gave a humorless laugh. “Have you told me so many bouncers that you can’t be certain which ones I’ve caught on to? I’m talking about last Sunday morning. When you stood in the middle of Fountain Lane and threatened to gut Eisler from stem to stern. The chandler who witnessed the exchange will doubtless be testifying at your trial. What do you think the chances of your acquittal are now?”
Yates simply stared at him, his face pale.
Sebastian said, “You claimed you had no quarrel with Eisler. What the hell was it about?”
Yates sank into his chair again, one splayed hand pressing against his cheek with such force that it distorted his features.
“What was the quarrel about?” Sebastian demanded again when the other man remained silent.
Yates shifted his hand so that it covered his lower face and mouth. “The old bugger was trying to cheat me. He’d somehow managed to acquire certain information. . . . I don’t suppose I need go into detail as to its nature. He thought he could use it to his advantage.”
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me this before?”
A faint flush darkened the other man’s face. “I suppose I thought if you knew I had a reason to kill him, you wouldn’t help me. But I didn’t shoot him. I won’t deny that I considered it. But I didn’t actually do it.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s pinched features. The ponderous British legal system called men such as Yates “sodomites” and punished them with a rare viciousness. But they tended to call themselves “mollies.” They had created a shadowy culture of their own in London, a hidden but vibrant subworld of pubs and coffeehouses called molly houses where they felt free to mingle and meet, to dance and cut up a lark. Yet the threat of disgrace, imprisonment, and death hung over them always. The men who moved through that world lived in constant fear of both detection and extortion.
Sebastian said, “Where did Eisler acquire this information?”
“The bastard traded in other people’s secrets, the same way he traded in gems and fine furniture and art objects. He was always getting nasty bits of information out of people who owed him money.”
“You mean he was a blackmailer?”
“Not in the strictest sense. He was more subtle than that. But he certainly used what he knew about people to his own advantage.”
“Exchanging shouted threats in the street doesn’t exactly sound subtle to me.”
Yates gave a ghost of a smile. “True. But then, I was refusing to play his game.”
“You weren’t afraid?”
The privateer’s jaw hardened. “Men have tried extortion with me before.”
Sebastian had heard about the schemes often run against the mollies. Two confederates would cruise the parks and byways known to be frequented by London’s mollies. Then they’d separate, with one of the pair—usually young and attractive—approaching a likely target to “make a bargain.” Once the target was in a compromising position, the second confederate would rush in on the couple and threaten to denounce the extortion victim to the authorities unless he paid them. Handsomely and repeatedly.
“And what did you do to those who thought you a likely victim for extortion?” asked Sebastian. “Kill them?”
Yates simply stared back at him.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian.
“Would you have me believe you wouldn’t do the same, in my position?”
The two men’s gazes met. Clashed.
Yates said, “If I’d killed Eisler, I would tell you. I didn’t kill him.”
Sebastian went to stare out the small barred window overlooking the Press Yard below. They called it the Press Yard because, until recently, it was where those who refused to enter a plea against charges were literally pressed: Increasing loads of weights were placed upon the accused’s chest until he—or she—agreed to plead.
Or until they were crushed to death, at which point the legal niceties were no longer relevant.
He said, “I’m told Daniel Eisler was in the process of trying to sell a large blue diamond—a very large blue diamond. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“What about a man named Jud Foy? Ever hear of him?”
“Foy?” Yates shook his head. “I don’t think so. What does he look like?”
“Thin. Disheveled. Like he belongs in Bedlam.”
A smile flickered across the ex-privateer’s features. “Really, Devlin, I’ll admit I associate with some rougher sorts, but I do draw the line somewhere.”
“What about a former army lieutenant named Tyson?”
“You mean Matt Tyson?”
“So you do know him.”
“I’ve met him a few times, here and there. Why?”
“Know if he had any dealings with Eisler?”
Yates thought about it a moment, then said, “He