What Remains of Heaven sscm-5

by C. S. Harris

  “When Sir Nigel disappeared so soon after your return from America, did you not suspect that his death might in some way be connected to those letters?”

  “Obviously,” said Jarvis dryly. “We saw no reason to advertise that fact, however.”

  “How many people knew of your mission to America?”

  “In point of fact, the information was very tightly held.”

  “But surely your absence from London would have been remarked upon?”

  Jarvis put his fingertips together, wondering how much the Viscount knew, and how much he merely suspected. “Not really. It’s easy to lose track of the movements of one’s acquaintances, is it not? What with house parties and weeks of seclusion in hunting lodges and the need to attend to one’s estates.”

  A muscle bunched along the Viscount’s jaw, but he said nothing.

  “In Sir Nigel’s case, of course, things were a bit more difficult,” Jarvis continued, “owing to the proximity of his estate to London. I believe he gave it out he was traveling in Ireland.”

  There was a tense pause. Jarvis waited for the inevitable query to come. But either Devlin already knew the truth, or he couldn’t bring himself to pose such a question to Jarvis, because all he said was, “Given your opposition to Francis Prescott’s translation to Canterbury, I find your previous association with his dead brother . . .” Devlin hesitated, as if searching for the right word. “Shall we say, suggestive?”

  Jarvis pushed to his feet. “I wouldn’t refine too much on it, if I were you. I hardly see how what happened to Sir Nigel thirty years ago could have any bearing on the Bishop’s more recent demise—even if the two men did meet their fate in the same somewhat bizarre locale.”

  The Viscount smiled sardonically. “Men whom you oppose do have an unfortunate tendency to turn up dead.”

  “True. But I had no quarrel with Sir Nigel.”

  “You considered him bad ton.”

  “Believe me, if I went around removing men simply because they happened to be bad ton, London would soon be very thin of company.”

  “Yet you did oppose Francis Prescott’s translation to Canterbury.”

  “True again. However, the situation hardly called for drastic measures. Do you seriously think the Prince would make such an important appointment without consulting me?”

  “There’s a difference between consultation and capitulation.”

  “You underestimate my powers of persuasion.”

  Devlin went to stand at the window overlooking the Mall, his eyes narrowing as he watched the traffic below.

  Jarvis studied the younger man’s strained profile. “I hear the priest in residence at St. Margaret’s has been slain, as well,” said Jarvis. “I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that you are allowing a penchant for high drama to cause you to read too much into all this? That perhaps someone in the neighborhood of Tanfield Hill simply does not like priests?”

  Devlin glanced over at him, a hint of amusement touching his lips. “And Sir Nigel’s thirty-year-old corpse mummifying in the church’s crypt?”

  “Could well be irrelevant to the current murders. Curious, but irrelevant.”

  “It could be,” agreed Devlin, pushing away from the window.

  “But you don’t believe it is?”

  “No,” said Devlin, turning toward the door. “No, I don’t.”

  Chapter 30

  Sebastian sat, alone, in a leather armchair beside the empty hearth in the library of the St. Cyr townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The dark shadows of evening had long since filled the room. But when one of Hendon’s footmen came to light the candles in the wall sconces, Sebastian waved him away.

  Outside, the rain had begun again. Sebastian could hear it drumming on the lime trees in the square, hear the splash of carriage wheels as members of the haut ton left their elegant townhouses for their evening rounds of dinners and card parties, routs and balls. Sebastian raised his glass of brandy and took a slow swallow that burned all the way down.

  He was on his third brandy when he caught the approach of familiar footsteps that shifted to climb the front steps. He heard a low exchange of voices in the hall. Then Hendon appeared in the doorway, a taper in one hand.

  “I’m told you’ve been looking for me,” said the Earl.

  “Yes.”

  The golden light from the taper played over the broad, beloved features of the Earl’s face. He stood for a moment, jaw working thoughtfully back and forth before he went to touch his flame to the nearest sconce. “You won’t mind if I light the candles? We don’t all have the night vision of a cat.”

  Sebastian settled deeper into his chair, his outthrust boots crossed at the ankles. “A trait I inherited, perhaps, from my real father? Do you even know who he was, I wonder? Or did my mother take that little secret with her when she sailed away the summer I was eleven?”

  Hendon froze, his hand extended toward the next sconce. Hot wax dripped, splashing on the polished surface of the table below. He calmly resumed his task, although Sebastian noticed his hand was no longer steady. “I’m not certain I understand what you mean to imply by that statement.”

  “Don’t you?” Sebastian thrust up from the chair. “I had an interesting conversation with Lady Prescott this morning. The widow of Sir Nigel Prescott. She tells me the three of you—you, her husband, and Lord Jarvis—sailed for the American Colonies in December of 1781.”

  Hendon had given up lighting the sconces and simply stood on the far side of the room, the taper clenched in his hand. “She is mistaken.”

  “Don’t.” Sebastian drew in a harsh breath that shuddered his chest. “Don’t . . . lie to me anymore.”

  “It’s not a lie. We sailed at the beginning of February. The fifth.”

  “From where?”

  “Portsmouth.

  “The name of the ship?”

  “The Albatross,” said the Earl without hesitation.

  Sebastian knew a leap of hope at war with a whisper of despair. His voice, when he spoke, was a ragged tear. “Why should I believe you?”

  “What are you suggesting? That I deliberately raised a son I knew was not my own?” Hendon swiped his arm through the air before him, as if brushing aside an unwanted presence. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You would hardly be the first peer to do so. Look at the Harleian Miscellany.” The Earl of Oxford’s wife was famous for having taken so many lovers in her life that the resultant brood of bastards was known collectively as the “Harleian Miscellany.”

  “No one ever doubted the parentage of Harley’s heir,” said Hendon.

  “True. Yet you had no way of knowing what lay ahead when you acknowledged me as your third son.”

  A heavy silence fell as the two men’s gazes clashed from across the length of the room. It was Hendon who turned away.

  “You have never been much like me,” he said gruffly. “Either in temperament or interests. It made relations between us difficult at times. I won’t deny that. But I never doubted for a moment that you are my son.”

  The pressure in Sebastian’s chest was suddenly so great he found it impossible to speak.

  Hendon said, “We sailed at the beginning of February, and we returned in the middle of July. If you know when Lady Prescott’s son was born, then you’ll understand that she has her own reasons for obfuscating the exact dates of her late husband’s departure and return.”

  When Sebastian still remained silent, the Earl made another jerky, angry gesture and took a step forward. “For God’s sake, Sebastian, think! Jarvis was on that mission. Do you seriously believe that if he had proof my son and heir was not the fruit of my own loins, he wouldn’t have used that information against me years ago?”

  Sebastian’s hand tightened around his brandy, reminding him of its existence. He raised the glass to his lips and drained the contents in one long pull. “Perhaps he has his own reasons for leaving the mission cloaked in obscurity.”

  “Such as?”

>   Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Hendon’s jaw hardened. “We sailed in early February.”

  Sebastian set aside his empty glass with a click. “If you are not my father, then Kat is not my sister.”

  Something shifted in the depths of the Earl’s intense blue eyes. “So that’s what this is about, is it? My God. Do you love her so much that you would wish yourself not my son? Simply so that you could have her?”

  “Yes.”

  Another long silence fell between them. This time when Hendon spoke, his voice was hushed, almost gentle. “I’m sorry, Sebastian. But you are my child. And so is Kat.”

  “You’ve lied to me before. Why should I believe you now?” Sebastian turned toward the door.

  “I’m not lying about this.”

  Sebastian kept walking.

  “You hear me, Sebastian?” Hendon called after him. “I’m not lying about this.”

  Sebastian returned to Brook Street to find a message from Paul Gibson awaiting him.

  I’ve finished with your Reverend, wrote the surgeon. I’ll be attending at St. Bartholomew’s this afternoon, but I should be at the surgery after four.

  Somehow, amidst all the revelations of that day, Gibson’s planned postmortem on the Reverend of St. Margaret’s had been forgotten. Sebastian glanced at the clock.

  It was nearly eight.

  He arrived at Gibson’s ancient house near the Tower to find the Irishman eating ham and cooked cabbage in solitary state at one end of his dining room table. A brass candlestick heavily splashed with old dried wax sat at his elbow; the other end of the table lay buried beneath piles of books and gruesome-looking specimen jars.

  “I didn’t know you kept such a fashionably late dinner hour,” said Sebastian, drawing out one of the empty chairs beside his friend.

  “There was an accident in one of the breweries near the hospital,” said Gibson, spearing a large slice of ham with his fork. Neither death nor its leavings ever seemed to dull the surgeon’s appetite. He nodded to the half-carved joint resting on a nearby platter. “Like a plate?”

  Sebastian suppressed a shudder. “No, thank you. You say you’ve finished with Earnshaw?”

  “This morning.” Gibson took one last mouthful of ham and pushed up from the table. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  Lighting a horn lantern in the kitchen, the surgeon led the way across the tangled, rain-soaked garden to push open the door to his small stone outbuilding. The Reverend lay upon the central slab, his flesh pallid, his body neatly eviscerated. The small stab wound in his chest stood out like a puckered purple tear against the dead white skin

  “What kind of knife?” asked Sebastian, studying the wound.

  “A dagger. About ten inches long, I’d say. Aimed well by someone who either knew what he was doing, or got very, very lucky.” Gibson limped over to lift one of Earnshaw’s plump, soft hands. By now, the rigor mortis had largely faded from the Reverend’s limbs, leaving them limp. “You’ll notice there are no signs of any defensive wounds.”

  “So he may have known his attacker.”

  “Either that, or he was taken by surprise and was simply too frightened to react.”

  Sebastian drew in a deep breath that filled his head with the stench of dank stone, decay, and death. “Anything else?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He went to stand looking out over the dark, rain-soaked garden. The wind had come up again, thrashing the half-dead trees and scuttling the heavy clouds overhead. He kept trying to bring his mind back to the murder of the man lying on that slab behind him, but all he could think about was the gleam of pride he’d glimpsed in Hendon’s eyes the day an eight-year-old Sebastian first brought his hunter smoothly over one of the worst ditches in Cornwall, or . . .

  Or the way Kat’s eyes glowed with love when Sebastian brushed his lips against her cheek.

  Gibson came up beside him. “You look like hell,” he said, his gaze on Sebastian’s face.

  Sebastian gave a sharp, humorless laugh and stepped out into the wind.

  Gibson secured the door to the building behind him. “Come on, then. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  The wind blew sharp bursts of rain against the leaded windows of the old Tudor inn at the base of Tower Hill as the two friends settled into a dark booth in the corner. Fortified with ale, Sebastian ran through his conversations from that morning, with the ostler Jeb Cooper and with the old nurse Bessie Dunlop. He told Gibson of the quarrel that was said to have taken place between Sir Nigel and Lady Prescott on the night of Sir Nigel’s disappearance, and the child that arrived barely seven months after his father’s return from the Colonies.

  He did not tell Gibson about the controversy surrounding the departure dates of the mission to the Colonies, nor what a December sail date would imply about Sebastian’s own legitimacy.

  “Very few infants born at seven months survive,” said Gibson.

  “Yet it is possible?”

  “Yes, it’s possible. But I’d say it’s far more likely Sir Nigel’s lady was unfaithful.”

  Sebastian was remembering what his aunt Henrietta had told him about Lady Rosamond’s unsuitable suitor and the desperate bolt to Gretna Green thwarted by her enraged father.

  Gibson leaned forward. “It makes sense, does it not? Sir Nigel returns from America to find his wife pregnant by another man. Husband and wife quarrel. Sir Nigel slams out of the house, calling for his horse. He rides off into the night, determined to confront the man who cuckolded him, and—”

  “And ends up dead in the crypt of the local church,” finished Sebastian wryly.

  Gibson sat back. “Ah. I was forgetting that part. You’ve no notion of the identity of this suitor?”

  “No. There’re also the Alcibiades letters to be taken into account. Sir Nigel may have ridden away from the Grange that night in a passion over his wife’s infidelity, but I think those letters are the key to his death.”

  Sebastian found himself gazing at the young barmaid laughing with the innkeeper as she scooped up fistfuls of tankards. She looked no more than sixteen, with a heavy fall of auburn hair and a wide, infectious smile, and she reminded him so much of Kat at that age that his chest ached with yearning for all that had been lost, and all that might have been.

  “What is it, Sebastian?” asked Gibson softly. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “What?” Sebastian brought his gaze back to his friend’s face and shook his head. Rather than answer the surgeon’s question, he said, “You do realize, of course, that none of this even begins to answer the question we actually started with.”

  “What question?”

  “Who killed the bloody Bishop.”

  “And the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw,” Gibson reminded him.

  “And the Reverend Earnshaw,” said Sebastian.

  It was when they were leaving the tavern that Sebastian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded square of paper. Dr. and Mrs. Daniel McCain, Number 11 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.

  “What’s that?” said Gibson, watching him.

  Sebastian frowned down at the scrawled direction and resurrected with difficulty the memory of the Bishop’s chaplain accosting him in Whitehall that afternoon with some babble about a hiatus in the Bishop’s appointments.

  “It’s an address,” said Sebastian. “The name and address of a family in Chelsea the Bishop visited the Monday before he died.” He could be wrong, but he had a disquieting suspicion that McCain was the name of the doctor he’d seen escorting Miss Hero Jarvis around the Royal Hospital.

  “Chelsea?” said Gibson. “What the bloody hell was Prescott doing in Chelsea?”

  “I don’t know. But first thing tomorrow morning, I intend to find out.”

  Chapter 31

  MONDAY, 13 JULY 1812

  The next morning dawned cool and gray, with a heavy mist that blanketed the wet city and hung in dirty wisps about the chimney pots. Sir Henry Lovejoy
was in his chambers at Bow Street’s public office, a scarf wrapped around his neck and the Hue and Cry spread open on the desk before him, when Sebastian strolled into his office.

  “My lord,” said the little magistrate, leaping to his feet. “Please have a seat.”

  “No, thank you,” said Sebastian, shaking his head. “I won’t be but a moment.” He drew a folded slip of paper from his pocket and laid it on the open pages of the weekly police gazette. “I have here the name and sailing date of a vessel that was said to have left Portsmouth in February of 1782. But it is also possible the ship sailed from London sometime in mid-December of 1781, headed for the American Colonies. I’d like you to verify when and where it sailed.”

  “ ‘The Albatross,’ ” read Lovejoy, fingering the paper. “The Board of Trade should have the information you require. I can go there this afternoon.” He glanced up. “I take it this is related in some way to the deaths of Bishop Francis Prescott, the Reverend Earnshaw, and Sir Nigel?”

  Sebastian felt a rare suggestion of heat touch his cheeks. “Yes. But I’d appreciate it if you could keep whatever information you discover confidential.”

  Sir Henry gave one of his jerky little bows. “You may, of course, rely upon my utmost discretion.”

  “I know,” said Sebastian, turning toward the door. “Thank you.”

  “I’m not entirely certain I understand this continuing fascination of yours with America,” said Sir Henry, stopping him.

  Sebastian turned. “You don’t find it curious, the way the events surrounding both Prescott men’s deaths keep circling back to the Colonies?”

  The magistrate shrugged. “Most men of affairs in London have ties to America. I would imagine your own father has had dealings with the Colonies.”

  Sebastian blinked, and kept his peace.

  “Personally,” continued Lovejoy, “I find the Bishop’s recent encounter with Jack Slade far more telling.”