What the Devil Knows

by C. S. Harris

  “But why would Pym and Cockerwell want to kill a simple linen draper?”

  “I could be wrong, but I think the key to it all is Long Billy. He’s the only person connected to them all—the Marrs, Williams, Pym, and Cockerwell—and Cornelius Hart and Jack Harrison, too.”

  “Except Ablass didn’t have any meaningful connection to Old John and his wife, did he? Was there anything to link him to the King’s Arms?”

  Devlin drew her closer and pressed his forehead to hers. “Not really. That’s the one part that doesn’t fit.”

  Saturday, 15 October

  The next day dawned cold and windy but clear, with a cornflower blue sky slowly smudged to a smoky blue by the city’s coal fires.

  Sebastian spent the better part of the morning looking for Billy Ablass. He began at the Three Moons, where a sullen Christopher Bishop told him Ablass had already gone out for the day. He checked the docks, the Sun Tavern, and a string of other public houses before eventually circling back to Pope’s Hill.

  “He still ain’t here,” said Christopher Bishop when Sebastian walked into the taproom.

  “Is your sister around?”

  The lad looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Why you asking?”

  “Is she around?”

  Bishop hesitated, then jerked his head toward the door that led to the inn’s small flagstoned yard. “She’s out talking to the stable hand.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  The Three Moons’ stable was small and ran along one short side of the yard. Hannah Bishop was just coming out of the tack room when Sebastian stepped into the sunny, windblown yard. She had a hand up to catch her hair, her thoughts obviously far away. Then she saw him and hesitated a moment before continuing toward him.

  “Lord Devlin,” she said, her gaze holding his, her features carefully schooled to give nothing away. “I heard you were asking for Billy again.”

  “Do you know where I might find him?”

  She shook her head, and for a moment he saw her mask of self-control slip, saw the flare of panic in her eyes before she looked away. “No. Sorry.”

  He said, “Tell me why you let him stay here. And this time I want the real reason.”

  She sucked in a quick, frightened breath. She held herself very still for a moment, and he knew she was tempted to brazen it out. Knew, too, when she gave up the idea.

  They sat on an old stone bench in the feeble sunshine, with the wind flapping the hem of her muslin gown and blowing her light brown hair around her face, her fingers twisting and untwisting the lacings that dangled from the neck of her dark green wool spencer.

  “My mother buried three husbands,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “The first died in a fire that destroyed the original Three Moons Inn before I was born. It was just a few months later that she married my father, and he helped her rebuild. He was a good man, strong, gentle, and honorable.” She paused, her head tipping back as she stared up at the cluster of smoking chimneys rising above the inn’s slate roof. “He died when I was thirteen. I guess Mama didn’t like being alone, because she married again right away. Her third husband was a big, handsome seaman with black hair and nearly black eyes. The family was originally from Danzig, but I don’t think he’d lived there long himself. Ablass was his name. Peter Ablass.”

  Whatever Sebastian had been expecting, it wasn’t this. “Billy Ablass is his brother?”

  She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “That’s why he stays here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet he wasn’t here in 1811?”

  “No. After you asked, I looked into it. He had some woman he was staying with then.”

  “Did you know the woman is now dead?”

  She turned her head to stare at him, her eyes wide and liquid with fear. “Is she?”

  “Someone strangled her nearly three years ago.” He watched the color fade from her cheeks, then said, “I still don’t understand why you let him stay here.”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “When did your stepfather die?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “That’s when you came back?”

  “Yes.”

  The wind gusted up, banging a shutter somewhere and bringing them the smell of the river. “There’s something you’re still not telling me.”

  Her lips parted on a quiet breath. “There might have been ten years between them, but the two brothers were very close and very much the same. You’ve met Billy. Until his big brother died, Billy was used to treating this place as his own. You really think Christopher and I are going to tell him he can’t stay here when he wants?”

  “Do you think Billy killed Pym and Cockerwell?”

  “I honestly don’t know. If you’re asking, do I think he could have done it? then the answer is yes; I think he’s more than capable of doing something like that.”

  “What about the Ratcliffe Highway killings?”

  She was silent a moment, her gaze shifting to the dark recesses of the stables, and he knew from the tension radiating from her that she had considered this possibility before. “I can see Billy killing like that out of rage or hate. But do I know of any quarrel he had with those two families? No.”

  “He was on a ship with Timothy Marr. And from the sound of things, he didn’t like him.”

  “Was he? I didn’t know that. After my mother married Peter Ablass, I left as soon as I could, and I didn’t come back until he was dead.”

  “You said he died two years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother was still alive then?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know if your stepfather had any argument with the publican of the King’s Arms?”

  “Not that I know of, no. But he might have. He was a quarrelsome man with an ugly temper.”

  “Did you know the man who was blamed for the Ratcliffe Highway murders—John Williams?”

  “No. I left London when I was fourteen.”

  He studied her half-averted profile, noticing for the first time the faint sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Why come back?”

  “After Peter Ablass died, Christopher needed me. And my mother, too, although I don’t know if I’d have come back just for her sake.”

  Sebastian was aware of all the things left unsaid. The hatred and fear of a brutal, quick-tempered stepfather; the angry resentment of the weak mother who’d brought a dangerous man into her children’s lives and then done nothing to protect them from his wrath. “You said Billy quarreled with Hugo Reeves. Do you know what that was about?”

  “No. I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you.” She looked at him then, her eyes dark and hurting as she searched his face, her voice a hoarse whisper. “You think I’m not frightened? You think I don’t know what Billy is capable of? You think I don’t count the days until he sails again?”

  “When does he sail?”

  “It must be soon. He should be running out of money by now.”

  “Do you know of any connection between Billy and the Black Eagle’s Buxton-Collins?”

  The question seemed to confuse her. “No. Why?”

  “Where does the Three Moons’ beer come from?”

  Something that might have been amusement flared in her eyes, then was gone. “This is Shadwell. Where do you think?”

  * * *

  Some minutes later Sebastian was drawing up outside the Pear Tree when he recognized the small man in spectacles and a heavy greatcoat climbing out of a hackney stopped nearby.

  “Sir Henry?” said Sebastian.

  Lovejoy gave a faint start and turned to walk toward him. “Lord Devlin. I didn’t expect my message to reach you so soon.”

  Sebastian handed the r
eins to Tom and hopped down. “I haven’t received a message. Why? What’s happened?”

  “Robert Vermilloe has been found dead.”

  Chapter 45

  The dead man lay on his back in a corner of the Pear Tree’s untidy yard, his arms crossed at his chest, his eyes open and staring. The only visible sign of violence was the faint trickle of blood that had dried at the corner of his sagging mouth.

  “He was found here? Like this?” said Lovejoy, his hands thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat as he stared down at the innkeeper’s pale corpse. The sun might have been shining, but the inn’s yard lay in deep shadow, and the wind was cold.

  “No, yer honor,” said the bulky, graying constable standing nearby. “A couple of seamen found him in an alley off Prospect Row this morning and carried him here.”

  Sebastian studied the dried line of blood on the dead man’s chin. “Did you look at his back yet?”

  “Aye,” said the constable on a harsh expulsion of breath. “Been stabbed, he has.”

  Lovejoy glanced up. “How many times?”

  “Maybe three.”

  “And the knife?”

  “Ain’t seen it, yer honor. I suppose it could still be in the alley.”

  Sebastian shifted his gaze to the dead man’s flat, lifeless eyes. “Any idea when he was last seen?”

  “The old sodger behind the bar says he went out about eleven and never come back.”

  Lovejoy drew a handkerchief from his pocket and set about thoughtfully cleaning the lenses of his spectacles. “Did he say why Vermilloe went out?”

  “Says he don’t know.”

  Sebastian glanced toward the window of the Pear Tree’s kitchen. “How is Mrs. Vermilloe?”

  A look of sadness settled over the constable’s homely features. “She’s knittin’.”

  * * *

  While Lovejoy set about organizing his constables for a search of the alley near Prospect Row, Sebastian went to settle on the trestle bench beside the kitchen fire. The dead man’s wife didn’t lift her gaze from her knitting—blue socks this time. Her face was puffy and mottled from her tears, her eyes red, her hands shaky, her stitches woefully uneven.

  “How are you doing, Mrs. Vermilloe?” he asked softly.

  She drew a deep breath and looked up at him, her soft brown eyes swimming with grief and pain. “To be honest, my lord, I didn’t think it’d hit me as hard as it has.” She gave her yarn a fierce tug, her fist clenching so tightly around the thread that her knuckles turned white. “I mean, he was a foolish old man, always full of big talk. But he was a loving husband for all his faults, and the thought of never seeing him again just breaks my heart.”

  “Do you have any idea who would want to kill him?”

  “No.” Her voice cracked with a sob when she said it, and she squeezed her eyes shut and brought up a hand to press her fingers against her trembling lips. “No,” she said again more calmly after a moment. “He was a silly old man. Why would anyone want to hurt him? Just a silly old man.”

  “Did he talk to you recently about the Ratcliffe Highway murders?”

  “Just to say your lordship was here asking questions about that French knife they found in Johnny’s room.”

  “Do you think the knife belonged to John Williams?”

  “Could have.” She sniffed and rested her knitting in her lap so she could bring up a handkerchief and blow her nose. “It was a pretty thing, and Johnny always liked pretty things. I’ve often thought Jack Harrison must’ve stole it out of Johnny’s sea chest after he died. Then he got the bright idea later to hide it and tell the authorities about it.”

  “You think Jack Harrison is the one who hid the knife in the cupboard?”

  “Of course he was. Otherwise why’d he wait a whole month before saying anything about a knife? I think he dipped it in sheep’s blood, hid it in that cupboard, then went over to the Shadwell Public Office and told them about it so’s he could get more of that reward money. They were like vultures around a dead lamb, that lot, all trying to get more money—and my Robert right in there with them. Up until they found the knife, the papers were saying the killer had used a razor. Then all of a sudden they were talking as if everyone thought it was a knife all along. You ask me, they latched onto that knife so excited-like because it’d always bothered them that Johnny didn’t have a razor.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. He wore a beard.”

  Sebastian was aware of the sound of gruff voices in the yard outside raised in inquiry: the men from the deadhouse come to carry Vermilloe’s body to Paul Gibson. “Williams had a beard?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Vermilloe. “Well, he did up until a day or two before he was taken into custody. Had to go to the barber to get it shaved off because he didn’t have a razor. Everybody knew that.”

  Through the window, Sebastian could see the men from the deadhouse lifting the innkeeper’s body onto their shell. “Was your husband nervous about anything lately?”

  “Nervous?” She picked up her knitting again, but simply sat holding it, not even trying to lay down stitches. “No. Why would he be nervous?”

  “Did he talk to anyone unusual or go anywhere unusual lately?”

  She thought about it a moment. “Well, he did go up to Meux’s Horse Shoe Brewery.”

  Sebastian felt his interest quicken. “Do you know why?”

  “No. He had no reason that I know of. Thought it odd, I did. But when I asked him, he just winked and told me to never mind.”

  “Where does the Pear Tree’s beer come from?”

  “Meux.”

  “Not the Black Eagle?”

  She shrugged. “You want to have a pub in the Tower Hamlets, you get your beer from either the Black Eagle or Meux.”

  “When did Mr. Vermilloe go up to Meux?”

  “Yesterday evening, right after your lordship left. He came in from fixing the privy, told me you were asking about the knife, then said he was going up to Meux’s. I said, ‘What on earth for?’ and he just gave me that toothy smile of his and said, ‘Never you mind. You’ll be seeing.’”

  “Did you talk to him after he came back?”

  “Oh, yes. Ever so chipper, he was—like a cat who’s stole a roast chicken off the spit. Then he went out just before eleven, and I never saw him again.”

  “You don’t know where he went?”

  “No.” She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Foolish, foolish old man. I don’t know why I loved him so, but I did. And now he’s gone, just like that.” She looked at Sebastian, her eyes swimming with pain and confusion and all the fears of an aging woman left alone in a harsh world.

  Chapter 46

  Meux and Company’s Horse Shoe Brewery lay in Bainbridge Street, just off Tottenham Court Road in the parish of St. Giles. It was a massive brick complex with decoratively arched windows and towering chimneys whose belching smoke mingled with the reek of hot, fermenting beer to smother the wretched, crowded, festering neighborhood of poor Irish immigrants that surrounded it.

  The enterprise had several investors but was dominated by Henry Meux himself, who rejected the French pronunciation of his ancient family name and always loudly reminded anyone who erred that he and his beer were called “Mewks.” In the five years since Meux bought the Horse Shoe, he’d taken the brewery from eleventh to sixth largest in London, installing huge fermentation vats that were larger even than those of the Black Eagle in Bethnal Green. It was there, in the cavernous brick brewhouse thick with the stench of hot porter, that Sebastian came upon him in conversation with a clerk, who bowed and moved away at Sebastian’s approach.

  “Yes, I saw Vermilloe yesterday,” Meux replied in answer to Sebastian’s question. The brewer was a small, stout man in his mid-forties with graying fair hair that contrasted sharply with his dark eyebrows and swooping side-whiskers.
His cheeks were full, his nose long and hooked, his chin small but protruding, so that together they overshadowed a tiny mouth with a tendency to settle into a self-satisfied smirk. “Why do you ask?”

  “Someone murdered him last night.”

  Meux stiffened, an exquisitely dressed gentleman standing in sharp contrast to the dirty, smoky, rusty, foul-smelling warehouse around him. “You don’t say? How very distressing.”

  “Why was he here?”

  “To talk about porter. We supply the Pear Tree, you know.”

  “I would have thought you’ve agents to handle such mundane interactions.”

  Meux’s small, smirking mouth pursed. “Well, yes, of course. But I do like to keep abreast of things myself. And there’s nothing like personal interaction to get a feel for how a business is running.”

  “You’re saying that’s all your meeting with Vermilloe was? Just you keeping a finger on the business’s pulse?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  “Why was he here?”

  “I told you: We supply the Pear Tree with porter.”

  “Yes, but why exactly did he come here yesterday? To reduce his supply? Increase it? Complain about its quality or cost?”

  Meux’s nostrils flared on a quickly indrawn breath. “Increase it, of course.”

  “Interesting.” Sebastian craned back his head to stare up at the vast fermentation tanks, some of which rose more than twenty feet above them. At least seventy feet across, the vats were made of massive wooden staves encircled by dozens of iron hoops that he figured must weigh over a ton each. “Those are quite impressive.”

  “The largest in London, you know.”

  Sebastian nodded. “I assume you were acquainted with Sir Edwin Pym and Nathan Cockerwell, the two magistrates recently murdered in Wapping?”