Where Shadows Dance

Chapter 37

On the count of three,” said the sexton. “One, two—”

The men heaved. The body’s limbs, held together by nothing more than Calhoun’s artistry, separated from the torso. The sexton, finding himself grasping two loose legs, landed on his backside in the mud. One of the corpse’s arms flopped back into the open grave; the other—formed of wadded cloth owing to Gibson’s inability to retrieve the original—dangled at a disjointed angle.

“What the bloody ’ell?” howled the sexton.

Sir Henry stood quite still. Around them, the rain poured. After a moment, he said quite calmly, “Collect what is left of Mr. Ross and convey the body to Paul Gibson on Tower Hill.” He turned a wooden countenance toward Sebastian. “Or should I perhaps say, convey the body back to Mr. Gibson?”

Hero devoted several hours that morning to the task of interviewing the impoverished distant relative she hoped might serve as companion to Lady Jarvis.

Once, Mrs. Emma Knight had been young, pretty, and headstrong, but those days were behind her. The spirited daughter of a country vicar, she had eloped at the age of nineteen with a dashing but penniless lieutenant. Her father immediately disowned her, and he had never relented, even when the dashing lieutenant got himself blown to pieces by a badly aimed artillery barrage in India.

A hardscrabble life and the need to constantly defer to others had left Emma a little too timid for Hero’s taste. Still, she would do until Hero was able to find someone more suitable.

After that, she spent some time with her mother, who was blissfully consumed by the heady task of deciding What to Wear for the Wedding. Then, her duties as a daughter satisfied, Hero ordered her carriage. Her conversation with Devlin had left her with a number of questions, not all of which her father had been able to resolve.

But Hero knew where to look for some of the answers.

Her first destination was Montagu House on Portman Square. Once the home of the eighteenth-century queen of the bluestockings, the house now served as the residence of the Turkish Ambassador to the Court of St. James. The Ambassador’s wife, Yasmina Ramadani, received her in an exotic kiosk in the residence’s extensive, high-walled rear gardens. By now the morning’s rain had cleared, leaving the deep blue sky clean and fresh.

“Miss Jarvis,” said Yasmina, taking Hero’s hand to draw her toward the kiosk’s array of plump cushions and exquisite silk carpets. “I’ve been hoping you would visit me again. Please, come join me.”

She was a beautiful woman, fine boned and dusky skinned and green eyed, with a heavy fall of dark hair and a wide, redlipped mouth. She had a way of moving that fascinated Hero— not just graceful but sinuous, each gesture one of fluid beauty. It occurred to Hero that she was utterly at ease in her own body in a way few Englishwomen were. Like a dancer, perhaps.

Or a courtesan.

“The clouds didn’t last long, did they?” said Hero, opening her parasol and positioning it carefully to shade her face from the sunlight.

Watching her, Yasmina leaned back against her cushions and gave a melodious laugh. “Believe me, Miss Jarvis, the English sun is not strong enough to require such vigorous measures to hold it at bay.”

Hero tugged at her skirts. There was obviously a talent to lolling gracefully on cushions, and she didn’t have it. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a tendency to freckle.”

“Ah. For that you must use ... crushed strawberries, is it not? I was reading something about it just the other day.” Her English was enviably fluent, with only a light, deliciously lilting accent. Hero had learned that in addition to Turkish and English, the woman also spoke Greek, Arabic, French, and what she called a “smattering” of Farsi.

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.”