Where Shadows Dance (20 page)

“Frankly? No. I suspect it’s more than likely a cover for something else. But I’m also told Ross quarreled violently with someone who came to his rooms the Friday evening before he died. Would you know anything about that?”

“As a matter of fact, I heard them.” Her lip curled. “His father may have been a nobleman, but Antoine de La Rocque has the manners and breeding of a peasant.”

“Ross’s argument was with de La Rocque?”

“Yes. I told you he visited Ross frequently. I believe he came that Wednesday, and then he returned again, on the Friday before Alexander’s death.”

“Do you know what the argument was about?”

“I didn’t hear most of what was said. Only de La Rocque’s parting shot, which he delivered as he was descending the stairs so that it echoed through the stairwell.”

“Which was?”

“I don’t recall the exact words, only that de La Rocque evidently believed his life was in danger and he wanted Ross to give him more money because of it. Ross refused.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

She gave him a crooked smile. “You didn’t ask.”

He found himself returning her smile. “What else do you know that you’re not telling me?”

She looked troubled at that and seemed to withdraw into herself. Scattering the last crumbs of her bread, she pushed to her feet and turned toward the path. “I know nothing more. Nothing.”

 

 

After she left, Sebastian stayed for a time, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin resting on his hands as he gazed thoughtfully out over the wind-ruffled surface of the pool.

Then he returned to St. James’s Street.

Glancing in the oriel window, he saw that she had still not resumed her accustomed seat. He entered the side door and ran up the stairs to Ross’s rooms.

His knock was answered by the valet, Poole, who blanched at the sight of him. “My lord! I was ...
”
He looked like a frightened rabbit seeking a place to hide. “I was just going out.”

“I won’t be long,” said Sebastian, brushing past him into the room.

All traces of the broken table that had once stood beside the door were gone. The valet had made surprising progress in his efforts, boxing up some items to be sent to Charlbury Priory, disposing of others. The plump little man had obviously managed to secure a new position and was now eager to move on.

“Just a few questions,” said Sebastian. “I’ve been wondering about the clothing Ross was wearing the night he died.”

Poole looked confused. “My lord?”

“His coat, shirt, breeches, stockings, cravat—everything he had on when last you saw him. Where was he in the habit of leaving the clothing he removed at night? On a chair? The floor?”

“His linens he dropped on the floor, my lord, to be washed. If his coat, waistcoat, or breeches required attention, he would place them on the daybed. Otherwise, he frequently put them away himself.” Poole paused. “Unless he was foxed, of course.”

“And when you found Mr. Ross dead on Sunday morning, were his clothes from the previous night on the floor?”

“His linens, yes, my lord.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Nothing was missing?”

“No, my lord.”

Sebastian frowned. A stiletto thrust to the base of the skull would have caused considerable bleeding. The killer would have needed to strip off Ross’s bloodstained clothing, stop the bleeding, manhandle the body into a nightshirt, dump it into the bed, then remove the bloody clothes. But the missing clothes would have presented a problem, for a valet would notice immediately if his master’s clothing was not lying in its habitual place the next morning.

Sebastian supposed it was possible the killer had substituted items from Ross’s cupboards—a shirt and cravat deliberately crumpled, perhaps, as if worn. But ...

“His coat and breeches were in the cupboard?”

Both of Poole’s chins disappeared back into his neck. “To be honest, my lord, I did not check immediately. But I have now done a complete inventory.”

“And?”

“As I said. Nothing was missing, my lord. Nothing.”

A
ntoine de La Rocque was straightening the towering shelves of his dusty, overcrowded collection on Great Russell Street when Sebastian walked in the front door and closed it behind him with a soft click. “I should perhaps have warned you,” he said, “that I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

De La Rocque turned, eyes widening. “Lied to, my lord? But . . . I don’t understand.”

“Allow me to refresh your memory. You said you’d last seen Alexander Ross the Wednesday before he died. Now I discover you had a spectacular set-to with Ross at his rooms that Friday. I want to know what it was about.”

The émigré’s nostrils quivered. “I cannot conceive who would have told you such a thing, for in truth—”

Sebastian advanced on him, backing the émigré up until he was flattened against the towering stacks of books. “I should also warn you,” said Sebastian, “that when it comes to murder, I tend to be a trifle impatient. I’ll ask you one last time: What was the subject of your argument with Alexander Ross?”

De La Rocque licked his lips. “I told you that from time to time I provided Ross with old books I thought might be of interest to him.”

“Yes,” said Sebastian when the Frenchman hesitated.

“Well ... Along with books, I did sometimes provide Mr. Ross with information. Nothing important, you understand—just the sort of rumors and innuendos one overhears in the émigré community. But passing information can be dangerous. I thought it not unreasonable that the British government should increase the remuneration I receive in light of the . . . danger involved.”

“You mean, because you felt the danger had recently increased?
”

“Yes.”

“But Mr. Ross didn’t agree?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“And what precisely led you to believe that the danger you face is rising?”

De La Rocque pushed out his upper lip. “Don’t you feel it? It’s . . . in the air. Things are happening this summer. Momentous things.”

“Such as?”

De La Rocque’s gaze shifted away. “I prefer not to say.”

Sebastian brought up his left arm and pressed it against de La Rocque’s throat, pinning him to the bookshelves. “I’ll keep your preferences in mind. Now, tell me: This danger you feel threatens you; did it also threaten Mr. Ross?”

“One would assume so,” said the Frenchman dryly. “Seeing as how he is dead.”

“But you didn’t kill him?”

“
Mon Dieu!
What a ridiculous notion.”

“Is it? Then why lie to me?”

The émigré’s lips curled in derision. “If you’d had heated words with a man shortly before he was murdered, would you volunteer the information?”

“That is one explanation. On the other hand, you could have kept quiet because you killed him.”

“What possible reason would I have to kill Alexander Ross?”

“I don’t know. To be frank, I haven’t found a believable reason for anyone to kill him.”

“You haven’t?” He said it as if he were truly astonished. “Would you like a list?”

Sebastian huffed a soft laugh and took a step back, releasing him. “Please. Be my guest.”

De La Rocque straightened his cravat and smoothed the lapels of his worn old-fashioned coat.
“Ah, bien.
To begin, there are the French—by which naturally I do not mean Royalists such as myself. I refer to the agents of the usurper.” His face contorted with the violence of his hatred. “Napoléon.”

“Why would Napoléon’s agents want to kill Ross?”

De La Rocque cast a quick glance around and dropped his voice, although they were completely alone. “Presumably because Ross was instrumental in the transfer of some rather sensitive information to the British Foreign Office.”

“A minute ago, you claimed your information was mere rumor and innuendo; now you say it’s ‘sensitive.’ It can’t be both.”

“No, no! I speak not of the information he received from
me
. I meant information from
other
channels.”

“Why not simply kill the sources of information?”

The Frenchman blanched. “That danger also exists. Hence my request for an increase in my remuneration.”

“Are we talking about anyone in particular here, or just some nameless, faceless French ‘agents’ and ‘channels’?”

“Believe me,
monsieur
, if I had names, I would give them to you.”

Sebastian laughed. “Of course you would. Please continue. Who’s next on your list? The Americans?”

De La Rocque looked genuinely confused. “Why would the Americans want to kill Alexander Ross? I was thinking of the Mohammedans. Specifically, that Turk.”

“By whom I take it you mean the Ambassador from the Sublime Porte, His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani?”

De La Rocque gave a small bow. “Precisely.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s hollow-cheeked, narrow face. “Are you referring to the rumor that Ross was involved with Ambassador Ramadani’s wife?”

“So you have heard, have you?” De La Rocque tittered. “Although, somehow, I doubt any of us has actually seen His Excellency’s
true
wife. Or should I say, perhaps, wives? Constantinople is full of courtesans and concubines, and the Turks know as well as any the value of a beautiful woman when it comes to acquiring information from weak men.”

Here was a new slant that Sebastian had yet to consider. If what de La Rocque suggested was true—if Yasmina was indeed a woman well practiced in the arts of seduction—then it made her conquest of Ross all the more probable. He said, “Was Ross weak?”

De La Rocque’s lids drooped, half hiding his eyes. “All men are weak, each in his own fashion.”

“Now you sound like a priest.”

“One’s early training is sometimes difficult to walk away from.”

“Is it?”

The émigré gave Sebastian an appraising look. “As well you know.”

Sebastian ignored the jibe. “I can see Ramadani killing a man he believed had dishonored his wife. But if Yasmina is in reality a beautiful courtesan sent here to coax information from the men she seduces, then why would Ramadani kill one of her sources?”

De La Rocque smiled. “I can think of several reasons. The target could have become jealous of her other lovers.”

“Were there others?”

“One hears rumors. It is conceivable, is it not, that Ross might have heard the rumors, as well? Perhaps he became remorseful. Or frightened.”

“All right,” said Sebastian. “We’ll make Ramadani Suspect Number Two. Who’s Number Three?”

“The Swede, of course. You have looked into Mr. Carl Lindquist, as I suggested?”

“I have.” Sebastian studied the ex-priest’s sallow, foxlike face. “I wonder: You wouldn’t happen to know if Lindquist has an interest in spiritualism and séances, would you? An interest he perhaps shared with Ross?”

De La Rocque laughed out loud. “Spiritualism? Is that what he told you?”

“He did. He also claims to be nothing more than a simple trader.”

“Lindquist is a trader, yes. But he is also an agent of the Swedish Court.”

“Ah,” said Sebastian. “Now, that he failed to mention.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

“True. But I fail to see why the Swedes would have any more reason to kill Ross than the Americans.”

De La Rocque shrugged. “The British and the Swedes were, until quite recently, at war.”

“And now they are at peace. On the other hand, the Americans and the British may soon be at war. Yet I can’t see that as a reason for the subjects of either nation to start killing one another in the streets ... or in their beds.”

“True. But then, Ross was not exactly a mere innocent spectator to all of this, was he?”

“No. Yet you could use the same argument to indict the Russians. After all, Britain and Russia were also until recently at war.”

“Except that, by invading Russia, Napoléon now has made the two countries close friends indeed.”

“So that’s your list?” said Sebastian. “Some nameless French agent, Lindquist, and the Turkish Ambassador?”

“Is that not enough?”

“You’ve left off one rather significant figure.”

De La Rocque opened his eyes wide as if in astonishment. “I have? And who is that?”

“Sir Hyde Foley.”

The Frenchman gave a disbelieving huff of laughter. “What possible reason could Sir Hyde have to murder one of his own men?”

“You don’t think Ross’s weakness for dark-eyed, exotic women might be a reason for the Foreign Office to quietly dispose of him?”

De La Rocque pursed his lips and tilted his head, as if considering this as a new possibility. “Perhaps.”

“I can think of another reason,” said Sebastian.

“Oh?”

“If Yasmina’s lover from the Foreign Office was not in truth Ross but someone else—say, Sir Hyde himself—and Ross found out about it, I can see Sir Hyde killing Ross to keep his indiscretion quiet.”

“Ridiculous. Sir Hyde has a most beautiful young wife. Have you not seen her?”

“Since when did the possession of a beautiful wife keep a man from straying? Ross was betrothed to a beautiful young woman himself, remember?”

“Betrothed. Not wed,” said de La Rocque with a sly smile. “It makes a difference. Does it not, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

“To some men. Not to others.”

“And which sort of man was Alexander Ross? Hmm? Perhaps that is the question you need to answer before all others.”

Sebastian stood on the flagway of Great Russell Street, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the hot sun.
What sort of man was Alexander Ross, really?
He had spent the better part of three days trying to find the answer to that question, yet he still felt as if the truth were eluding him.