“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 ...
“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.”
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 emigre’s nostrils quivered. “I cannot conceive who would have told you such a thing, for in truth—”
Sebastian advanced on him, backing the emigre 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 emigre 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?”
“
“Is it? Then why lie to me?”
The emigre’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.
