What the Devil Knows

by C. S. Harris

* * *

  That evening Sebastian attended the funeral of Sir Edwin Pym.

  It wasn’t the “done thing” amongst the aristocracy for ladies to attend funeral services, but that restriction obviously did not hold in the East End. The nave of St. George’s-in-the-East was crowded with an impressive showing of Middlesex magistrates, prosperous area merchants, and other dignitaries, many with their wives. Standing at the back of the church, breathing in incense and cold stone and a bouquet of clashing perfumes and pungent body odors, Sebastian let his gaze drift over the assembled mourners. And he found himself thinking, Any one of them. Any one of them could be the killer. Men who live lives of greed and corruption make many, many enemies, and Sebastian knew he had only begun to scratch the surface in identifying them.

  He shifted his attention to the figure before the altar. Attired for the occasion in his best vestments, the Reverend Marcus York wore a sorrowful expression that gave no indication of the fact that he was officiating at the funeral of a man he had detested. A good priest had to also be a good actor, and Sebastian told himself he would be wise to remember that.

  * * *

  It had not been his intention to approach Katie Ingram at her father’s funeral. But after the brief graveside service, as the mourners were streaming back across the churchyard toward their carriages, and the last of the light was fading from the cloudy sky, she walked up to him. She wore a black wool spencer over a black bombazine mourning gown, with black gloves and a veiled black hat, and she looked so small, fragile, and vulnerable that it touched his heart.

  “Thank you for coming, my lord,” she said. “You needn’t have done so.”

  He found himself hesitating. What do you say to a woman at the funeral of a father she hasn’t spoken to in ten years? He finally settled on, “An impressive gathering.”

  She let her gaze drift over the departing mourners. “Yes. Father would have been pleased. Although I can’t help but wonder how many of them are delighted to be here.” A stricken look came over her face. “That was a horrible thing for me to say, wasn’t it?”

  He found himself smiling. “Understandable, under the circumstances.”

  She gave him a wry, trembling smile in return. “I overheard more than one wife observing to her husband that the funeral was shockingly plain and rushed. I know I should care, but I don’t. I just wanted to get it over with.”

  The funeral had been rushed. Pym’s inquest had been held only that morning, with the predictable verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. A “proper” funeral typically took at least a week to organize and involved a far more lavish display of crepe and black plumes and various other expensive trappings.

  “If Steven had been here,” she was saying, “he would have been horrified. But he’s not here, so . . .”

  Her voice trailed away, a bleak expression stealing over her drawn features, and Sebastian said, “How have you been? Honestly?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “Honestly? I won’t deny I’m frightened. And that I’m not sleeping well, even with the two guards you’ve so generously provided.”

  “They tell me they haven’t seen anyone watching the house.”

  “No, nor have I.” She glanced down, and he saw that her hands were clenched together tightly against the midriff of her mourning gown. “You haven’t . . . You aren’t any closer to finding out who’s doing this?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  She pressed her lips into a tight line and nodded. “I’d like to think it’s over.”

  “Perhaps it is,” he said. But he knew from the haunted look in her eyes that she didn’t believe it any more than he did.

  Chapter 25

  Wednesday, 12 October

  The Regent has received a promising report from the men he has following Princess Caroline,” said Jarvis, smiling faintly as he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his tea. “Promising, and deliciously compromising.”

  He was seated at his breakfast table in the company of Mrs. Victoria Hart-Davis, the pretty young widowed cousin of his late wife. She’d been living in his Berkeley Square town house since the death of Lady Jarvis over a year before. Some tongues had wagged, of course, although the arrangement was perfectly respectable, given that the Dowager Lady Jarvis also resided in the house. True, his aged mother seldom left her room these days. But Jarvis had never been the kind of man to allow such considerations to get in the way of what he wanted.

  “Oh? And what is our dear Princess of Wales doing now?” asked Victoria, also smiling. She had the kind of heartbreakingly lovely face that made men think of rose petals and kittens and everything soft and gentle.

  Jarvis knew better.

  “Seems our dear Princess Caroline has taken up with a handsome but decidedly lowborn Italian fellow a dozen years or so her junior. Shocking, is it not? Whoever would have imagined she might do such a thing if she were allowed to leave England?”

  Victoria laughed out loud. “Who, indeed? Perhaps the Prince will finally be able to get his divorce after all.”

  “If not now, then soon. She’s been gone just over two months and she’s already scandalized half of Europe.” He paused at the sound of the front door opening and a familiar voice speaking to Grisham, his butler. A moment later Hero entered the room.

  “Papa,” she said, jerking off her fine emerald kid gloves as she came to kiss his cheek. She’d finally put off the mourning she’d worn for her mother for so long and was dressed in a frogged spencer of emerald velvet over a cream walking dress embroidered around the hem with a garland of leaves. An emerald cocked hat with a jaunty cream ostrich plume sat at an angle on her head. “And Cousin Victoria,” she added, going to kiss her cheek, as well.

  “Darling,” said Victoria, reaching out to take Hero’s hand and hold it fondly for a moment. “Do sit down, won’t you? Have you breakfasted? I can ring for a—”

  “Thank you, but no. I don’t mean to trouble you, and I shan’t interrupt you for long.” She gently disengaged her hand and turned to fix Jarvis with a steady gaze. “I had a question I wanted to ask Papa.”

  “Oh? Shall I leave?” said Victoria.

  “Only if you wish,” said Jarvis, his gaze holding Hero’s. “Do I take it this involves Devlin’s latest start in—what is it? Wapping of all places?”

  “It does, actually.”

  “I figured as much. And?”

  “Did you order John Williams killed in his prison cell?”

  “Who?”

  “John Williams. The man held responsible for the Ratcliffe Highway murders three years ago. He was found hanging in his cell. Did you have him killed?”

  “I did not.” He let his gaze rove assessingly over his tall, dark-haired daughter. Her looks had improved since marriage, but it was still a pity she took after him rather than her mother and pretty little cousin. “Do you doubt me?”

  She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “No. I can’t think of any reason for you to lie.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly, setting his teacup aside. “There’s no denying the man’s death was fortuitous. And the murders did cease abruptly, so perhaps the bungling magistrates of the East End did somehow manage by sheer chance to nab the right man. But did someone kill him? I neither know nor care.”

  “What about the Home Secretary at the time? Could he have ordered it?”

  Jarvis huffed a low laugh. “Do you seriously think he’d have dared make such a move without my approval?”

  “No,” she said, considering this. “I suppose not.”

  “Are you certain you won’t sit and have a cup of tea?” said Victoria. “I could ring for a fresh pot.”

  Hero glanced at her cousin. “No, thank you. And my apologies again for interrupting your breakfast.”

  “When are you going to tell her?” asked Victoria after Hero had gone.

/>   “Soon,” said Jarvis, and reached out to take her hand.

  Chapter 26

  Ian Ryker was in the yard of the Black Devil, supervising the unloading of casks from a high-sided brewer’s wagon, when Sebastian came to stand in the archway. The morning sky was becoming increasingly overcast, the temperature falling, the centuries-old cobbled space filled with the shouts of men and the clatter of horses’ hooves and the smell of aged oak and ale.

  The tavern had been built on ancient foundations, with narrow Roman brickwork at the base of the old wall separating its yard from the burial ground of the medieval church to its rear. According to Jamie Knox, there was a Roman mosaic in the Black Devil’s cellar, although Sebastian himself had never seen it. And he found it unsettling to be thinking about Knox now, while watching Ryker treat the tavern as his own.

  Ryker was obviously aware of Sebastian’s silent presence, and after a moment he left the men toiling up and down the cellar steps to come plant himself several feet in front of Sebastian. “I take it yer here fer a reason?”

  Sebastian kept his gaze on the publican’s sharp, bladed face. “You didn’t tell me you had a quarrel with Pym as well as Cockerwell.”

  Sebastian watched as the publican considered denying it, then pressed his lips into a tight, angry line and said, “What of it, then?”

  “Care to tell me what the disagreement was about?”

  “What d’ye think? Pym and Cockerwell and the rest of that lot on the licensing committee cheated the publicans of the Tower Hamlets fer years. Pym might’ve moved on to the Shadwell Public Office, but he still had his finger in every crooked game around.”

  “You know anything about the government forcing publicans to spy on radicals and reformers in the Tower Hamlets?”

  Ryker’s face twisted into a sneer. “They say yer married to the daughter o’ Lord Jarvis himself. Maybe ye ought t’ be askin’ his lordship ’bout that. I reckon he could tell ye more’n a simple Bishopsgate tavern keeper.”

  “In other words, you do know about it.”

  Ryker huffed a harsh laugh. “Think there’s a publican in the East End who don’t?”

  “How did your father die?”

  Ryker sucked in a quick breath at the sudden shift in topic. “What the bloody hell business is it of yers?”

  “Is that why you were threatening Pym? Because of your father?”

  “Don’t know who ye been talkin’ to, but I wasn’t threatenin’ him. He was threatenin’ me.”

  “Why?”

  “He was always threatenin’ people—anybody and everybody. He even threatened the vicar of St. George’s himself. Who goes after a bloody vicar?”

  “Pym threatened Reverend York?”

  “Aye.”

  “When was this?”

  “Musta been last summer sometime.”

  “Over what?”

  “Why don’t ye ask the reverend? I got ale t’ see stowed.” And with that, he turned and walked away, his back straight, his head held high, his animosity like a humming presence in the ancient courtyard.

  * * *

  “Sidmouth called me into the Home Office again yesterday evening,” said Lovejoy as he and Sebastian walked along the terrace of Somerset House.

  Once this was the site of a grand riverside Renaissance palace of the same name, home to the brothers, widows, and uncles of kings. But in the eighteenth century, as complaints arose about the lack of any grand public buildings in London, the old Tudor edifice had been torn down and a massive Georgian quadrangle constructed in its place to house a variety of public offices and learned societies. Like the old palace, the new building stood right on the Thames; from the terrace, they could see the wind whipping spray from the tops of the whitecaps, smell the fish and brine in the air.

  “And?” asked Sebastian, looking out over the river. There were no ships here above the narrow arches of London Bridge, only barges and watermen and the old horse ferry up at Mill Bank, scheduled to soon be replaced by a new bridge.

  “He wanted to know when the palace could expect someone to be remanded into custody. I told him I understand people are frightened, but we’re doing the best we can.”

  “Somehow I doubt that appeased him.”

  “Unfortunately, no. He’s coming under considerable pressure from above.”

  “If he’d done something to rein in the East End magistrates’ corruption, he might not have found himself in this position.”

  Lovejoy looked over at him. “You think that’s what’s behind these killings? Corruption?”

  “I think it’s likely, yes.” He told Lovejoy, briefly, of the sordid relationship between the Middlesex magistrates and the brewers, and of Seamus Faddy’s allegations against Pym—although he kept Faddy’s name to himself.

  “Merciful heavens,” said Lovejoy when he had finished. “I knew it was bad, but I had no idea it was as bad as all that. It makes it difficult to believe the current choice of victims is as random as it was in 1811.”

  “If the 1811 victims were indeed chosen at random,” said Sebastian.

  Lovejoy stared at him. “You think they weren’t? But . . . there was never any connection found between them.”

  “No, there wasn’t. But there’s a lot about the events of three years ago that doesn’t add up.”

  “True.” The magistrate turned his head as a seagull came in to land on the parapet beside them, the wind off the river ruffling the bird’s feathers. “We’ve checked with all the ironmongers in the area, on the off chance someone might have found the murder weapons and then sold them; we’ve scoured the pawnshops looking for Pym’s watch and buttons; and we’ve interviewed hundreds of Wapping inhabitants and street sellers, hoping one of them might have seen or heard something. And yet so far we’ve learned nothing. The public offices at both Shadwell and Whitechapel have hauled in scores of men who were either seen in the area around the time of the killings or suspected of having blood on their clothes—particularly if they’re Irish, Greek, or Portuguese. But they haven’t found anything, either.”

  “It’s exactly what happened three years ago, isn’t it? Every foreigner is suspect simply by virtue of being foreign—as if Englishmen don’t kill.”

  The magistrate’s head tipped back, his eyes narrowing as he watched the seagull take flight. “Well, they don’t normally kill like this.” He paused, then added, “Thank God.”

  * * *

  Sebastian found the Reverend Marcus York down on his hands and knees in the vestry of St. George’s-in-the-East, a broomstick clutched in one fist, his head tilted sideways as he swept the brush end beneath a battered old chest.

  “Lord Devlin!” said the reverend, scrambling to his feet when he became aware of Sebastian’s presence. “I was just trying to retrieve a button that rolled beneath the chest.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  “No, no, quite all right.” He whacked with both hands at the gray smudges of dust that showed on the knees and hem of his black cassock. “I fear the attempt is in vain.” He looked up. “How may I help you, my lord?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve heard anything that might shed light on the recent killings.” Sebastian watched the reverend’s face go slack-jawed with concern and added, “Please understand that I’m not asking you to betray anything said to you in confidence.”

  York stooped to pick up the broom he’d left lying on the floor and propped it in a nearby corner. “That would indeed be improper. But the truth is, I’ve heard nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Sebastian studied the reverend’s long, bony face. “I’m told Sir Edwin Pym threatened you last summer. What was that about?”

  The reverend grimaced as the two men turned to walk along the church’s side aisle, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the vaulted nave. The air was heavy with the scent of candle wax, old incense, and the
boiled linseed oil someone had recently used on the church’s Dutch oak pulpit and doors.

  “I take it the incident did occur?” said Sebastian when York remained silent.

  The reverend let out his breath in a pained sigh. “It did, yes. Pym heard I’d been speaking to a member of Parliament from Devon.”

  “You mean, the MP who was interested in investigating corruption in the East End?”

  York glanced over at Sebastian. “You’re familiar with him?”

  “Only by repute.”

  “Yes, well, somehow or another, Pym got wind of our conversation. Suggested I might want to reconsider working with the man—‘if you know what’s good for you’ is the way he put it. Not an explicit threat, but after ten years, I know only too well what happens to those who make the mistake of crossing men such as Sir Edwin.”

  “Oh? What does happen to them?”

  “Tax increases. Ruinous lawsuits. Carefully engineered bankruptcies.”

  “The sudden arrival of a score of draymen with horsewhips?”

  York cast him a sideways glance. “Heard about that, did you? I’ve often thought Horton got off lucky, simply losing his position with the River Police.”

  Sebastian drew up beside one of the church’s stout Doric columns and swung to face him. “You mean Charlie Horton? He tangled with Pym?”

  The reverend nodded, his face solemn. “Pym and Cockerwell were furious with him for questioning their identification of John Williams as the Ratcliffe Highway murderer. I don’t know how they engineered his dismissal, but they did.”

  “Tell me about the MP from Devon who was pushing for an investigation of corruption in the East End,” said Sebastian as a patter of rain sounded above. “Why did he back off?”

  York looked at him with wide, bleak eyes. “He didn’t. He died.”

  “Of what?”

  “The coroner’s jury found that he drowned. Accidentally.”