Where Shadows Dance (25 page)

Hero said, “I don’t think even a gallon of strawberries would help my freckles after a day in the sun.”

Laughing again softly, Yasmina reached out to idly run her fingers over the strings of an
ude
, a wooden instrument similar to a guitar that lay on a nearby cushion. “You are to be married soon, is this not so?”

The question took Hero by surprise.

Yasmina’s smile widened. “I saw the announcement in this morning’s papers.”

“Oh, yes; I’d quite forgotten the notice was to appear this morning.”

Casting Hero an enigmatic sideways glance, Yasmina picked up the
ude
and began to play it softly. “I have met your Lord Devlin. He is a wild one, yet clever, too. I understand he likes solving puzzles.”

“He enjoys mysteries,” said Hero, wondering when and how the Viscount had managed to meet the reclusive Turkish woman. “Murder mysteries.”

Yasmina’s fingers moved across the strings of the
ude
, the strange melody floating over the English garden, the soft smile on her lips never faltering. “He is involved in a murder investigation now, yes?”

Hero kept her gaze on the other woman’s delicate features. “He is. A gentleman who used to work with the Foreign Office named Alexander Ross. Did you know him?”

“Ross?” She shook her dusky hair. “No. But then, I meet few men. Our culture is not like yours. The sexes do not mix freely outside the family.”

To Hero’s knowledge, Yasmina was the first wife of a Turkish ambassador to ever accompany her husband to London. She had never appeared in society in the way of other ambassadors’ wives. But Hero had heard she did sometimes serve as hostess at the small, intimate dinners given by her husband. Hero said, “You have met some Englishmen, have you not?”

Yasmina threw her a sideways glance. “Some, yes.”

“What about the Swede, Carl Lindquist? Are you familiar with him?”

“I don’t believe so, no. He is with the Swedish Embassy?”

“Not officially. But he was affiliated with them in some way. Now he’s dead.”

“Murdered as well?”

“Yes.”

Yasmina tsked softly. “It is a dangerous place, London. I’d no notion.”

“More dangerous than Constantinople?”

Yasmina’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Perhaps not.” For a moment she seemed to give all her attention to her instrument. Then she said, “I hear that Englishwomen often fear their wedding nights; that they know not what to expect. Is this true?”

Hero felt herself grow hot with embarrassment. The last thing she wanted was to find herself discussing her looming wedding night with this exotic, sensual woman. Devlin had assured her that he was prepared for their marriage to be one of name only. The problem was, she herself wasn’t exactly certain that was what she wanted. She had discovered it was possible to be both leery of a man and physically attracted to him at the same time.

“It is true of some, I suppose,” Hero said slowly.

The Turkish woman’s intelligent green eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Hero wondered what she saw—and understood. “But not you,” said Yasmina. “That is good.”

The conversation shifted then to other topics, to the latest sleeves and the Eastern use of henna and the new China roses Yasmina was having planted in the residence’s gardens. It wasn’t until later, when Hero was leaving, that Yasmina said casually, “You didn’t tell me: Is Lord Devlin close, you think, to finding this killer he is looking for?”

“I think so, yes,” Hero lied.

“That is a relief.”

It was said with an intense, heartfelt sincerity that would have fooled most. But Hero was Jarvis’s daughter. He had taught her from an early age how to know when someone was telling the truth and when they weren’t.

And there was no doubt in her mind that Yasmina Ramadani was lying.

 

 

“That certainly answers the question of how you knew Ross had been murdered,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, his hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee.

Sebastian started to say something, but the magistrate held up one hand. “It might be better if I remain in official ignorance of the facts.”

“I thought so.”

They sat in a snug little coffeehouse on Mount Street. A fire crackled on the hearth, filling the room with a 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 émigré, 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.”

A
fter leaving the Turkish Ambassador’s residence, Hero made a brief stop in Bond Street to pick out a pair of pale blue satin slippers for the wedding. Then she directed her coachman to Great Russell Street.

“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,
Sir Henry Lovejoy
across the front. “Have the landlord send one of his lads with this to Bow Street.”

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
Plutarch’s Lives
back onto a shelf.

“At least,” agreed Devlin, moving on to the next case.

Pushing the hair off her forehead with the back of one gloved hand, Hero went to crouch again beside the dead Frenchman. “Fascinating,” she said, studying the purple spots on his face, the deep scratches on his neck—left, she now realized, by his own fingernails as he clawed frantically at the constricting ligature. “I’ve never seen someone who was strangled.”

Devlin glanced over at her. “Have you no sensibility, Miss Jarvis?”

She looked up. “None at all, I’m afraid. Why? Does that disturb you?”

“Actually, it relieves me.”

She bent to have a closer look at the wire wrapped around de La Rocque’s neck.

“What is it?” asked Devlin, watching her.

“This wire. It’s not ordinary wire. It’s silver wrapped around silk.”

“What the hell?” He left the shelves to come hunker down beside her.

She looked up at him. “I believe it’s a harp wire.”

“A
harp
wire?”

“Mmm. Which suggests your murderer may be the husband of a woman who plays the harp—or the woman herself.”

Devlin looked doubtful. “
Could
a woman strangle a man?”

“If she were tall enough and strong enough, I don’t see why not.” Hero nodded to the bloated-faced corpse beside them. “De La Rocque was not an excessively large man.”

“True.”

She said, “Harp players typically develop calluses on their fingertips. Did you happen to notice the hands of any of the females implicated in your investigation?”

“Actually, there aren’t that many women involved in this.”

“But there are some.”

“There’s your cousin, Miss Sabrina Cox. Does she play the harp?”

“Sabrina? You can’t be serious. She’s a tiny woman. And full of sensibility.”

“Her brother is not.” He regarded her steadily. When she remained silent, he said, “Well? Does Miss Cox play the harp?”

Hero stared back at him. It had been only days since she visited her young cousin and held Sabrina’s hands in hers. Yet to her chagrin, she could not recall noticing either if the girl’s fingertips were calloused or even if there had been a harp in the room. She said, “To be honest, I don’t know; but I can find out. What about some of the other females involved?”

“I’ve met the Turkish Ambassador’s wife, but I confess I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to her fingertips.”