What Darkness Brings by C. S. Harris

massive old-fashioned fireplace topped by a magnificent chimneypiece carved with mythical beasts and garlands laden with fruit and flowers.
    “An interesting piece,” said Sebastian, pausing before it.
    “Mmm. They say this house dates back to the time of the Tudors, although for all I know that could just be so much talk.”
    Sebastian let his gaze drop to the worn black horsehair sofa pulled up at an angle beside the cold hearth. He could just see the toes of a pair of blue satin slippers peeking out from beneath the bottom cushions.
    “Know who those might belong to?” he asked, nodding toward them.
    The aged retainer’s jaw sagged. “Good heavens. No.” Bracing his weight on one of the sofa’s rolled arms, he bent to come up with a cheap pair of women’s shoes decorated with gaudy paste buckles and somewhat the worse for wear.
    “I take it at least some of Mr. Eisler’s visitors were ladies?” said Sebastian, reaching for one of the shoes. Its owner must have been a tiny thing; the slipper was practically small enough to fit a child.
    Campbell cleared his throat and looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Some ladies, some . . . not ladies, if you get my drift, my lord?”
    Sebastian studied the shoe with a growing sense of puzzlement. He could understand a woman inadvertently leaving behind a hair ribbon or a bangle. But her shoes? How could a woman forget her shoes?
    “Were any of Mr. Eisler’s female visitors noticeably—,” he began, only to be interrupted by a thunderous banging on the front door.
    “Excuse me, my lord.” Campbell gave a painful bow and moved away to open the front door.
    Sebastian let his gaze drift once more around the room. There was another door, he now realized, half-hidden by a curtain and just to the left of the fireplace wall, that looked as if it might lead back to the passage. He was moving to investigate when a man’s gruff, booming voice filled the entry.
    “Where is he? I heard he was seen coming here. By God, if he thinks he’s—”
    A burly, middle-aged figure appeared in the doorway. He was big and sweaty and bursting with self-importance, his hair prematurely silver but still thick, his full face pink and unlined, his ponderous girth a testament to a life of ease. “Ah! So it’s true.” He brought up a thick hand to point an accusatory finger at Sebastian. “I knew it. I
knew
it! You’re Devlin, aren’t you? I’d heard you were at Newgate, visiting that bloody scoundrel. Well, let me tell you right now, we don’t need your interference around here. This is Aldgate, not Bow Street; do you hear? Sir Henry Lovejoy might welcome your meddling, but Bow Street has no interest in this case—none at all! So I’ll thank you not to be interfering in what’s none of your business. Do I make myself clear?”
    Sebastian calmly raised one eyebrow. “Have we met?”
    The man’s lips tightened into a hard, straight line. His eyes were a pale hazel, his cheeks full and crisscrossed with tiny red veins, his neck wreathed with rolls of fat. “I am Leigh-Jones. Bertram Leigh-Jones, chief magistrate at Lambeth Street Public Office. And you, sir, are not welcome here. You’re not welcome here at all. We already caught the scum who did this; you saw him yourself at Newgate.”
    “He says he didn’t do it.”
    Leigh-Jones let out a rude laugh. “Of course he says he didn’t do it. They all say they didn’t do it. There’s not a guilty man in Newgate, to listen to ’em.” The laugh turned into a sneer. “Your man Yates is no different. Found standing over the body, he was. Oh, he’ll hang, all right. No doubt about it.”
    With deliberate, provocative slowness, Sebastian let his gaze slide over the man before him, from his mottled, sweat-streaked face to his clumsily tied cravat and the egg stain on the garish waistcoat that pulled too snuggly across his protuberant belly. He watched the magistrate’s complexion darken and his jaw harden until the man was