouded copse of oaks.
While Devlin settled down in his library with Eisler’s account books, Hero changed into a warmer carriage gown of soft pink wool and went in search of the crossing sweep named Drummer.
She found the boy working to clear a pile of fresh manure from his corner. He was reluctant to pause in his labors, but the promise of a silver coin lured him to the steps of St. Giles, where he sat with his bare hands tucked up beneath his armpits as he rocked back and forth for warmth. Hero noticed he had acquired