Where Shadows Dance

Chapter 34

“Murdered?” asked Sebastian as they walked together toward the house.

“I’d say so, yes. Unless you think he somehow bashed in his own head with a cudgel.”

Sebastian suppressed a smile. The magistrate was obviously becoming seriously aggrieved by Sebastian’s inability to be entirely forthcoming about his interest in the death of Alexander Ross. “Who found him?”

“The woman who comes in daily and does for him. She’d nipped down to the shops for some onions. By the time she came back, he was dead.”

Sebastian paused on the threshold. The house was small, with just a narrow hall and two rooms—a parlor and a dining room—on the ground floor. A steep staircase led up to the bedrooms and down to the kitchen. Carl Lindquist lay sprawled in a pool of blood just inside the parlor door, the back of his head a gruesome, crimson pulp. A gore-stained cudgel lay beside him.

“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.”