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A small but eminently respectable hotel built of neatly squared sandstone blocks, the Gifford Arms lay on the south side of St. James’s Park, not far from the intersection of James and York streets. Dating to late in the previous century, it had tidy rows of sashed windows flanking a central door that led to a short, flagged stairwell. As was typical of inns of that period, the coffee room opened off the passage to the right, with a dining parlor to the left. Closing the door against the damp cold, Sebastian breathed in the warm, welcoming scents of roasting lamb and beeswax and hearty ale. But both the entrance passage and the rooms opening off it were deserted.
“Hello,” he called.
Silence.
Stepping into the oak-paneled coffee room, he turned a slow circle, his gaze drifting over the scattering of empty tables and chairs. “Hello?”
He heard a quick step, and a droopy-jowled, lanky man in a leather apron appeared in a far doorway. “May I help you, sir?” He had straight fair hair just beginning to turn gray and protuberant, widely set eyes that gave him somewhat the look of a startled mackerel.
“I’m here about Dr. Damion Pelletan,” said Sebastian, choosing his words carefully.
The man’s face puckered. “Oh, dear. Are you a friend of Dr. Pelletan’s, sir?”
“Not exactly.”
“Ah. Well, the thing is, you see, we’ve had the constables here. They’re saying Dr. Pelletan is dead.” The man edged closer and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “Murdered. In St. Katharine’s, just last night. Footpads.”
“How long had Dr. Pelletan been staying here?”
“’Bout three weeks, I’d say. Same as the rest of ’em.”
“The rest of them?” prompted Sebastian.
“Aye. They rented the entire inn, you know. They’re the only ones staying here now.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Mmm. Frenchmen.” He said the word as if it were enough to explain any eccentricity. “Even brought in their own cook and servants, they did. I’m the only regular left.”
“Are all their servants French as well?”
“Oh, aye. The lot of ’em.”
“émigrés, I assume?”
The man tweaked the top of one ear and screwed up his face. “We-ell, they say they are.”
“But you doubt them?”
The man gave a quick look around and leaned closer still. “Seems a queer thing to do, don’t it?” he asked, his voice sinking even lower. “To take over a whole hotel like this? I mean, why not hire a house, like proper Englishmen?”
“Perhaps they don’t intend to be in London long. Or perhaps they’re looking to purchase something.”
“I ain’t seen no sign of it. If you ask me, it’s more than queer. I mean, why go to such pains to stay someplace all together? ’T’ain’t as if they like each other, that’s for certain.”
“Do they quarrel?”
“All the time! Leastways, it sure looks and sounds like they’re quarreling—not that I can understand what they’re saying, mind you, seein’ as how I don’t speak the French and all.”
“Families frequently do quarrel,” observed Sebastian.
“Aye. But this lot ain’t family—leastways, not most of ’em.”
“Oh? Who is here besides Dr. Pelletan?”
“Well, let’s see. . . . There’s Harmond Vaundreuil; he’s the one in charge—although I get the feeling that don’t sit too well with the colonel.”
“The colonel?”
“Aye. Colonel Foucher, he calls himself. Don’t know the rest of his moniker. Then there’s Vaundreuil’s clerk. Bondurant is his name. A skinny rabbit of a man, he is—spends all his time with his nose stuck in some book.”
“So only four, including Pelletan?”
“Five, if you count the girl.”
“The girl?”
“Vaundreuil’s daughter.”
“Ah. And they hired the entire hotel?”
“Like I said, they’re a queer bunch.” His mouth hung open, allowing his jowls to sag even farther. “And up to no good, I’d say—or my name’s not Mitt Peebles.”
A heavy thump sounded overhead. Sebastian said, “When did you last see Dr. Pelletan?”
Mitt looked thoughtful. “Hmm . . . I suppose that would’ve been last night, when them two come looking for him.”
“‘Them two?’”
“A man and a woman. Didn’t give their names.”
“What time was this?”
“’Bout nine, maybe.”
“What did the woman look like?”
“Couldn’t rightly say. She wore a veil, you see.”
“And the man?”
“’Fraid I didn’t pay him much mind. Stayed in the background, he did. Don’t recollect even hearing him speak.”
“They met with Pelletan in the dining room?”
“Oh, no, sir; the doctor went outside and talked to them—like he didn’t want none of the others to see them.”
“And how long after that did Pelletan leave?”
“Not long. He come back in and went up to his room for his greatcoat; then he left.”
“Walking?”