by C. S. Harris
Why Mermaids Sing
THE SEBASTIAN ST. CYR MYSTERY SERIES
What Angels Fear
When Gods Die
WHY MERMAIDS SING
A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery
C. S. HARRIS
Obsidian
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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Copyright © The Two Talers, LLC, 2007
All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Harris, C. S.
Why mermaids sing: a Sebastian St. Cyr mystery/C. S. Harris.
p. cm.
ISBN: 1-4295-8431-9
1. Great Britain—History—George III, 1760–1820—Fiction. 2. Nobility—Crimes against—Fiction.
3. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.R5877W48 2007
813.6—dc22 2006102818
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast,
who suffered so much, and are still suffering,
from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Acknowledgments
Why Mermaids Sing will always be, for me, my “Katrina book.” I began the first chapter just days before the storm slammed into my New Orleans–area home. In the dark months that followed, as we shifted from one place of refuge to the next and started on the long, hard road to reconstruction, there were many times when I seriously doubted the manuscript would ever see publication. I wrote this book in a Baton Rouge apartment, in a cabin by a lake in central Louisiana, in the back room of my mother’s house, and in the gutted office of my own half-built home. That I managed to pull it off is due to the many wonderful people who stood by me.
I am especially grateful to my editor, Ellen Edwards, and all the great people at NAL who were so supportive and understanding; my agent, Helen Breitwieser, who said cheerfully, “You can do it!” everytime I started losing faith; all the many friends who were there for us, including Jon, Ben, Bruce and Emily, Laura, Elora, and Charles; and my incredible, resilient, unbeatable family—my mother, Penny, Samantha, Danielle, and Steve.
Thank you all.
Chapter 1
SATURDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 18II, ON THE ROAD BETWEEN MERTON ABBEY AND LONDON
Fear twisted Dominic Stanton’s stomach, compressed his chest until his breath came shallow and quick.
He told himself he was being a fool. A fool and a coward. He was a Stanton, for Christ’s sake. In less then two months, he would be nineteen years old. Men his age—younger, much younger—went off to war. Yet here he was just a few miles outside London and he was acting like some silly girl from the village, about to pee his pants with fear every time the thunder rumbled or the rising wind rustled the oak leaves overhead.
A copse of mingled oak and chestnut closed around him. Dominic kneed his mare into a canter. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, but the heavy cloud cover and the thickness of the grove created their own eerie air of twilight. Over the keening of the wind, he could hear the faint clip-clop of a horse’s hooves coming from somewhere behind him. He wasn’t imagining it again, was he? He glanced over his shoulder at the empty road curving away out of sight. “Jesus,” he whispered.
It was his mother’s fault, he decided. She was the one who’d insisted he make it home in time for her stupid dinner party. If it weren’t for her, he’d still be back at the pub with Charlie and Burlington and the rest, calling for another round and talking over each blow and rally of the prizefight they’d all ridden down to Merton Abbey to watch. Instead, here he was riding back to London alone at dusk with a storm about to break.
Telling himself he was hurrying be
cause he was going to be late, Dominic urged his mare on faster…and felt his saddle begin to slip.
Shit. Stupid ostler, forgetting to tighten the girth. Dominic reined in, his face slick with cold sweat. Casting another quick glance around, he hopped down from the saddle. His fingers were shaky, clumsy. Throwing the stirrup leather out of the way, he fumbled for the buckle and heard the rattle of harness, the clatter of wheels coming up behind.
He whirled around, his mare tossing her head and sidestepping nervously away from him. A horse and carriage loomed out of the darkness. “Oh my God,” whispered Dominic as the driver drew up.
Chapter 2
SUNDAY, 6:45 A.M., 15 SEPTEMBER 18II, WESTMINSTER
Sir Henry Lovejoy, chief magistrate at Queen Square, Westminster, stood at the edge of the Old Palace Yard. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, he forced himself to look at the mutilated body sprawled before him.
Dominic Stanton lay on his back, his arms flung wide, his eyes open to the misty sky above. Beads of moisture had collected on the boy’s light, softly curling hair, while the dampness left from last night’s rain had seeped into the fine cloth of his blue coat to darken it until it looked almost black. From the hips up, the body appeared unmarked except for the traces of blood on his cravat and the strange object shoved in his mouth.
What had been done to his legs was unspeakable.
“For God’s sake, cover him up again,” said Lovejoy, his stomach heaving.
The constable reached to flip the sheet of canvas back over the body. “Yes, sir.”
The early-morning fog rolling in from the nearby river felt cold and damp against Lovejoy’s face. Lifting his gaze, he stared up at the ancient soot-stained walls of the House of Lords beside them.
“Think it’s the same killer, sir?”
It had been just three months since they’d found another young man, a banker’s son named Barclay Carmichael, in St. James’s Park. His body had been mutilated in virtually the same horrid way. Lovejoy glanced over at his stocky, ruddy-faced constable. “You can’t seriously be suggesting London has two such killers at work, now, can you?”
Constable Higgins shifted uncomfortably. “No, sir. Of course not.”
Henry Lovejoy let his gaze wander around the Yard. They’d roped off the area to keep back the crowds of curious onlookers already beginning to gather. Some half a dozen constables were walking the Yard in a slowly advancing line, their heads bowed as they searched the ground. Lovejoy didn’t expect them to find anything. They hadn’t found anything before, with Carmichael’s son.
“You’re certain the lad is Dominic Stanton?” said Lovejoy.
“Appears so, sir. There’s an engraved watch in his pocket, and the caretaker who found the body recognized him. Says he used to come here all the time as a little one with his da.”
Lovejoy pressed his lips together. Alfred, Lord Stanton was an active member of the House of Lords and an intimate of the Prince Regent. As bad as things had been after the murder of young Barclay Carmichael last June, this time would be worse.
The disembodied sound of a foghorn drifted in with the mist from the river. Lovejoy shivered. It might be only September, but already the morning held a chill that told of the coming of winter.
“Lord Devlin is here, sir.”
Lovejoy swung around. A tall, aristocratic-looking gentleman crossed the Yard toward them. His breeches were of the finest doeskin, his coat inimitably tailored, his waistcoat of white silk. But a day’s growth of beard shadowed a handsome face set in hard lines, and Lovejoy knew a moment of misgiving. From the looks of things, Devlin had yet to make it to his own bed. And Lovejoy was not at all certain how the young Viscount would react to what the magistrate was about to propose.
“Thank you for coming, my lord,” said Lovejoy as Devlin came up to them. “I apologize for the unseemliness of the hour.”
Heir and only surviving son to the Earl of Hendon, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, glanced down at the canvas-covered figure at their feet, then up again. “Why precisely am I here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he followed the line of slowly advancing constables.
The man had strange amber-colored eyes that still had the ability to make Lovejoy uncomfortable even after some eight months of acquaintance. Lovejoy cleared his throat. “We’ve had another young gentleman killed, my lord. And partially butchered. Just like Barclay Carmichael.”
The Viscount’s brows twitched together. “Let me see.”
“I’m afraid it’s a rather distressing sight, my lord.”
Ignoring him, Devlin hunkered down beside the body and flipped back the canvas.
A faint quiver of distaste passed over his lordship’s features, but that was all. Watching him, Lovejoy supposed the Viscount must have seen many such sights—and worse—during his years at war.
Devlin’s gaze traveled over the dew-dampened coat to the point where the boy’s breeches had been cut away. What was left of the Stanton boy’s legs looked like something one might see hanging up for sale in a meat market, the flesh hacked and raw, the exposed bones gleaming white.
“Carmichael’s body was butchered like this?”
Lovejoy brought up a handkerchief to wipe his face. “Yes. Only, in Carmichael’s case it was the arms. Not the legs.”
Devlin studied the boy’s smooth-skinned face, framed in soft blond curls. “Who is this one?”
“A young man by the name of Dominic Stanton. Eldest son of Alfred, Lord Stanton. Just eighteen years old.”
Devlin nodded. “I still don’t understand why I’m here.”
Lovejoy hunched his shoulders against the damp cold. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. “I was hoping perhaps you might be able to help us understand what is happening.”
Devlin held his gaze steadily. “Why me?”
“These young men are of your world, my lord.”
“And you think their killer might also be of my world? Is that what you’re saying?”
“We don’t know, my lord. The boy was obviously killed someplace else and then brought here.”
“And the missing flesh?”
“Has not been found, my lord.”
Devlin stared across the Yard, to where the apse of Westminster Abbey loomed out of the mist. Beyond that, one could just make out the ancient bulk of Westminster Hall. “Why leave the body here, do you suppose?”
“It’s a public spot,” suggested Lovejoy. “The killer obviously wanted the body to be seen. And quickly found.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he was trying to send some sort of message.”
Lovejoy fought back a shiver. “A message? To whom?”
From the fog-shrouded river a hundred yards or so away came the sound of another horn, followed by a burst of laughter from unseen men on a passing barge. Devlin pushed to his feet. “Where does Lord Stanton say his son was last night?”
“We’ve yet to speak to his lordship.”
Devlin nodded, his forehead creasing with a frown as he studied the distorted face of the desecrated body before them. “What’s that in the boy’s mouth?”
Lovejoy had to turn away again and swallow a few times before he could answer. “We’re not certain yet, but it appears to be the severed hoof of a goat.”
Chapter 3
Leaving the Yard, Sebastian cut behind the massive stone walls of the House of Lords to where a set of stairs led down to the banks of the Thames. The fog was beginning to lift with the strengthening of the sun; in the clear morning light, the water showed flat and silver.
He didn’t want this again, he thought, pausing at the top of the steps to stare off across the river to where a wherryman worked his oars in slow, rhythmic strokes. Didn’t want to find himself once again sucked into the midst of the kind of tortured emotions that destroyed people’s lives. Murder always seemed to lead to more killing, and Sebastian was tired of killing. Tired of death.
He’d spent last night in the arms of the woman he would make hi
s wife, if only she’d let him. But she wouldn’t let him, and so he had left her bed before the sun rose. He’d just reached his own house on Brook Street when Lovejoy’s constable found him. He rasped his hand across his unshaven face and wished he’d stayed in Kat’s bed.
He heard the magistrate, Sir Henry, come up behind him. “Tell me about the other one, about Barclay Carmichael,” said Sebastian, keeping his gaze on the river.
“His body was also found early in the morning,” said Sir Henry, “hanging upside down from a tree in St. James’s Park. But it was obvious he hadn’t been killed there.”
“You say he had been mutilated, as well?”
“Yes. The arms.” Sir Henry paused at the water’s edge a slight distance away. “He’d been with friends the night before. Left them at White’s and said he was walking home. According to his friends, he was slightly foxed, but not excessively so.”