“I’m told you were acquainted with Alexander Ross.”
“I was. But I fail to see—” The man’s eyes suddenly widened, his lips puckering as he chewed distractedly at the inside of his cheek.
“You obviously find the possibility somewhat disturbing,” said Sebastian. “Why?”
“It is a natural reaction, is it not? To be troubled when one learns of the murder of a friend.”
“Was Alexander Ross a friend?”
“Of a sort.”
“And what sort was that?”
“Ross had a burgeoning interest in rare and old books.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s small, narrow face. There’d been a few books on Ross’s shelves, but none of them had struck Sebastian as particularly old or rare. “He did?”
“Mmm. From time to time I came into possession of a choice volume that interested him.”
“Any kind of books in particular?”
“Many of my books come out of France. With the dissolution of the monasteries there, countless volumes of astonishing antiquity have been thrown on the market.”
“In France.”
De La Rocque laughed. “Yes, well ... there are ways, you know.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
De La Rocque shrugged. “Last week sometime, I suppose. Wednesday or Thursday, perhaps?”
“Not Saturday night?”
De La Rocque frowned as if with thought, then shook his head. “No. It was earlier. Wednesday. Yes, definitely Wednesday.”
“Interesting. You see, I spoke to someone who rather thought they saw you leaving Ross’s rooms last Saturday night.”
It was a lie, of course. But it was curious to watch the Frenchman’s reaction. Rather than appearing alarmed or angered at the possibility he might have been observed, he merely shrugged and said, “Saturday? No. Whoever told you that was mistaken.”
“But you did sometimes visit Ross at his rooms?”
“From time to time.”
“Any idea who some of his other sources of old books might have been?”
The Frenchman shook his head. “Sorry. No.”
“How familiar were you with some of Ross’s other activities?”
The Frenchman looked confused. “Other activities?”
“I think you know what I’m talking about.”
De La Rocque paused at the top of the steps, his gaze on the crowded, noisy square below. “There is a diplomatic revolution under way in Europe at the moment,” he said slowly. “The man who is your friend this morning may be your enemy this evening, and vice versa. That was Alexander Ross’s world. If I were you, Monsieur le Vicomte, I would tread carefully. Very carefully, indeed. You are wading into treacherous waters.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A threat?” The Frenchman twisted to face him, the light from the hot summer sun falling across his features.
It all sounded rather grandiose and flamboyant—like de La Rocque himself. Sebastian said, “Who would benefit from the death of Alexander Ross?”
“I suppose that would depend on what Ross knew.”
“About what?”
De La Rocque’s eyes narrowed with his smile. “Ah. But if I knew that, then I too would be at risk. And believe me, Monsieur le Viscomte, I am a man who believes in minimizing risks.”
“Yet you’re not, obviously, averse to taking risks, when necessary.”
“When the odds are good.”
“The odds? Or the price?”
Rather than being offended, the Frenchman laughed. “Both, actually.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “There is one man you might find it productive to speak with. A Swede.”
“A Swede?”
“Tall man, blond. Name of Lindquist. Mr. Carl Lindquist.”
Sebastian frowned. “Who is he?”
“To all appearances, he is a trader.”
“Meaning that appearances in this case could be deceptive?”
De La Rocque smiled. “Appearances generally are.”
He found the Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs seated behind a broad, old-fashioned desk, its surface covered with what looked like dispatches and stacks of reports. The room was large and darkly paneled, with a massive mantel of carved sandstone and a window of diamond-paned, leaded glass overlooking a court below. As the somber clerk bowed himself out, Foley leaned back in his chair and breathed an exasperated sigh. “Well. It’s about time. I expected you an hour or more ago.”
Lovejoy gave a slight bow. “My apologies. I was in Bethnal Green, at the scene of a murder.”
Foley grunted, obviously unimpressed. He did not invite Lovejoy to sit. “I called you here because I want to know what the devil is going on.”
Lovejoy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m referring to this business about Alexander Ross. The man died of natural causes. So what precisely is Bow Street doing, poking around and asking questions about his death? It presents a very odd appearance. Very odd indeed.”
Lovejoy dredged up a faint recollection of reports of a young man attached to the Foreign Office who had died the previous week. “To my knowledge, we’re not doing anything, Sir Hyde.”
The Undersecretary’s nostrils flared. “Don’t even think of playing me for a fool, Sir Henry. I had Devlin questioning me this morning.”
“Devlin? You mean, Viscount Devlin?”
“Of course I’m talking about Viscount Devlin. Who the bloody hell do you think I’m talking about?”
Lovejoy considered himself an even-tempered man. But he found he needed to draw a deep, steadying breath before he could trust himself to answer temperately. “Lord Devlin may have his own reasons for inquiring into the death of Mr. Ross. But if so, I am unaware of them. I can assure you that he is not doing so in cooperation with our office.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Lovejoy simply held the other man’s cold stare and returned no answer.
Foley leaned forward. “Do you have any idea of the havoc that could be wrought if news of this were to leak out?”
“You mean, the news that Ross was murdered?”
“Good God, man; have you heard nothing I said? Ross was not murdered! I was referring to the turmoil that could result if rumors of some bizarre investigation into his
