market square before them, its rickety stalls piled high with turnips and potatoes, cabbages and squash. “Have they been identified?”
Sir Henry nodded. “They have, yes. The ruffian in the house was Morgan Aldrich, a man well-known to the authorities in the area, whilst the body in the alley belonged to his young brother, Piers.”
“How did they manage to enter the house?”
“I understand they worked the bars loose at a window in the basement light well, then used a diamond-tipped blade to cut the glass.”
“Unusually sophisticated for common ruffians.”
“It is, yes. Curiously, however, the bolt on the back door also appears to have been tampered with. It was very subtle—so subtle I suspect most people would have missed it entirely. Only, Eisler’s old retainer, Campbell, noticed it.”
“He would,” said Sebastian.
“One suspects,” continued Sir Henry, looking at Sebastian intently, “that some unknown personage, desirous of concealing his illicit entry, gained admittance through the back door, and that unknown personage is the one responsible for the deaths of the Aldrich brothers, who came in through the basement with no regard for whatever evidence of their housebreaking they were leaving behind.”
“An interesting theory. Only, how likely is it that two different sets of ruffians would break into the same house at the same time, and take to murdering one another?”
“I suppose that would depend on what they were looking for. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas, would you?”
Sebastian kept his features carefully schooled. “Mr. Eisler was known to possess a number of valuable items.”
“So he was.” Lovejoy paused, his attention momentarily caught by a Punch and Judy professor set up beneath the nearest arcade, then walked on. “Ah, I almost forgot; my constable did uncover one interesting piece of information. One of the individuals with whom he spoke—a chandler’s apprentice—recalled seeing Mr. Yates standing on the pavement before the victim’s house the morning of the murder. Eisler himself was in his open doorway, and the two men were engaged in what the apprentice described as a ‘right royal row.’”
Sebastian felt his jaw tighten with a spurt of quiet rage. Yates had assured him quite emphatically that he’d had no quarrel with Eisler. “The apprentice knew Yates by name?”
“No. But his description of the man involved was unmistakable. There can’t be many sun-darkened gentlemen in London who wear their hair long and affect a gold pirate’s hoop in one ear.”
“And the apprentice was certain the argument he witnessed occurred Sunday morning?”
“He was, yes. Seems he encountered the altercation on his way home from services at Holy Trinity.”
“Did he happen to hear the subject of their quarrel?”
“He did not. He did, however, catch the final, heated exchange of words. Seems Eisler told Yates, ‘Don’t even think about crossing me. I can destroy you and you know it.’”
Sebastian squinted up at the templelike facade of the church overlooking the square. “And did he manage to catch Yates’s reply?”
“I’m afraid he did. He says Yates laughed out loud and said, ‘I can split your gullet from stem to stern quicker than a Haymarket whore can pick your pocket, and don’t you forget that, you bloody little bastard.’” The magistrate paused to look out over the churchyard’s jumble of gray, moss-covered tombstones. “Of course, Eisler was shot, not stabbed. But still . . . it doesn’t look good for Mr. Yates.”
“No,” said Sebastian, drawing up beside him. “No, it doesn’t.”
Chapter 28
R
ussell Yates had drawn his cell’s slat-backed chair up to a small table and was busy writing when the turnkey opened the iron-banded oak door for Sebastian. In the last twenty-four hours, the ex-privateer had managed to shave and change into clean clothes. A feather bed and warm blankets softened his cot; a pitcher of water and a basin stood on a plain shelf beside a bottle of good cognac and a crystal glass. Prison could be surprisingly comfortable for those wealthy enough to make the appropriate arrangements.
But it was still prison.
“I ought to let you hang,” said Sebastian without preamble as the turnkey locked the heavy door behind him. “I swear to God, if it weren’t for Kat, I would.”
Yates pushed awkwardly to his feet, his leg irons throwing him off balance. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”
“It means that if you can’t be honest with me, then you’re just wasting my time—and yours. And the way I see it, you don’t have much time left to waste.”
A muscle ticked along the ridge of the man’s jawbone. “What do you think I’m lying to you about?”
Sebastian