pleasant warmth and the smell of wet wool. Sir Henry said, “So we have two men killed in the same unusual manner on the same night, one a gentleman at the Foreign Office, the other a newly arrived American. What possible connection can there be between the two?”
“If there is a connection other than the Cox family, I have yet to find it.”
Sir Henry frowned. “Kincaid’s body was dumped in Bethnal Green at three in the morning. But he disappeared from Southwark much earlier, around eleven that night. You think Ross was killed before then?”
“I think Ross was dead by the time Colonel Chernishav knocked on his door at midnight.”
Sir Henry nodded. “So you’re suggesting—what? Ross was murdered, then stripped of his clothes and put in bed so he’d be found there by his manservant in the morning?”
“Unless Ross was naked when he was killed.”
Sir Henry looked confused. “But why would a man be naked—” His voice trailed off as understanding dawned. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ah, yes; the woman.” The magistrate shifted in his seat. “It would be highly unusual, although still possible, I suppose.”
“Alternatively, the killer could have taken clean linen from Ross’s cupboard, crumpled it, and dropped it on the floor for the valet to find. He would then have needed to carry the bloodstained items away with him, had them cleaned, and surreptitiously returned them to Ross’s rooms at a later date, since according to the valet, no items were missing.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s possible, as well. It shows an attention to detail, a thoroughness and calm clearheadedness that is disturbing.” Sir Henry shivered and fortified himself with another sip of his coffee. “You’ve suspects?”
Sebastian gave him a quick rundown of what he’d discovered, leaving out only the diplomatically sensitive information given him by Miss Jarvis.
Sir Henry said, “Any of these men have alibis for the evening in question?”
“Jasper Cox was at a dinner given by the Lord Mayor. Others claim to have been home. But if we’re dealing with a hired professional, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“No, I suppose not.” Lovejoy sipped his coffee in silence for a moment. Then he said, “We’re obviously missing something.”
Sebastian pushed to his feet. “I think this French emigre, de La Rocque, may have played a larger role than he’s admitting. I have some questions I’d like him to answer.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Let me know if you discover anything.” He hesitated, then said, “I understand congratulations are in order, my lord.”
Sebastian shook his head, not understanding. “I beg your pardon?”
“I read the notice of your coming nuptials in the paper this morning.”
“Oh, yes; of course. Thank you, Sir Henry.”
“A splendid young woman, Miss Jarvis. Splendid.”
Sebastian said, “The ceremony is this Thursday morning, at Lambeth Palace, at eleven. I would be honored if you could attend.”
The little magistrate turned pink and gave one of his peculiar little bows. “Why, thank you, my lord. I assure you the honor is mine.”
“Monsieur de La Rocque?” she called, pushing open the heavy door to his establishment.
Her voice echoed through the empty cluster of interconnected rooms lined floor to ceiling with shelf after shelf of moldering books.
“Oh, Miss Jarvis,” whispered Marie, hovering close beside her, her face pale as she followed Hero from one overcrowded room to the next. “Should we even be here? I mean—”
“Don’t be absurd, Marie,” said Hero firmly. “There is nothing the least—” She broke off, her gaze fixed on the single, worn brown shoe poking out at an odd angle from beneath the curtain of a nearby archway.
“Stay here,” she ordered the maid and thrust aside the curtain.
The defrocked priest lay sprawled on his back, arms flung wide, his swollen tongue protruding from a discolored, puffy face, his bloodshot eyes wide and staring. A wire had been wrapped so tightly around his neck that it cut into the flesh.
She heard a soft sigh behind her and turned in time to see her abigail’s eyes roll back in her head as the woman collapsed in an insensate heap.
Ignoring her, Hero went to crouch beside the Frenchman’s body. Reaching out, she pressed her fingertips to one out-flung wrist. He was still faintly warm.
She heard the creak of a hinge and a light tread on the old floorboards at the front of the shop. Spinning around, she saw Devlin draw up in the curtained archway. His gaze traveled from her to de La Rocque and back again.
“Good God,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
She spread an expressive hand toward the corpse. “I came to speak to Monsieur de La Rocque. Unfortunately, as you can see, he is dead.”
Devlin’s gaze shifted to the crumpled maid. “And your abigail?”
“Tiresome woman. She’s gone off in a faint.”
“Imagine that,” he said dryly, hunkering down beside the maid. “Have you a vinaigrette in your reticule?”
“No. I never faint.”
“Of course not,” he said, gently tapping the woman’s pale cheeks.
“If you wake her up, she’s liable to start screaming,” Hero warned.
“True. But it must be done.”
The abigail stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She drew in a shaky gasp and looked confused, her gaze focusing on Devlin’s face. Then she turned her head, saw de La Rocque’s awful purple countenance, and started screaming.
“Now, now; enough of that,” said Hero briskly, going to help Devlin coax the woman to her feet.
The screaming continued. Over the woman’s head, Devlin’s gaze met Hero’s. “There’s an inn several doors down. Perhaps you can entrust her to the care of the landlord’s wife?”
Hero nodded. “Come, Marie,” she said, grasping the maid’s arm in a firm grip and suppressing the impulse to box the silly creature’s ears as she steered her toward the door. “Hush, now; there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Devlin, scrounging around in a nearby desk for paper, a quill, and ink. He dashed off a quick note, folded it and affixed a wafer, then wrote,
Leaving Devlin hunkered down beside the dead body, Hero hectored and bullied the now hysterical abigail to the nearby inn, where she consigned her to the gentle ministrations of the clucking landlady. On her return, she found Devlin systematically going through drawers and cupboards in a rear office. “Discover anything?” she asked.
He moved on to one of the towering bookcases. “Not yet.”
“Like some help?”
He looked over at her in surprise. “Please.”
She started on the lower shelf. “What precisely are we looking for?”
“You’ll know when you find it.”
But at the end of another twenty minutes, she was hot, dusty, and empty-handed.
“It would take days to go through all these books,” she said, shoving a tooled copy of
“At least,” agreed Devlin, moving on to the next case.
