Where Serpents Sleep: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

by C. S. Harris

  “What else?”

  “This afternoon, one of our men—Farley—was following Miss Jarvis when she met up with Lord Devlin. Farley . . . lost them.”

  Jarvis was silent long enough that a muscle jumped along the Colonel’s jaw. “Where did this happen?”

  “Near the Tower. Miss Jarvis initially encountered Devlin at the surgery of an Irishman, Paul Gibson. Farley trailed them from there to the church of St. Olave on Seething Lane.”

  “What? What on earth were they doing there?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I suspect it was merely a stratagem. When Farley followed them into the church, Devlin back-tracked and cut the cinch on Farley’s saddle. Our man didn’t catch up with them until some time later, at Bow Street.”

  “Bow Street?”

  “Yes, my lord. Sir William has been murdered. I’m afraid Miss Jarvis was there when the body was discovered.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Miss Jarvis?” The question seemed to surprise the Colonel. “Of course, my lord.”

  Out on Pall Mall, the new gas lamps had been lit, their flares feeble flickers just visible in the last gasps of daylight. “Your man’s an idiot,” said Jarvis.

  “Yes, sir. But I thought you should know that it is evidently Miss Jarvis’s intent to elude our protection.”

  Jarvis drew out his snuffbox and flipped it open with one expert flick of his finger. He didn’t look at Epson-Smith, although he was aware of the man beside him. Epson-Smith was coldly efficient and utterly ruthless. He didn’t usually fail. Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril, sniffed, and said, “I don’t care if you need to set a regiment to follow Miss Jarvis through the streets of London. This is not to happen again. Understood?”

  Something flickered in the other man’s eyes, then was gone. “Yes, sir. And Lord Devlin?”

  Jarvis snapped his snuffbox closed and turned back toward the Colonel. “I told you, I’ll deal with Devlin.”

  Chapter 37

  Sebastian was crossing Margaret Street, headed toward a meeting with Sir Henry at Queen Square, when he heard himself hailed by an impervious voice.

  “Lord Devlin.”

  Sebastian turned.

  Attired in evening dress and a silk-lined cape that fluttered open with each angry step, Lord Fairchild strode purposely toward him across New Palace Yard. “This must stop,” the Baron blustered as he came up to Sebastian. “Do you hear me, sir? It must stop.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Lord Fairchild’s face darkened to a hue somewhere between magenta and purple. “Don’t play me for a fool.” He spat the words out like bullets. “You know full well of what I speak.”

  “If you mean my investigation into the murder of your d—”

  Lord Fairchild made a low growling sound deep in his throat. “Not here, for God’s sake,” he snapped, drawing Sebastian farther up the pavement. “Is that what this is all about?” His voice dropped to an acid whisper. “Do you seek to damage me by attacking my daughter’s reputation?”

  “What this is about,” said Sebastian, his gaze searching the other man’s mottled, distorted features, “is justice. Justice for a murdered woman lying in an unmarked grave.”

  The Baron clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw quivered. “My daughter is in Northamptonshire. You hear me? Northamptonshire. If you persist in insinuating otherwise, I swear to God, I’ll call you out for it.”

  Sebastian studied the beefy, red-faced lord before him. He thought about the short, tragic life of Rachel Fairchild, and about Lord Fairchild’s “fondness” for little girls, and he knew a revulsion so swift and profound it turned his stomach.

  Once, Sebastian had thought the link between father and child one of the closest bonds in nature, second only to that between a mother and her children. Sebastian’s relationship with his own father had never been an easy one; he’d always known he both baffled and disappointed Hendon. There had even been a time, in the dark days after the death of the last of Sebastian’s brothers, that Sebastian would have said Hendon hated him—hated him for living when Hendon’s other sons had died. Yet through it all, Hendon’s devotion to the preservation of his remaining son—and the pledge he represented to the future—had endured. Sebastian had always believed it must be so for all fathers. It was only in the past year that he had come to realize just how fragile—and secondary—paternal devotion could sometimes be.

  The bells of Westminster began to chime the hour, the melodious notes echoing out over the city. “I understand there’s an important debate this evening on the Orders in Council,” said Sebastian evenly. “You’re missing it.”

  Lord Fairchild opened his mouth and closed it, then swung away, his jaw held tight, his head thrust forward like a bull’s.

  Sebastian waited until the Baron had taken several strides before calling after him, “I hear you’re the one who discovered your wife’s body. How . . . tragic.”

  The Baron swung back around, his massive frame quivering with fury. “If you mean to insinuate—”

  “I insinuate nothing,” said Sebastian, and continued on his way to Queen Square.

  “It’s quite an innovation,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, nodding to the rows of flickering gas lamps that bathed the interior of McCleod’s Coffee Shop in a soft golden glow. Gas lamps had already replaced the oil lamps along Pall Mall and in the surrounding streets, but few shop owners were as innovative—or as courageous—as the proprietors of McCleod’s. The sputtering gas jets and occasional explosions and asphyxiations generally limited the introduction of gas to the outdoors. “I’ve heard it said that someday, not only every street in London, but every house in London will be lit by the gasworks.”

  Sebastian shifted his weight against the booth’s unpadded back. “I’ve heard it said that the runoff from the gasworks is what’s killing the fish in the Thames.”

  Sir Henry brushed away the suggestion of pollution with an impatient hand. Apart from the law, the only other passion in the little magistrate’s life was science, and he brooked no criticism of it. “There are always naysayers.”

  Sebastian simply smiled and raised his coffee to his lips.

  Sir Henry cleared his throat. “I understand it was your misfortune to discover Sir William this afternoon. It’s why you’ve sought me out, isn’t it, and bought me this coffee?”

  Sebastian laughed. “I’d have bought you a brandy but I know you don’t imbibe.”

  A fervently devout man, Sir Henry had secret leanings toward the Reformist Church, although he generally kept his views to himself. Being anything other than High Church wasn’t good for one’s career. He said, “I take it you think this death is somehow linked to what happened at the Magdalene House on Monday.” The barest hint of a smile tugged the edges of the Queen Square magistrate’s mouth. “I know you have continued to involve yourself in the investigation.”

  Sebastian took another sip of coffee. “It was my understanding there was no investigation.”

  “Not officially. But according to Sir William’s clerk, Sir William was intrigued by what happened.”

  Sebastian knew a flicker of surprise, although when he thought about it, he realized it made sense. By instructing Sir William to shut down any speculation about the fire, Lord Jarvis had obviously sparked the magistrate’s curiosity.

  “Officially,” Lovejoy was saying, “the fire was just a fire. But Sir William was nevertheless pursuing a few discreet inquiries.”

  “Obviously not discreet enough.”

  “You think it’s why he was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Henry cleared his throat again. “It’s rather embarrassing, you know. Having the chief magistrate of Bow Street murdered in his own public office.”

  “Is that why it’s been released that Sir William died of an apoplectic fit?”

  “There will be rumors, of course. But then, there would have been rumors even if he had died of an apoplectic fit.”

&nbs
p; “Very true.”

  Lovejoy fixed him with an uncompromising stare. “Tell me about the Magdalene House fire.”

  Sebastian gave the magistrate a carefully edited version of what he had so far discovered. He left out all mention of Russian sables and Irish thieves, but the tale he wove was still sordid—and utterly inconclusive. In the end, the magistrate removed his wire-framed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It is all rather complicated. It’s as if it goes off in six different directions at once.”

  Sebastian said, “I’m obviously missing something. Something important.”

  Sir Henry fit his glasses back on his face and cleared his throat again. “I’ve been offered the position of Bow Street magistrate.”

  Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “Congratulations.”

  “It is an honor, of course. I wouldn’t be chief magistrate—Sir James will replace Sir William in that capacity. But . . . well, if truth were told, I suspect I might somewhat miss Queen Square.”

  “So you haven’t decided yet whether or not to accept?”

  “No. The prestige means nothing to me. But . . .” The magistrate hesitated, and Sebastian knew he was remembering certain incidents in the past, when Bow Street had interfered in Sir Henry’s own investigations in a high-handed and contemptuous manner.

  “It is tempting,” said Sebastian.

  “Yes.”

  The door to the coffee shop swung inward to admit another customer, who brought with him the smell of coming rain and a great gust of wind that snuffed out three of the gas lamps on the nearest wall.

  “The fault’s in the design of the gas jets,” said Sir Henry as the proprietor bustled forward with a taper to relight them. “With a better design that wouldn’t have happened.” When Sebastian remained silent, he added, “Imagine the reduction in crime the city will experience once every street is illuminated by gas.”

  “As long as there’s no wind,” said Sebastian.

  “I tell you, the fault’s in the design of the jets,” insisted Sir Henry.

  But Sebastian only laughed.

  Chapter 38

  That evening shortly before dinner, Hero was working in the library when her father entered the room. Lord Jarvis rarely dined at his own home. Looking up, she had little doubt as to why he was here, now.

  He stared at the books she had scattered across the library table and frowned. “What is all this?”

  Hero laid down her pen and sat back. “Some research I’m doing.”

  Lord Jarvis grunted. “Why can’t you arrange flowers and embroider seat covers like other women?”

  “Because I’m your daughter,” she said, gathering the books into a neat stack.

  He didn’t even smile. Pressing both hands flat on the tabletop, he leaned into them, his gaze hard on her face. “What exactly is Devlin’s interest in the deaths of the Magdalene House women?”

  Hero stared up at him without flinching. His lackey had obviously wasted no time reporting back to him. “The same as mine. To see justice done.”

  Pushing away from the table, he swiped one big hand through the air, like someone brushing aside an annoying gnat. “There is no justice in this world. There are only the strong and the weak. Those women were weak.”

  “Which is why it is the obligation of the strong to fight for them.”

  Lord Jarvis let out his breath in a scornful huff. “I told you I would deal with those responsible.”

  Hero pushed to her feet. “Because of me. Not because of them.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  She found herself oddly reluctant to explain to him the effect her meeting with Rachel Fairchild had had upon her, or the guilt that drove her to try to understand what had gone wrong in the young woman’s life. She said instead, “Has your Colonel Epson-Smith discovered those responsible?”

  “Not yet. But he will.” He turned away to pour himself a glass of brandy. “You broke our agreement. You went to Bow Street.”

  “On a slightly different errand. You heard Sir William is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know he was involved with one of the women killed?”

  Jarvis looked over at her. “Who told you that? Devlin?”

  “No. Someone else.”

  Jarvis grunted. “You brought Devlin into this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much does he know?” he asked, decanter in hand.

  “You mean, does he know I was at the Magdalene House when it was attacked? Yes.”

  Lord Jarvis poured himself a measure of brandy, then replaced the stopper in the decanter and set it aside without looking at her. She knew he was choosing his words carefully. “Devlin wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you to get at me. You know that, don’t you?”

  She chose her words with equal care. “I know he is your enemy. But I do not believe he would hurt me to get at you. He’s not”—she started to say, like you, then changed it to—“like that.”

  She expected him to laugh at her again. Instead, he merely looked thoughtful. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze turned now to study her face in a way that made her uncomfortable. He said, “Why Devlin?”

  Because he’s the one man in this country who isn’t afraid of you, she thought. But again, she didn’t say it. She said, “He has achieved good results in the past, in similar situations.”

  “And did you ask yourself why he agreed to help?”

  “I know why he agreed. To get back at you.”

  “Yet you say he wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “That’s right.”

  He went to sit in one of the upholstered chairs near the empty hearth, his glass cradled in his palm. “I set Farley to follow you this afternoon for your own protection. You knew that. Yet you evaded him. Why?”

  “I know something of your Colonel’s methods. The last thing I would ever want to do is unwittingly furnish him with a few more hapless victims.”

  Lord Jarvis pressed his lips together in a frown. “That’s not the intent here.”

  She met his gaze squarely. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

  He glared right back at her. “And your exposing yourself to danger is a risk I’m not willing to take.”

  “Papa.” She went to lean over the back of his chair, her arms looped around his neck. “I was never in any danger this afternoon and you know it.”

  He brought up one of his big hands to cover hers. With anyone else, he would have been overbearing and coldly threatening, but he’d learned long ago that didn’t work with Hero. She was too much like him. He said, “Where did you go this afternoon?”

  “To meet a woman I hoped would help me make some sense of what happened at the Magdalene House.”

  He took a long swallow of his brandy. “With Devlin?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it’s better than going on your own.” He shifted his hand to lightly grasp her wrist and tug her around so that he could see her face. “Finding out about this woman is so important to you?”