Where Shadows Dance (23 page)

“Nasty,” said Sebastian, hunkering down to study the dead man’s pale, blood-streaked face. No neat dagger thrust to the base of the skull here.

“Very,” said Sir Henry, stepping around the body to enter the parlor.

Sebastian let his gaze wander the room. It was simply furnished with a settee and several chairs, a tea table, and a small writing desk near the front window. But one of the chairs had been knocked over; the carpet was bunched, as if Lindquist had realized he was in danger and sought to resist. “One wonders why the killer didn’t wait until the housekeeper had left for the evening. Or even break in later tonight. Much less chance of being discovered that way.”

“True. Perhaps the murder was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Or a crime of passion.”

“It certainly was passionate.” Pushing to his feet, Sebastian went to take a look at the writing table. A quill lay on the floor; a bottle of ink had been tipped over, the stain on the blotter still wet to his touch. He glanced around. No sign of any letter, journal, or notebook entry that Lindquist could have been writing.

Sir Henry said, “It’s possible Lindquist knew his assailant. He let the man in.”

“If so, that could explain the timing.”

The magistrate cleared his throat. “May I venture to ask your interest in Mr. Lindquist, my lord?”

“Alexander Ross came here, the Friday before he died.”

“I see. And do you know the purpose of his visit?”

“A séance, according to Mr. Lindquist.”

“A
séance?”

“So said Mr. Lindquist. He claims Ross was interested in spiritualism.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I only know what—”

Sebastian broke off as a loud tread clattered down the stairs from the upper floor. “Sir Henry!” A gangly young constable burst into the room. “Sir Henry!”

Sir Henry frowned. “Yes, Constable? What is it?”

“You gotta come see this, sir! Upstairs!”

“Constable Starke, you forget yourself.”

“But it’s gold, Sir Henry! Gold! A whole trunk full of it!”

 

 

Divided into small, sturdy canvas pouches, the gold almost filled an iron-banded wooden trunk shoved into a corner of a disused back bedroom littered with boxes and crates.

“Interesting,” said Sebastian, hunkering down to heft one of the bags and assess its contents. It weighed something like twenty pounds. Unknotting the string, he tipped its coins out onto the floor. Gold sovereigns, as shiny and new as if they’d come fresh from the mint, spilled across the bare floorboards.

He glanced up to find the magistrate staring at him, hard. “You know what this means,” said Sir Henry. It was more of an accusation than a question.

“Not exactly.”

“Yet you don’t appear at all surprised to find it here.”

Sebastian rose to his feet. “I’d heard Alexander Ross was involved in a transfer of gold and that the transaction was causing him some nervousness. But I didn’t know for certain the gold was going to Carl Lindquist. And I can’t begin to hazard a guess as to its purpose.”

Sir Henry frowned down at the open trunk. It represented a staggering sum, and it would be his responsibility to keep it secure. He nodded to the young constable. “I want a heavy chain and a padlock brought here, at once. Then I will personally be escorting this to Bow Street.”

“Yes, sir,” said the constable, dashing off.

Sir Henry shifted his gaze to Sebastian. “I assume you’ll be attending the exhumation of Ross’s body? It’s scheduled for eight tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there,” said Sebastian, turning toward the door
.

Hopefully, Alexander Ross would be, too.

 

 

“I trust all is set for tonight?” Sebastian asked sometime later as he prepared for Lady Weston’s ball.

“It is, my lord,” said Calhoun, smoothing the set of Sebastian’s evening coat across his shoulders. “I’ve arranged to borrow a wagon and a dark mule from my mother, and before he left for Brighton, Jumpin’ Jack kindly lent Dr. Gibson his wooden spades and various other tools of the trade. He also bribed the sexton of the churchyard to oil the gate’s hinges and leave it unlocked.”

Sebastian adjusted the snowy white folds of his cravat. “What time does Jumpin’ Jack suggest?”

“Half past two, my lord, as most residents of Mayfair will have found their way home by then. Sunrise is at six. We ought to have a good three hours before the humbler residents of the city begin to stir again.”

Sebastian cast a glance out the window. Thick clouds had come roiling in shortly after nightfall, obscuring moon and stars. “Let’s hope the rain holds off.”

“At least it will be dark, my lord.”

“That it will.” Sebastian slipped his watch into his pocket. “You and Tom take the wagon and collect Gibson and Mr. Ross. I should be back here by two. But if by some chance I’m not, I’ll meet you at the burial ground.”

S
ebastian arrived at Lady Weston’s ball at the unfashionably early hour of a quarter past twelve. Miss Jarvis, looking splendid in gossamer-fine silk of the palest pink with rosette-and-pearltrimmed swags around the hem, did not put in an appearance until long past one.

“I was beginning to think you must have changed your mind,” he said, walking up to her. It came out considerably less gallant and more impatient than he’d intended.

She held a painted silk fan trimmed with fine lace and had a strand of pearls woven through her hair, but there was nothing either fragile or frivolous about the way she assessed him through narrowed eyes. “Why? Have you a pressing engagement elsewhere?” she said with an insight he found unsettling.

“At this hour?” He let his gaze rove casually over the glittering rooms, the bejeweled ladies and exquisitely tailored gentlemen, and lowered his voice. “I’m hoping to hear why His Majesty’s government is transferring vast sums of gold to the Swedes.”

She made a show of fanning her face, the delicate ivory and silk confection stirring up a useless eddy heated by hundreds of dancing candles and the hot press of fashionable bodies. “It’s quite warm in here, don’t you think?” she said for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Perhaps you would be so good as to escort me out to the terrace for a breath of fresh air.”

He smiled and gave a short bow. “With pleasure, Miss Jarvis.”

The terrace overlooking the darkened gardens was largely deserted, thanks to a gusty wind that had blown out most of the festive hanging lanterns. Heedless of the threat to her carefully curled locks, she walked to the stone balustrade at the edge of the terrace and drew a deep breath. “Smells like rain.”

“I sincerely hope not,” said Sebastian.

She glanced over at him in surprise. “Why? We need a good rain to clean the air of dust and wash down the streets.”

“True,” he agreed. Unfortunately, rain would also make St. George’s burial ground a muddy mess.

She was silent for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. Then she said, “I am not betraying my father’s confidence in what I am about to tell you. It is known in certain circles, yet the fewer who know, the better.”

“I understand.”

“Two weeks ago, at Örebro, Britain signed a treaty with both Sweden and Russia. It is a peace treaty without any alliance obligations, which represents something of a failure for Russian diplomacy, since the Czar has been pushing for more.”

It was difficult sometimes to remember, but Russia had officially been at war with Britain for the past five years. He said, “Go on.”

“The war between us was never vigorously pursued by either side, and had been largely maintained by the Czar in order to placate Napoléon. But by invading Russia last month, Napoléon effectively ended the need for that fiction.”

“Hence the Treaty of Örebro,” said Sebastian.

She nodded. “Likewise, the Anglo-Swedish War has essentially been a paper war for the last two years. The Swedes’ main argument is with the Russians, who seized Finland.”

“Losing the entire eastern half of your kingdom is rather difficult to swallow with equanimity,” said Sebastian.

“True. But the Swedes have now let it be known that they would be willing to allow Russia to keep Finland if they could receive some sort of compensation.”

“Meaning?”

“Norway.”

“But Norway is part of Denmark.”

“Exactly. And Denmark is an ally of France.”

“Denmark is an ally of France because we attacked Copenhagen and sank the Danish fleet,” said Sebastian dryly.

She shrugged. “Such is the price of neutrality.”

“Well, they’re certainly not neutral anymore.”

She turned to face him, so that she was leaning back against the balustrade, the wind blowing the short curls around her face. She put up a hand to push them back. “Your perspective is certainly unusual, I’ll give you that.”

Sebastian said, “Napoléon has been unhappy with Sweden because, despite being officially at war with us, the Swedes still allowed us to station our troops in the Swedish port of Hano and trade with the Baltic states. In fact, as I understand it, Sweden has remained our largest trading partner. In other words, Napoléon’s recent attack on Sweden was driven by exactly the same motive as our attack on Denmark.”

“And now Sweden is also willing to attack Denmark.”

“In exchange for Norway.”

“And certain subsidies,” she said.

“Ah. Define subsidies.”

“Gold. Transferred from the British Treasury to the Swedish Embassy here in London.”

“So that’s how it all comes together,” said Sebastian softly. He stared out over the shadowy shrubbery below. “Tell me, how are these transfers usually effected? I find myself woefully ignorant in the niceties of such details.”

“It isn’t as if you can simply appropriate the payments from the Treasury, drive a wagon up to the Swedish Embassy, and offload trunks of gold. That sort of activity would be bound to attract unwanted attention and speculation. Generally, deliveries are made in incremental amounts—”

“Say, twenty-pound bags of gold sovereigns, delivered every few days?” He was remembering the list of numbers he’d found in Ross’s copy of
Marcus Aurelius
. He thought he knew now what they meant: They were the dates of Ross’s deliveries of gold to Lindquist.

“Something like that. The gold is typically passed by someone attached to the Foreign Office—”

“Meaning Alexander Ross?”

“Evidently. The gold is delivered to an agent of the recipient government.”

“Carl Lindquist,” said Sebastian.

“Has Mr. Lindquist been discovered in possession of an inexplicably large number of gold sovereigns?”

“Mr. Lindquist is, unfortunately, dead.”

“Good heavens. When did this happen?”

“This afternoon.”

She looked thoughtful a moment. Then she said, “Did you kill him?”

“I did not. But he most certainly had a large trunk of gold in his possession.”

“How was he killed? In the same method as Ross?”

“Nothing anywhere near so tidy. Someone bashed in his head.”

She fixed him with a steady stare. “You say Alexander Ross died from a dagger thrust at the base of his skull. Yet you have not told me how you came to know that.”

One of the tall French doors from the drawing room burst open behind them, disgorging a tangle of laughing young women bedecked in white muslin, satin ribbons, and pearls, and trailed by a clutch of clucking mothers. In the distance, the church towers began to strike the hour.

Two o’clock.

Sebastian cast the chattering women a significant glance. “Now is perhaps not the time. May I call upon you tomorrow? There are a number of things we really must discuss—and I don’t mean simply about the death of Alexander Ross.”

She got that harried look on her face, the one that stole over her every time he attempted to bring the conversation around to their looming marriage. “Not tomorrow,” she said vaguely. “I already have several previous engagements.”

“Tuesday morning, then.”

He thought for a moment she meant to refuse him. Then she said, “Very well. Tuesday. At half past eleven?”

“Half past eleven,” he said, just as the first drops of rain splattered the stone flagging of the terrace.

A
fine, misty rain was falling by the time Calhoun reined in his mother’s mule on South Audley Street. Sebastian was waiting for them on the footpath. There’d been no time to return to Brook Street or to change out of his evening dress into something more appropriate for digging up graves.

“Ah, there you are, my lord,” said Calhoun, handing the reins to Tom. “I was thinking we were going to have to do this without you.”

The Church of St. George, Hanover, famous as the scene of so many fashionable Mayfair weddings, stood in a narrow triangle of land formed by the confluence of George and Conduit streets. As a result, the parish’s two burial grounds had to be located farther afield. The largest lay to the north of Hyde Park, beyond Edgeware Road. The older and more crowded was situated here, just off Mount Street and South Audley, its side entrance a narrow cobbled passage that ran beside the South Audley Chapel and what was known as the Mount Street dead house.

“Seems a dead giveaway, so to speak,” said Tom in a loud whisper, “t’ave the wagon sittin’ right outside the churchyard gate. I mean, what’s the watch t’think, if’n ’e ’appens to see me’ere? This t’aint exactly a gentleman’s carriage.”

“Good point,” said Sebastian, unloading the shovels and coils of stout rope. Between them, he and Calhoun eased the heavy sack containing Alexander Ross off the back of the wagon. Then he nodded to the tiger, who wore a simple dark coat and trousers in place of his usual, distinctive striped waistcoat and livery. “Wait for us in Grosvenor Square. We’ll catch up with you there.”