churchyard that bordered it. Far beyond, to a distant, sun-blasted land, dry and stony and ravaged by war. In Sebastian’s experience, most ex-soldiers carried their past with them always, like a dark vision of hell that, once glimpsed, is never forgotten.
“To men like you and me,” said Knox, his voice rough, “war means burned villages, dead women and children, and fields plowed by cannonballs. It means fruit rotting in orchards because there’s no one left alive to pick it, and wells fouled by the stinking bodies of pigs and goats and dogs. It means men with their bellies ripped open and their faces shot off. But that’s because we’re just the poor sods who fight and bleed and die. For some men, war is an opportunity.”
“You’re saying Eisler was one of those men?”
A faintly derisive smile curled the tavern owner’s lips. “There were very few opportunities Daniel Eisler missed.”
“I’m told he kept agents on the Continent to buy the jewels of families that found themselves in strained circumstances.”
“So I’ve heard, although I never dealt with them myself. But Eisler also had another man in his employ, a defrocked Spanish priest by the name of Ferdinand Arroyo. Arroyo’s mission was to acquire a certain type of manuscript of interest to Eisler—mainly in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, but sometimes in Old French, Italian, or German.”
Sebastian stared down at an age-mottled page half-filled by a curious representation of a winged angel holding what looked like Saturn and breathing fire. “This being an example?”
“Yes.”
“So how does it come to be in your possession?”
“It was brought to London by gentlemen with whom I do business. I was to deliver it to Eisler today.”
“Why show it to me?”
Knox hesitated. “Let’s just say I consider Russell Yates something of a friend.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s hard, sun-darkened face. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Knox had a damned good reason for showing him the manuscript, although he suspected friendship wasn’t part of it. But all he said was, “Who do you think killed Eisler?”
Knox leaned back in his seat and crossed his outthrust boots at the ankles. “I’d say there’s probably somewhere between five hundred and a thousand men—and women—in this town who wanted to see that bastard dead. With odds like that, it’s inevitable that he was eventually going to run up against someone willing to do more than just wish. But if you’re asking me for names . . . I haven’t any.”
“Except for Señor Ferdinand Arroyo?”
Knox brought his tankard to his lips and drank. “Last I heard, Arroyo was in Caen.”
Sebastian closed the aged manuscript’s fragile cover and rose to his feet. “Thank you.”
“Take it,” said Knox, leaning forward to push the manuscript across the table toward him. “I’ve no use for it. It’s not like I read Hebrew.”
“You could sell it.”
“The old-book business never appealed to me. Take it. If you can find someone to read it for you, you might find it . . . useful.”
Sebastian wondered what a three-hundred-year-old manuscript could tell him about last night’s murder of a diamond merchant. But he wrapped the aged volume in its oilcloth covering again and tucked it beneath his arm. “I’ll see it’s returned to you.”
Knox shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Sebastian had almost reached the door when Knox stopped him. “You said Eisler’s butler remembered me.”
Sebastian paused to look back at him. “That’s right.”
“I never gave him my name.”
“He didn’t know your name. But he remembered what you looked like.”
Knox widened his eyes. “His powers of description must be something to be wondered at.”
“He said you looked enough like me to be my brother.”
“Ah.”
The two men’s gazes met and held. Neither spoke, for there was no need. One might be the son of the beautiful, faithless Countess of Hendon, while the other
“To men like you and me,” said Knox, his voice rough, “war means burned villages, dead women and children, and fields plowed by cannonballs. It means fruit rotting in orchards because there’s no one left alive to pick it, and wells fouled by the stinking bodies of pigs and goats and dogs. It means men with their bellies ripped open and their faces shot off. But that’s because we’re just the poor sods who fight and bleed and die. For some men, war is an opportunity.”
“You’re saying Eisler was one of those men?”
A faintly derisive smile curled the tavern owner’s lips. “There were very few opportunities Daniel Eisler missed.”
“I’m told he kept agents on the Continent to buy the jewels of families that found themselves in strained circumstances.”
“So I’ve heard, although I never dealt with them myself. But Eisler also had another man in his employ, a defrocked Spanish priest by the name of Ferdinand Arroyo. Arroyo’s mission was to acquire a certain type of manuscript of interest to Eisler—mainly in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, but sometimes in Old French, Italian, or German.”
Sebastian stared down at an age-mottled page half-filled by a curious representation of a winged angel holding what looked like Saturn and breathing fire. “This being an example?”
“Yes.”
“So how does it come to be in your possession?”
“It was brought to London by gentlemen with whom I do business. I was to deliver it to Eisler today.”
“Why show it to me?”
Knox hesitated. “Let’s just say I consider Russell Yates something of a friend.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s hard, sun-darkened face. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Knox had a damned good reason for showing him the manuscript, although he suspected friendship wasn’t part of it. But all he said was, “Who do you think killed Eisler?”
Knox leaned back in his seat and crossed his outthrust boots at the ankles. “I’d say there’s probably somewhere between five hundred and a thousand men—and women—in this town who wanted to see that bastard dead. With odds like that, it’s inevitable that he was eventually going to run up against someone willing to do more than just wish. But if you’re asking me for names . . . I haven’t any.”
“Except for Señor Ferdinand Arroyo?”
Knox brought his tankard to his lips and drank. “Last I heard, Arroyo was in Caen.”
Sebastian closed the aged manuscript’s fragile cover and rose to his feet. “Thank you.”
“Take it,” said Knox, leaning forward to push the manuscript across the table toward him. “I’ve no use for it. It’s not like I read Hebrew.”
“You could sell it.”
“The old-book business never appealed to me. Take it. If you can find someone to read it for you, you might find it . . . useful.”
Sebastian wondered what a three-hundred-year-old manuscript could tell him about last night’s murder of a diamond merchant. But he wrapped the aged volume in its oilcloth covering again and tucked it beneath his arm. “I’ll see it’s returned to you.”
Knox shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Sebastian had almost reached the door when Knox stopped him. “You said Eisler’s butler remembered me.”
Sebastian paused to look back at him. “That’s right.”
“I never gave him my name.”
“He didn’t know your name. But he remembered what you looked like.”
Knox widened his eyes. “His powers of description must be something to be wondered at.”
“He said you looked enough like me to be my brother.”
“Ah.”
The two men’s gazes met and held. Neither spoke, for there was no need. One might be the son of the beautiful, faithless Countess of Hendon, while the other
Similar Books
