and a part of my brain, and I’m still here, ain’t I? I reckon I’m a pretty hard fellow to kill.”
“No one’s hard to kill,” said Sebastian, and left him standing at the base of the stairs, a skeletal figure clothed in tattered rags that hung like a shroud about the frame of a man long dead.
Charles, Lord Jarvis, leaned back in his chair, his feet stretched out toward the hearth in his Carlton House chambers as he studied the man who stood before him. He found Bertram Leigh-Jones a slob of a man, big and unkempt but full of bluster and self-importance tinged, Jarvis suspected, with no small portion of vice.
Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. “I trust you understand your instructions?”
“I do, my lord. But—”
“Good.” Jarvis closed his snuffbox with a snap. “That will be all.”
“But—”
Jarvis raised one eyebrow.
Mr. Leigh-Jones’s full cheeks darkened. He set his jaw, said, “As you wish, my lord,” and bowed himself out.
Jarvis was gazing after him, a thoughtful frown on his face, when one of the ex-military men in Jarvis’s employ appeared at the entrance, his dark, rain-splattered cloak swirling as he swung it from his shoulders.
Jarvis smiled. “Ah, Archer. Come in and close the door. I have an assignment for you.”
Chapter 43
A
lthough both men had already denied it, Sebastian suspected that the shadowy chapeau bras glimpsed by Foy through the windows of a hackney the night of the murder in all likelihood belonged to either Blair Beresford or Samuel Perlman.
He decided to start with the young Irish poet.
It took a while, but Sebastian finally traced Beresford to the churchyard of a small eighteenth-century chapel that lay just to the northeast of Cavendish Square, where the younger man was winding his way among the tombstones. Pausing beneath the arched lych-gate, Sebastian watched as Beresford stood beside one of the newer monuments, removed his hat, and bowed his head in prayer.
Beresford prayed silently for some minutes before replacing his hat and turning toward the street. Then he saw Sebastian and drew up, an angry flush mottling his cheeks. “What? A man can’t even pray over his own dead sister without being spied on?”
“You have a sister buried here?” said Sebastian in surprise.
“My younger sister, Elizabeth. Louisa invited her to London two years ago, for the Season. It was a dream come true for her. I’d never seen her so excited.”
A breeze rattled the yellowing leaves of the hawthorns in the churchyard and brought them the scent of damp earth and dying grass. “What happened?”
“She died of fever just five weeks after she arrived.”
“I’m sorry.”
A muscle jumped along the younger man’s jaw, but he said nothing.
Sebastian turned to leave.
Beresford stopped him by saying, “I take it you wanted to speak to me about something?”
Sebastian shook his head. “It can wait for a more appropriate time.”
“Why? Out of respect for my sister? She’s dead. If you’ve something to say to me, just say it.”
Sebastian squinted up at the chapel’s awkward, neoclassical facade. “I have a witness who says he saw a man in a hackney carriage drop a woman of the street at Eisler’s house an hour or so after sunset the night of the murder. A man wearing a chapeau bras.”
Beresford’s face hardened in a way that made him look considerably older—and less gentle. “If you’re asking if that man was I, the answer is no. I already told you that.”
“So you did. Then tell me this: When was the last time you saw Eisler?”
“The Saturday before he died.”
The readiness of the man’s answer took Sebastian by surprise. “Was that the last time you provided him with a woman?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I saw him here.”
“Here?” Sebastian wasn’t certain he’d understood right. “At Portland Chapel?”
“That’s right.”
Sebastian stared out over the rows of graying, moss-covered tombstones. The chapel was less than a century old, and already the churchyard was filled to overflowing. He said, “When was this?”
“Late Saturday afternoon.”
“What was he doing here?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“I did. I hadn’t intended to, but he approached me. Accused me of following him. If you ask me, he’d been drinking. He was talking wild—said he knew ‘they’ were watching him. He even accused me of working for ‘them.’ But when I asked who ‘they’ were, he just started ranting about some Frenchman named Collot.”
“Jacques Collot?” asked Sebastian sharply. “What about Collot?”
“I told you, the old goat was obviously foxed. He was practically raving. Nothing he said made much sense.