by C. S. Harris
“What the hell is it?”
“Milk thistle, my lord. To cleanse the lingering toxins from the liver.”
“Toxins?”
“Brandy, my lord.”
“Oh. That,” said Sebastian, and downed the vile brew in one long, shuddering pull.
The tall young woman in an elegant walking gown of slate blue with a matching spencer sat in one of the cane chairs beside the drawing room’s front window. By the time Sebastian put in an appearance, she had been sitting there for quite some time and had availed herself of a book to read.
“The Libation Bearers,” she said, holding the volume up when he walked in the door. “It seems a strange choice to leave lying about.”
“Bishop Prescott was reading it. I thought I’d take the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the tale.” He walked to the tea tray Morey had sent up. “Have you no regard for the dictates of propriety, Miss Jarvis?”
It was considered most improper for a young woman to visit the home of an unmarried gentleman. “Of course I do,” she said in some annoyance. “I brought my maid. She awaits me in the hall.”
“I noticed. And there’s the veil, I suppose. I assume you took a hackney?”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally,” he said, reaching for the pot. “Tea?”
“Please.” She pushed back her veil, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face. “You certainly look as if you could use it.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly, adding a measure of cream to two cups before pouring in the tea. “I take it you’ve come to continue our discourse from the other night?” He held out her tea and, to his chagrin, heard the cup rattle against its saucer.
“Our what?” Taking the cup, she looked puzzled for a moment, then colored lightly as understanding dawned. “Good heavens. Of course not. I’ve come because I’ve discovered some interesting new information about Lord Quillian.”
“Quillian? Again? What has the poor man done to earn your undying enmity?”
“Enmity has nothing to do with it. I have simply come to the conclusion after viewing all of the available evidence that he is the man most likely to have murdered Bishop Prescott.”
“Quillian claims he was with the Prince Regent in the Circular Room at Carlton House the night of the murder. He could be lying, of course, but I doubt it. Such a lie would be too easily disproved.”
“He was there,” she said, taking a dainty sip of her tea. “But he didn’t arrive until shortly after ten.”
Sebastian reached for his own cup. “You’re certain?”
“Yes. My father was also with the Prince that night, and my father is very observant.”
When Sebastian said nothing, her eyes narrowed. “Good heavens. Surely you don’t suspect my father of killing Prescott?”
“Personally? No. Lord Jarvis never does his own dirty work.”
“He also favors the subtle over the flamboyant. If someone had slipped arsenic into the Bishop’s wine, you might with reason suspect him. But to set someone to bash in the Bishop’s head in a crypt full of moldering bodies? I don’t think so.”
Sebastian raised his tea to his lips and took a deep swallow. “He might have been less than wise in his choice of agents.”
“My father is never less than wise.”
“We are all less than wise at times,” he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing her color.
He went to lean one arm along the marble mantel of the fireplace. “You are aware,” he said, “that the decades-old murder victim discovered in the crypt the day of Bishop Prescott’s death was actually the Bishop’s own brother, Sir Nigel Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you suggesting? That Lord Quillian—having somehow discovered the existence of Sir Nigel’s body in the crypt—funded the renovations on the church of St. Margaret’s in order to lure the Bishop out to Tanfield Hill and kill him?”
“Not exactly. I am suggesting that Lord Quillian knew Sir Nigel’s body was in the crypt because Lord Quillian is the one who put it there.”
“You do realize, of course, that Lord Quillian was a young man of some twenty-two or twenty-three years at the time of Sir Nigel’s disappearance? What possible reason could Quillian have had for murdering a forty-year-old baronet he barely knew?”
She drained her teacup and set it on the table beside her with a sharp click. “I assume you are aware of the secret mission sent by the King to the American Colonies?”
She must have obtained that little gem of information from her father. Sebastian studied her face, wondering what else Jarvis had told her. It was a moment before he could trust himself to answer. “Yes.”
“You also know that while Sir Nigel was in America, he discovered evidence of a traitor? Someone in a position to pass important information on to our enemies?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian in that same noncommittal voice.
She leaned forward impatiently, her hands coming up together. “It seems to me that the traitor must somehow have discovered that Sir Nigel was onto him, and killed the Baronet before he could reveal the traitor’s identity.”
“That is certainly one possibility.”
She sat back, her brows drawing together in a suspicious frown. “What other possibility is there?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.”
She stared at him in dawning indignation. “You what?”
It was one thing for Sebastian to entertain suspicions regarding Lady Prescott’s fidelity to her late husband, and something else again for him to spread such rumors amongst the ton. Pushing away from the hearth, he strolled over to the tea tray and raised the pot invitingly. “May I offer you some more tea, Miss Jarvis?”
“No, thank you,” she said, coming to her feet and reaching to retrieve the reticule that had tumbled unnoticed to the floor.
“Miss Jarvis, we must talk,” he said, watching her. “And I don’t mean about the murder of the Bishop of London.”
She swung to face him, the dusky skirts of her walking dress swirling gracefully about her ankles. “If you are referring to our conversation of the other night, the matter is settled.”
“Settled? How is it settled?”
She simply stared back at him in silence, her lips tightly pressed, her gray eyes hard. They had come together, essentially, as strangers; she knew little of him beyond the fact that he was her father’s enemy. She had no reason to trust him and every reason not to, and there was nothing he could think of to say that would change that.
He said, “You would have me think the Bishop’s visit to the McCains last Monday a . . . what? A coincidence?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, remember?”
“Whether you believe his visit was a coincidence or not is immaterial.” She jerked open the strings of her reticule. “You are right; I never should have come here.”
“So why did you?”
“A few hours of simple research enabled me to draw up a list of the names of those who were either close to the King or in the Foreign Office at the time of the American revolt.” She drew out a sheaf of papers and handed them to him. “Here.”
He took the pages from her and glanced through them. “This is quite a list.”
“It is. However, thirty years is a long time. I have gone back over the list and eliminated the names of those who are either dead, infirm or otherwise incapacitated, or currently removed from London.” She held out another, smaller sheet. “As you can see, the list of those left for consideration is markedly shorter.”
There were only some half a dozen names on the second list, three of which immediately leapt out at him: the Earl of Hendon. Charles, Lord Jarvis. And Lord Quillian.
“Quillian?” said Sebastian, looking up.
“Quillian. Thirty years ago he was a younger son, just beginning what was to be a career in the Foreign Office. It wasn’t until a few years later that his older brother died and he inherited th
e title and estates.”
“You’re certain?”
She turned toward the door. “Feel free to duplicate my efforts.”
He said, “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“Bishop Prescott was my friend.”
He shook his head. “There’s more to it than that.”
“What else could there be?” she asked, lowering her veil into place. “Good day, my lord.”
Chapter 37
Lord Quillian’s elegant townhouse on Curzon Street was a bachelor residence. He had never married, always claiming whenever asked that he simply found households containing women and children too noisy and fatiguing to be endured.
Living in solitary state, he’d had one of the bedchambers on the second floor turned into a massive dressing room, hung with burgundy-and-navy-striped silk and fitted with vast stretches of dark cherry cupboards and drawers. When Sebastian plied the knocker at the barbaric hour of eleven that morning, he was shown up to this vast chamber.
Clothed in fawn-colored breeches, a white shirt open at the neck, and a paisley dressing gown, Lord Quillian had his hands soaking in two bowls of sudsy water. “What an unfashionable hour for a call,” he said, not looking up. “I take it therefore I can safely assume you are here for an unfashionable purpose?”
Tossing his hat and gloves on a side table, Sebastian went to lean against the frame of the tall window overlooking the street, his arms crossed at his chest. “You didn’t tell me you were in the Foreign Office thirty years ago.”
Quillian glanced over at the small, plump valet hovering nearby with a hand towel. “Leave us.”
The man bowed, laid the towel beside his master, and withdrew.
Quillian lifted his hands from the water and dried each finger with careful precision. “Didn’t I? Perhaps you are right. I do recall I mentioned that my situation as a younger son reduced me to the vulgar necessity of having to earn my own bread. But I may not have identified the exact nature of my”—he made a face at the word—“employment. It was not, needless to say, a high point in my life.”
“How did your brother die?”
“My brother?” Quillian looked up at that, his eyes narrowing. “If you must know, he died of smallpox. What precisely are you suggesting, my lord? That I was in such dire financial straits as a young man that I sold my country’s secrets to the Americans? And then, when an ill-timed peace ended that lucrative venture, I had my brother set upon by footpads so that I might inherit?”
Sebastian studied the toe of his boot. “I don’t recall saying anything about a traitor.”
Quillian held himself still for a moment, then inclined his head in wry acknowledgment. “Touché, my lord. You are quite right; you did not. Yet you are such an indefatigably inquisitive young man, I’ve no doubt by now that you have learned of the Alcibiades letters.”
“It’s my understanding that the existence of the Alcibiades letters was a closely guarded secret.”
Quillian reached for a small knife and began paring his nails. “And so it was—thirty years ago. But with the passage of time these things become less critical. Perceval let drop a few choice tidbits about the scandal within my hearing last April. Needless to say, my ears pricked up. I mean, the timing was so curious. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
Lord Quillian sighed dramatically. “In the end, it all came to naught, of course. Here I was hoping to discover that Sir Nigel was himself Alcibiades, whereas in fact Sir Nigel was actually the one who discovered the existence of the traitor. Although not, it seems, the man’s identity.”
“Not that we know.”
Quillian opened his eyes wide in a parody of enlightenment. “So you’re suggesting . . . what, precisely? That Sir Nigel confronted me with evidence of my supposed traitorous dealings, whereupon I killed him to keep him silent?” Quillian frowned. “Yes, I can see where such a scenario has a certain element of logic. There’s only one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not a traitor.” Quillian pushed to his feet and threw off his silk dressing gown. “Although I realize that’s an easy thing to say. Not so easy to prove.”
“I’m told you didn’t arrive at Carlton House before ten o’clock on the evening of the Tuesday in question,” said Sebastian. “Where were you before that?”
Quillian looked faintly amused. “Not anyplace I care to tell about,” he said, selecting a freshly starched cravat from the pile laid out for him.
His attention all for his own image in the mirror, Quillian carefully wrapped the white Irish linen around his neck and began the delicate business of tying the ends. “I take it your attempts to identify the Bishop’s killer have not exactly been crowned with success. Is that why you’ve turned your attention to the events of thirty years ago? Surely you don’t think the Bishop and his brother were both killed by the same man?”
“I consider it one possibility, yes.”
Quillian leaned forward, his gaze intent as he made a few careful adjustments to the exaggerated knot of his cravat. “I suppose you know what you are doing. But I think you’re wrong.”
“Really? So what do you think happened to the brothers Prescott?”
“I think Francis Prescott killed his brother thirty years ago for the inheritance. And then, when my helpful interference brought the body of the good Bishop’s victim to light, he went rushing back to the scene of his crime—only to fall victim in his turn.”
“To whom?”
Turning away from his mirror, the dandy reached for a silk waistcoat of the palest salmon silk backed by fine white linen. “I did give you a little hint the other day. Did you not follow up on it?”
Sebastian frowned. “You mean William Franklin? Would you have me believe the American killed Bishop Prescott over a mere slight involving a couple of schoolboys?”
“Dear me,” said Quillian, deftly fastening the row of tiny pearl buttons that ran up the waistcoat’s front. “Can it be that you don’t know?”
“Don’t know . . . what?”
“The depth of the animosity William Franklin held for our good Bishop. You see, as one of the senior Loyalists to take refuge in London, William Franklin worked tirelessly on behalf of his fellow Americans, petitioning Parliament for their relief. Yet when Franklin’s own case came before the Parliamentary Commission, he was awarded a mere trifle. The bulk of his claim—amounting to nearly fifty thousand pounds—was disavowed.”
“Why?”
“Because Francis Prescott convinced the commission that Franklin’s loyalty was suspect, due to the treasonous activities of his well-known father, Benjamin Franklin. It was Prescott’s contention that Franklin père et fils had deliberately supported opposite sides of the conflict, so that no matter who won, the Franklins would come out on top.”
“When was this?”
“The commission’s hearings? The late eighties, I believe.”
“So you’re suggesting that William Franklin waited more than twenty years, until he was old and infirm, before suddenly deciding one night to follow the Bishop out to a rural parish church and bash in his head?”
“La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid. Perhaps now that his wife is dead, Franklin feels he no longer has anything to lose?” Quillian shrugged. “But you are the expert on murder, so I suppose I must bow to your superior knowledge of the subject.”
Vengeance is a dish best enjoyed cold. Sebastian watched the Baron slip an intricately engraved gold watch into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I’m curious about one thing,” said Sebastian. “How do you come to know so much about Prescott’s dealings with William Franklin?”
Quillian added a fob to the end of his watch chain. “What’s the saying? ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ Francis Prescott made himself my enemy. Therefore I made it my business to know all the dirty little secrets our good Bishop didn’t want anyone else to know.” Reaching out, he gave the bell a soft tug. An instant lat
er, the Baron’s valet appeared in the doorway.
“Are we ready to put on our coat, my lord?” said the little man with a bow. “Shall I ask James to assist?”
Sebastian pushed away from the windowsill. “It takes the combined efforts of your valet and a footman to get you into your coat?”
“I should rather hope so,” said Quillian, looking affronted. “Any excess material would lead to unsightly wrinkles. And that would never do.”
Sebastian reached for his hat and gloves. “I’ll show myself out.” But he paused in the doorway to look back and say, “One of these days, an abolition act will make it though Parliament, with or without Bishop Prescott. You do know that, don’t you?”
“I know it,” said the Baron, positioning his cuffs as the valet held a flawlessly tailored a coat of superfine in readiness and the footman waited to assist. “But without Prescott, I can’t see it happening for another twenty years or more. And who knows?” The Baron smiled. “By then I may well be dead.”
William Franklin stood at one of the open sides of the long, low building that stretched out for hundreds of feet along the edge of Penton Place, near Hanging Field. Known as a ropewalk, the structure had low brick walls that reached only to hip height and a simple shed roof supported by rows of crude posts. Within its shelter, hemp fibers were spun into threads and then twisted into rope. The strands could be twisted together in a straight line only with the strands fully extended, which accounted for the ropewalk’s great length.
“Fascinating, is it not?” said Franklin when Sebastian strolled up to him. The old man had to shout to be heard over the clickety-clack of spinning metal wheels. “When I was a wee lad, my father used to take me down to the ropewalk near the harbor in Philadelphia. Ellen always enjoys it, too.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes against the cloud of billowing hemp dust. It was messy work, the air heavy with the scent of hemp and tar and the whirl of the spinning fibers. “She’s not with you today?”