by C. S. Harris
“I know what was in the papers. Why?”
“I didn’t pay much attention.”
“As I recall, the killings occurred at the time you were trying to drink yourself to death.”
He gave a soft laugh and took another sip of his wine. “Something like that. Do you remember if there were other suspects besides that fellow who hanged himself? What was his name?”
“John Williams.” She rose from the chair to go hunker down on the rug beside Simon, the hem of her gown trailing across the carpet as she reached to show him how to reattach his horse to the cart. “And there were dozens of other men detained. I always thought that was part of the problem. They were hauling in every Irish, Greek, or Portuguese sailor unlucky enough to catch their attention for some reason. And then after the second set of killings, when they settled on John Williams, they simply ignored the fact that two sets of bloody footprints had been found leading away from the house on Ratcliffe Highway.”
“So Williams could have had an accomplice.”
“He could have. Or he might not have had anything to do with the murders at all. At the time I thought the evidence against him rather unconvincing. But then he hanged himself in his cell, and the killings ceased, so I assumed they’d settled on the right man after all.”
“Sir Henry said much the same thing.”
She looked up at him. “Really? I’m surprised. I thought Sir Henry had an unwavering confidence in the English system of justice.”
“Perhaps he simply likes to project that impression.”
“I believe Pym was—” She broke off as someone knocked loudly at the front door below.
They heard the door open, then a man’s gruff voice asking for Lord Devlin, followed by the soothing responses of their majordomo, Morey. A moment later, Morey appeared in the drawing room doorway.
“A Mr. Nathan Cockerwell to see you, my lord,” said the majordomo with a bow. “Says he’s a Middlesex magistrate here to speak to you about this morning’s unpleasantness. I’ve taken the liberty of having him wait in the library.”
“I’ll be right down,” said Devlin, his gaze going to meet Hero’s.
Chapter 8
The East End magistrate was a fat-faced, rotund little man somewhere in his late fifties or sixties, with a bulbous red nose, a full-lipped mouth, and an old-fashioned powdered wig. The style of his clothing dated to the same period as the wig, his frock coat long and square-tailed, his breeches buckled beneath the knees over sagging clocked stockings.
“So you’re Devlin, are you?” he said gruffly when Sebastian walked into the library.
“I am, yes. How do you do, Mr.—?”
“Cockerwell. Nathan Cockerwell, JP for Middlesex.” He gave a short, jerky bow. “I hear Bow Street has asked for your help with the investigation into this morning’s killing.”
“That’s right.”
Cockerwell pursed his lips. “Damned impudent of Sir Henry, if you ask me.”
Sebastian walked to a nearby tray that held glasses and a carafe of brandy. “May I offer you a drink?”
Cockerwell hesitated, then swiped a hand across his mouth. “Don’t mind if I do. Bit nippy out there today.”
Sebastian poured the man a glass. “Did you know Sir Edwin well?”
“Known the man more’n fifty years; we grew up together. Pym was a Middlesex justice of the peace himself before being appointed to the Shadwell office, and of course we’ve both been churchwardens at St. George’s forever.”
Sebastian nodded. The municipal system of Greater London was hopelessly antiquated, fragmented, and confused. Outside of the area within the narrow confines of the old City of London, most of the sprawling metropolis’s government was still in the hands of the vestries of each individual Middlesex parish.
Known as “vestries” because they’d grown out of the ecclesiastical system and because their members had originally met in the vestry of their parish church, the vestries were composed of all men in a parish who paid a certain monthly tax. It was the vestries that appointed the various parish officials such as the parish constables and night watchmen. But it was the Middlesex County magistrates or justices of the peace who did things like license pubs and who had the power of summary judgment.
In an attempt to create some kind of unity and cohesion across the metropolis, Parliament had passed the Middlesex Justices Act of 1792, establishing seven new public offices modeled on the original Bow Street office. Each public office had three stipendiary magistrates directly appointed by the Home Secretary, plus eight professional constables who were coming more and more to be known as “police.” But both the vestries and the Middlesex justices still retained most of their old powers, and none of it was coordinated in any way.
Sebastian held out the glass. “Was Pym at Shadwell at the time of the Ratcliffe Highway murders?”
The East End magistrate took the brandy and drank deeply before answering. “Oh, aye. Played an important role in helping nab that scoundrel Williams. As did I, if I do say so myself.”
“You still think John Williams was the Ratcliffe Highway murderer?” asked Sebastian, pouring himself a glass.
“Of course he was. Never any doubt in my mind.” The magistrate took another slurping swallow. “Just like I know who murdered Sir Edwin last night.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“Seamus Faddy, that’s who!”
Sebastian replaced the stopper in the carafe and turned to face his guest. “And what makes you suspect this Mr. Faddy?”
“Had a set-to with Sir Edwin just this past week, he did. On Monday.”
“About what?”
“About a gentleman’s purse what went missing in the High Street.”
“And that’s enough to convince you of the man’s guilt?”
“If you know Faddy, it is. The lad was born to hang.”
“Have you picked him up for questioning?”
“As soon as we find him, we will. He knows we’re after him, the little bugger.” Cockerwell drained his glass and smacked his lips. “So you see, Sir Henry had no need to go involving you in any of this. We can take care of our own affairs, thank you very much.”
“I’ve no doubt that you can,” said Sebastian, smiling. “More brandy?”
“Perhaps a tad, thank you.”
Sebastian refilled the man’s glass. “Do you know of anyone else who might have had reason to kill Pym?”
Cockerwell threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, aye, there’s a slew of ’em, all right. Although most of ’em are in Botany Bay—or St. George’s poor hole.” He winked. “If you know what I mean.”
“Even dead men have relatives.”
Cockerwell’s grin faded and he punched the air between them with one meaty finger. “I’m tellin’ you, it’s Seamus Faddy done for Pym. You mark my words. We’ll get him soon enough.”
Sebastian took a slow sip of his own brandy. “Did this Mr. Faddy have a quarrel with Hugo Reeves?”
“Who?”
“Hugo Reeves. The seaman who was found ten days ago with his head bashed in and his throat slit.”
“Oh, him. I wouldn’t know. I take it you’re thinking the two murders are connected?”
“You don’t?”
“Nah. Seamen are always indulging in fisticuffs, my lord. That brawl obviously got more’n a bit out of hand, that’s all. You don’t want to be listenin’ to a bunch of silly, scared fishwives and barmaids who’ve nothin’ better to do than stand around on street corners, telling tall tales and frightenin’ each other out of what few wits they have by trying to connect things that have nothing to do with each other.”
“You’re not worried?”
“Me? Why would I be?”
“Because you and Sir Edwin both investigated the Ratcliffe Highway murders and put John Williams in gaol.”
>
Cockerwell’s heavy jaw sagged. “What are you suggesting, my lord? That a dead man’s ghost might be after us?” He laughed again. “Buried him at the crossroads with a stake through his heart, we did. That ghost ain’t walkin’, let alone killing nobody.”
It was the traditional retribution meted out to those found guilty of having committed the grave sin of self-murder. Ineligible for burial in hallowed ground, the bodies of suicides were dumped into small, narrow graves dug at a crossroads, with a stake driven through the heart to keep the dead’s wicked soul from wandering. It had always struck Sebastian as a treatment more calculated to produce the unquiet dead than anything else. But then, he didn’t believe in ghosts—at least, not that sort.
“What about the other suspects in the Ratcliffe Highway killings?”
“Weren’t none to speak of,” said Cockerwell.
“Really? I thought dozens were hauled in for questioning.”
“Well, at first, maybe. But Williams did it, my lord. Never any doubt of that.” He said it proudly, as if such certainty were proof of his brilliance and competence rather than a sign of dangerous closed-mindedness.
“What about the two sets of bloody footprints that were found leading away from the Marrs’ house?”
Cockerwell waved one thick hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “Nah, it was Williams, all right. The murder weapon was his.”
“The maul? It was?”
“Well, it belonged to one of his mates.”
“Oh? And who was that?”
“Some fellow was out to sea at the time.”
“Without his maul?”
“Well, obviously.” The beefy magistrate drained his glass and set it aside. “You don’t wanna go making something complicated out of this, my lord. Wapping ain’t Mayfair. We’ve got us some bad elements, but we know who they are, and we can take care of ’em ourselves. Ain’t nothin’ for a fine lord such as yourself to be botherin’ with.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
Cockerwell winked again. “Glad we got that straight.”
* * *
Sebastian was at the window of his library watching the East End magistrate stride away with his head down, a faint smile curling his fleshy lips, when Hero came to stand beside him.
“How much did you hear?” asked Sebastian, setting his brandy aside largely untouched.
“Enough to know that if I were Mr. Seamus Faddy, I’d be worried.”
“I wonder if Calhoun knows where the lad might have gone to ground.”
Hero laughed. “If he’s a thief, Calhoun knows him.”
Chapter 9
In a profession filled with fussy, painfully correct gentlemen’s gentlemen, Jules Calhoun was an outlier.
His unflappable disposition and unsurpassed skills with brush, needle, and iron made him invaluable to a nobleman whose pursuit of murderers could at times wreak havoc on his wardrobe. But it was Calhoun’s unusual background and connections that marked him as unique, for he’d grown up in a series of notorious flash houses in the worst back alleys and stews of London.
“Seamus Faddy?” said Calhoun when Sebastian found the valet blacking a pair of boots. He was a slim, lithe man in his thirties with straight flaxen hair, a high forehead, and the kind of even features and cheerful disposition that made him a favorite with the housemaids. “Aye, I know him, my lord. What’s he done now?”
“Butchered Sir Edwin Pym, according to one of Pym’s fellow magistrates.”
Calhoun studied the toe of the half-polished boot in his hands, as if considering this. “Seamus? I doubt it, my lord. Although there’s no denying he has a temper, and Pym was one ugly customer, so I suppose it’s possible.”
“Faddy’s a pickpocket?”
“Not anymore, my lord. He started out that way as a wee tyke, but I’ve heard he’s moved on to higher pursuits these days.”
“Meaning he’s now a second-story dancer?”
“Something like that,” said the valet with a laugh, reaching for a clean cloth. “He’s a likable lad, but volatile. Definitely volatile.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Well, if I remember correctly, his mother died young, and then his da was stabbed to death when the lad was maybe eight or nine.”
“So he grew up on the streets?”
“For a time. Then m’mother gave him a room with some other lads she took in.”
“And he repaid her handsomely, I presume.”
A gleam of amusement shone in the valet’s soft blue eyes. “M’mother’s got a tender heart, for all she tries not to show it. But she’s a shrewd businesswoman when all’s said and done.”
It wasn’t uncommon for proprietors of the lowest sort of lodging houses and taverns to take in street children and act as fences for whatever they stole. The moralists called them “nurseries of crime” for a good reason—although those same moralists seemed oddly disinclined to do anything themselves to prevent the city’s many orphaned children from starving to death in the streets.
“So how old is he now?” asked Sebastian.
“Seventeen, maybe eighteen.”
“What’s his quarrel with Pym?”
“That I don’t know, my lord.”
“I’d like to talk to him, if you can find him.”
“He’s been out on his own for a few years, but I think m’mother keeps in touch with him.”
“You can tell her I’ve no intention of handing him over to the magistrates, if she’s worried about that.”
“I reckon she’s taken your lordship’s measure by now.”
Sebastian watched Calhoun pick up the second boot. “If Seamus grew up in one of your mother’s flash houses around Smithfield, what’s he doing down in Wapping?”
“I think he was originally from the Tower Hamlets and has drifted back that way lately.”
“Richer pickings.”
“True enough,” said Calhoun. Most of the inhabitants of Wapping and Shadwell were wretchedly poor, but the cargoes aboard the ships in the Pool and stored in the area’s vast warehouses were a frequent target for thieves.
“Given that he’s moved on to more sophisticated forms of thieving, seems odd for Pym to have accused the lad of reverting to picking pockets.”
“’Tis a bit, no doubt.”
“Perhaps your mother would be willing to offer a theory about that.”
Calhoun laughed again. “I can ask, my lord.”
* * *
The rain was still coming down hard when Sebastian left in his town carriage for Paul Gibson’s surgery in Tower Hill.
Once, Gibson had been a surgeon with His Majesty’s Twenty-fifth Light Dragoons. Then a French cannonball tore off the Irishman’s left leg below the knee, leaving him racked with the kind of pain that can lead a man to seek relief in the sweet, deadly embrace of poppies. In the end he’d left the army and come here, to London, to teach anatomy at the hospitals of St. Thomas’s and St. Bartholomew’s and to open a small surgery in a timeworn Tudor-era house practically within the shadows of the Tower of London. This was one of the oldest surviving sections of the city, a warren of ancient stone houses, cobbled lanes, and narrow courts that had clustered around the medieval castle since the days of the Normans.
Avoiding the house itself, Sebastian took the narrow side passage to where a rickety gate set into a high wall gave access to the rear yard. At the base of the yard lay the old stone outbuilding where Gibson performed his official autopsies—a single-roomed structure that also served as the site of the surreptitious dissections Gibson regularly practiced on cadavers filched from area churchyards by crews of motley grave robbers, euphemistically known as “resurrection men.” Gibson was one of their best customers.
Until recently, the yard stretching from the house to the low outbuilding had been a neglected jumble of w
eeds and rubble and dark secrets. But it was slowly being transformed into a garden, thanks to the mysterious Frenchwoman who shared Gibson’s house—but not his name.
The door to the high-windowed building stood open to the rain, and Sebastian could hear Gibson warbling a favorite old Irish rebel song as he worked:
We bravely fought and conquered
At Ross and Wexford town;
And if we failed to keep them,
’Twas drink that brought us—
He broke off as Sebastian came to stand in the doorway, the rain running off his high crowned hat and dripping from the shoulder capes of his greatcoat.
“Ah, there you are, me lad,” said Gibson, exaggerating his brogue as he set aside some nasty-looking instrument with a clatter. The rain drummed on the roof, splashed in the puddles in the garden outside. “Wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you in this weather.”
The day was so gloomy that Gibson had lit the lantern that hung suspended from a chain over the stone slab in the center of the room. Sebastian took a swift, cursory look at the naked, bloody cadaver bathed in the lantern’s golden light, then glanced away. “Can you tell us anything yet?”
Gibson reached for a rag to wipe his gore-covered hands. “Not a lot, I’m afraid.” The surgeon was of medium height and leaner than he should be thanks to his increasing opium addiction. At thirty-four, he was only a couple of years older than Sebastian, but his once-black hair was already heavily laced with silver, his gray-green eyes sunken, the lines on his face dug deep by years of pain. The two men had been friends for nearly ten years, since the days when both wore the King’s colors and fought the King’s wars from Italy and Portugal to the New World. When the surgeons cut off the mangled remnants of Gibson’s lower leg in a blood-soaked tent somewhere in Portugal, Sebastian had been there, helping to hold his friend down as he screamed and screamed.
“Can you at least tell me what he was hit with?” said Sebastian.