by C. S. Harris
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Author’s Note
THE SEBASTIAN ST. CYR MYSTERY SERIES
What Angels Fear
When Gods Die
Why Mermaids Sing
Where Serpents Sleep
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Harris, C. S.
What remains of heaven: a Sebastian St. Cyr mystery/C. S. Harris.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-15130-3
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For my daughters,
Samantha and Danielle
ONE murder makes a Villain,
MILLIONS a Hero: Princes are privileged
To kill, and numbers sanctify the crime.
Ah! Why will Kings forget that they are men?
And men that they are brethren? Why delight
In HUMAN SACRIFICE? Why burst the ties
Of Nature, that should knit their souls together
In one soft bond of amity and love?
They yet still breathe destruction, still go on,
Inhumanly ingenious, to find out
New pain for life, new terrors for the grave,
Artificers of death! Still Monarchs dream
Of universal empire, growing up
From universal ruin. Blast the design
Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied Victims at Ambitions shrine!
—From “Death: A Poetical Essay,” by Dr. Beilby Porteous, Bishop of London 1789-1809, The Cambridge Intelligencer (September 14, 1793)
Chapter 1
TANFIELD HILL, TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1812
His breath coming in undignified gasps, the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw abandoned the village high street and struck out through the lanky grass of the churchyard. He was a small, plump man, well into his middle years, his hair sparse and graying, his knees stiff. Looking up, he saw the belfry of the village church silhouetted dark against the white of the evening sky, and suppressed a groan.
“What have I done? What have I done?” he murmured to himself in a kind of chant. He never should have lingered so long with old Mrs. Cummings. Yes, the woman was dying, but he’d done what he could to ease her passing, and one did not keep the Bishop of London waiting—especially when one was a lowly churchman who owed the Bishop’s family his living.
Hot and breathless now in his haste, the Reverend reached the sweep of gravel before the church. His step faltered, the small stones crunching beneath the leather soles of his shoes. “Merciful heavens,” he whispered, his jaw sagging at the sight of the Bishop’s carriage, its coachman dozing on the box. “He’s here.”
Swallowing hard, Earnshaw cast a searching glance around the ancient churchyard. Despite the lengthening shadows, the jagged piles of stones and aged timbers left from the demolition of the charnel house that had once stood against the north wall of the chancel were clearly visible. But Bishop Prescott was nowhere in sight.
The Reverend hesitated, the urge to rush forward warring with a craven desire to duck into the sacristy for a lantern. He pushed on, his heart thumping painfully in his chest as he neared the gaping hole before him. The workmen had accidentally broken through the thin brick wall that afternoon. The wall had concealed a forgotten staircase of worn stone steps that led down to an ancient crypt far older even than the venerable Norman nave above it.
During his ten years of service here at St. Margaret’s, Malcolm Earnshaw had heard vague rumors of a crypt, sealed decades ago for health reasons. But nothing the Reverend had heard had prepared him for the workmen’s gruesome discovery.
Tugging his handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed the linen folds against his mouth and nostrils as the foul air of the crypt wafted up to him. He was near enough now to see the glow of lantern light on the worn steps coming up from
below. The Bishop had indeed gone before him.
Again Earnshaw hesitated, not from indecision this time but from revulsion at the horror of what lay below. The Bible taught that the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible. And again in Ezekiel it was written that God shall put flesh on the bones of the dead and breathe life into them. Earnshaw knew that. Yet still he found himself trembling at the need to confront once again a sight that might have been conjured from the vilest visions of Dante’s Inferno.
Grasping the rusted railing that ran along one side of the steps, he stumbled down the shadowy stairs toward the flickering light below. “I most humbly beg your pardon, Bishop Prescott,” he began, his voice echoing back to him from that sepulchral vault. “I do hope I’ve not kept you waiting long?”
The oppressive silence of the crypt closed around him. Built of rough stone covered in limestone mortar and with a low vaulted ceiling supported by worn columns, the bays of the chamber stretched before him in shadowy phalanxes of death. Piles of coffins stacked five and six high were crammed into nearly every bay, their wood warped and split to reveal tomb-blackened remnants of tattered clothing and the occasional, unmistakable gleam of a skull or long bone.
But that clean scouring of time was rare. What truly horrified the Reverend and caused him to tighten his grip on the stair railing was the way the dry air had combined with the high concentration of lime to preserve most of the burials. All too often, what spilled from those crushed tombs was an arm or leg still recognizably human, or a hair-topped nightmare of a face, its flesh shriveled and tanned like that of a mummy brought back from Egypt.
“Bishop Prescott?” Earnshaw called again, his voice quavering. Misled by the gleam of lamplight, he’d obviously erred in choosing to come here directly. The Bishop must simply have abandoned his lantern in the crypt and returned to the sacristy to wait.
Devastated by his error, Earnshaw was turning back toward the stairs when his gaze fell on the far end of the chamber. A man lay facedown beside the last worn, spiraled column. Only this was not some ancient, desiccated corpse tumbled from its collapsed coffin.
“Bishop Prescott,” said Earnshaw with a gasp, recognizing the man’s tall, gaunt form, the distinctive purple cassock, the thinning white hair worn unusually long.
The Reverend staggered to where the Bishop lay with his head turned slightly to one side, his pale gray eyes open wide and blankly staring. From beneath the matted, crushed side of his head, a spreading stain of blood ran in a slow, dark rivulet across the ancient stone floor.
Chapter 2
LONDON, THE EARLY HOURS OF WEDNESDAY, 8 JULY 1812
The Circular Room at Carlton House was an inner sanc tum reserved for the most intimate friends of His Royal Highness George, Prince Regent. Here, amidst the glitter of crystal chandeliers and the glories of blue silk draped in imitation of a Roman tent, those with the privilege of entrée gathered late into the night to drink wine and listen to music and bask in all the benefits of being in the royal favor.
But tonight, the Prince was in a petulant mood, his full, almost feminine lower lip thrust out in a pout. “I hear the Bishop of London is set to give a speech against slavery before the Lords this Thursday,” said the Regent, snapping his fingers for another bottle.
Once, the Prince had been a handsome man. Now, in his early fifties, a lifetime of overindulgence in the various delights of the flesh had taken their toll. His face was flushed, his features blurred, and not even the talents of London’s best tailors—or the use of rigidly laced stays—could disguise the corpulence of his body.
His stays creaking perilously, the Regent turned to frown at his cousin Charles, Lord Jarvis, the acknowledged power behind the Prince’s fragile regency. “What say you, Jarvis? Surely there’s some way to stop him?”
His cousin Jarvis was also a big man, standing more than six feet tall and fleshy. Jarvis’s size alone would have made him impressive. But it was his awe-inspiring intellect, his formidable ruthlessness, and a true dedication to King and country that had combined to make him the most powerful man in the kingdom. He took a slow sip of his own wine before answering. “I hardly see what, short of killing him.”
A nervous titter spread amongst the men gathered near enough to hear. Everyone knew that those Jarvis considered his enemies—or even merely inconvenient—had a nasty habit of turning up dead.
The Prince’s pout grew. One of his intimates—a slim, hawk-faced exquisite named Lord Quillian—raised one eyebrow and said, “The man’s on a bloody crusade. You’re not troubled by it, Jarvis?”
Jarvis flicked open a gold snuffbox with one careless finger. “You think I should be?”
“Considering the fact that Prescott was largely responsible for getting the Slave Trade Act passed five years ago, I’d say so, yes. There’s a growing piety in this country, combined with a mawkish kind of sensibility that worries me.”
“It’s easy to support abolition in theory.” Jarvis raised a pinch of snuff to his nostril. “In practice, things become considerably more complicated.”
A movement near the door drew Jarvis’s attention. A tall, military-looking gentleman in a riding coat and top boots spoke in a low voice to the attendants, then strode across the room to whisper in Jarvis’s ear.
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” said the King’s powerful cousin with a bow. “I shan’t be but a moment.”
Withdrawing to a secluded alcove, Jarvis snapped, “What is it?”
The tall, military-looking gentleman, a former captain in the 9th Foot, smiled. “The Bishop of London is dead.”
In the cool light of early morning, father and son trotted their horses companionably side by side through Hyde Park. Faint wisps of mist still hovered here and there beneath the trees, although the strengthening sun was beginning to burn off the fog rising from the nearby river.
“It’s been two months now since Perceval was shot,” grumbled Alistair James St. Cyr, Fifth Earl of Hendon. Mounted on a big gray gelding, the Earl was a powerfully framed man of sixty-six with a barrel chest, a thick shock of white hair, and vivid blue eyes. “Two months!” he said again, when his son made no comment. “And Liverpool is still acting more like an incompetent backbencher than a prime minister. This situation can’t continue. We’re already at war with half of Europe. The next thing you know we’re going to have the bloody Americans attacking Canada.”
Mounted on the neat black Arab mare he’d acquired during his years as an Army officer, the Earl’s only surviving son and heir, Sebastian, Viscount Devlin, ducked his head to hide a smile. Even taller than his father, the Viscount was built lean, with dark hair and strange, feral-looking yellow eyes. “You’re the one who turned down the Regent’s invitation to form a government,” he said.
“I should rather think so,” said the Earl, who for the past three years had held the position of Chancellor of the Exchequer. “Why should I spend my days fighting Jarvis for the loyalty of my own cabinet? Once, I might have been persuaded to do so. No longer.”
“I should think you’d jump at the chance,” said Sebastian, “if for no other reason than to spite Jarvis.” The King’s formidable, eerily omnipotent cousin intimidated most men, but not Hendon. The two had been at loggerheads for as long as Sebastian could remember. Yet as powerful as he was, Jarvis would never form a government himself. The big man preferred to exercise his authority discreetly—and more effectively—from the shadows.
Hendon blew out a long breath. “I must be getting old. I find I’ve better things to do with my time.”
Sebastian raised one eyebrow.
“You heard me,” said Hendon. “I’d like to spend my declining years surrounded by a passel of lusty grandsons. Unfortunately, my only surviving son has yet to condescend to give me any.”
“You have a grandson. And a granddaughter.”
“Bayard?” Hendon dismissed the children of his only legitimate daughter, Amanda, Lady Wilcox, with a wave of one hand. “Bayard�
�s a Wilcox, and half as mad as his father besides. I’m talking about St. Cyr grandsons. The kind only you can give me. Heirs. You’re nearly thirty years old now, Sebastian. It’s high time you settled down and started a family.”
Sebastian kept his gaze firmly fixed between his horse’s ears and said nothing. The estrangement that had arisen between father and son the previous autumn had eased these past few weeks, but Hendon was straying into dangerous territory.
There was a moment of tense silence; then the Earl grunted, his eyes narrowing as he stared across the park. “I see you’re still employing that impertinent pickpocket as a groom.”
Sebastian followed his father’s gaze to where a sharp-faced boy dressed in the Devlin livery and mounted on one of Sebastian’s hacks pelted inelegantly toward them, one elbow cocked skyward to hold his hat in place. “What the devil?”
Tom, Sebastian’s young tiger, reined in hard beside them. He was thirteen years old, although he looked younger, with his gap-toothed grin and slight frame. Bobbing his head to Hendon, he said breathlessly, “Beggin’ yer pardon for the interruption, yer lordship.” He turned to Sebastian. “Ye’ve visitors awaitin’ ye at Brook Street, gov’nor. Yer aunt, the Duchess of Claiborne, and the Archbishop of Canterbury!”
Devlin said, “The Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“Henrietta?” said his father, eyes widening with incredulity. “At this hour?” The Duchess of Claiborne was famous for never leaving her bed before noon. Hendon sniffed the air. “The boy is obviously foxed.”
“I ain’t been drinkin’,” said Tom, bridling. “It’s ’Er Grace, all right, sittin’ up there in the drawing room with the Archbishop ’isself.”
Hendon’s suspicious frown deepened. “The last I heard, Archbishop Moore was essentially at death’s door. Why, Jarvis is already maneuvering to line up the man’s replacement.”
“Well, ’e don’t look none too ’ale, that’s fer sure,” agreed Tom. “But I reckon that’s to be expected, given what’s ’appened.”