The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  Grey managed a nod, cursing himself for his idiocy, and then Quarry and Magruder were gone, leaving the faceless corpse naked and staring in the flickering light.

  “You in trouble, me lord?” Tom Byrd was frowning worriedly at him from the shadows, having evidently divined some hint of the undercurrents in the preceding conversation.

  “I hope not.” He stood looking down at the dead man. Who the devil was he? Grey had been convinced that the body was that of Trevelyan’s lover—and it might still be, he reminded himself. True, Caswell had insisted that it was a woman whom Trevelyan entertained at Lavender House, but Caswell might have been mistaken in his own powers of olfactory discernment—or lying, for reasons unknown.

  Use his best judgment, Harry said. His best judgment was that Trevelyan was in this up to his neck—but there was no direct evidence.

  There was certainly no evidence to connect the Scanlons with this business, and precious little to connect them with O’Connell’s murder—but Harry’s motive in ordering an arrest there was apparent; if inquiries were eventually made into the conduct of the investigation, it would be prudent to make it look as though affairs were being pursued aggressively. The muddier the waters, the less likely anyone might be to take up the matter of Magda’s inconvenient nationality.

  “Major?” He turned, to see Corporal Hicks frowning at him from the doorway. “You aren’t going to leave that thing here, are you?”

  “Oh. No, Corporal. You may remove it to the coroner’s. Fetch some men.”

  “Right, sir.” Hicks disappeared with alacrity, but Grey hesitated. Was there any further information that the body itself could offer?

  “You think it was the same cove what did for that Sergeant O’Connell what did for this ’un, me lord?” Tom Byrd had come to stand alongside him.

  “I have no particular reason to think so,” Grey said, a little startled at this supposition. “Why?”

  “Well, the, uh, face.” Tom gestured, a little awkwardly, at the remains, and swallowed audibly. One eyeball had been dislodged so far from its parent socket as to dangle out onto the crushed cheek, staring accusingly off into the shadows of the hay shed. “Seems like whoever did this didn’t care for him much—same as whoever stamped on the Sergeant.”

  Grey considered that, pursing his lips. Reluctantly, he shook his head.

  “I don’t think so, Tom. I think that whoever did this”—he gestured at the corpse—“did it in order to disguise the gentleman’s identity, not out of personal dislike. It’s heavy work, to crush a skull like that, and this was a very thorough job. One would have to be in an absolute frenzy of hatred—and if that was the case, why shoot him first?”

  “Did they? Shoot him first, I mean, me lord. ’Coz what you said about dead men don’t bleed—this one surely did, so he can’t have been dead when they … erm.” He glanced at the smashed face, and then away. “But he couldn’t live long like that—so why shoot him, then?”

  Grey stared at Tom. The boy was pale, but bright-eyed, intent on his argument.

  “You have a very logical sort of mind, Tom,” he said. “Why, indeed?” He stood for a moment looking down at the corpse, trying to reconcile the disparate bits of information at hand. What Tom said made obvious sense—and yet he was convinced that whoever had killed this man had not beaten in his face from anger. Just as he was convinced that whoever had stamped on Tim O’Connell’s face had acted from precisely that emotion.

  Tom Byrd stood patiently by, keeping quiet as Grey circled the table, viewing the corpse from all angles. Nothing seemed to make sense of the puzzle, though, and when Hicks’s men came in, he allowed them to bundle up the body into a canvas.

  “D’you want us to take this, as well, sir?” One of the men picked up the sodden hem of the green dress, gingerly, between two fingers.

  “Not even the mort-man’d want that,” the other objected, wrinkling his nose at the reek.

  “You couldn’t sell it to a ragpicker, even was you to wash it.”

  “No,” Grey said, “leave it, for now.”

  “You don’t mean to leave it in here, do you, sir?” Hicks stood by, arms folded, glowering at the sodden pile of velvet.

  “No, I suppose not,” Grey said, with a sigh. “Don’t want to put the horses off their feed, do we?”

  It was full dark as they left the stables, but with a gibbous moon rising. No coach would take them as passengers with their malodorous burden, even with it wrapped in tarred canvas, and so they were obliged to walk to Jermyn Street.

  They made the journey for the most part in silence, Grey mulling over the events of the day, trying vainly to fit the dead man somehow into the puzzle. Two things alone seemed clear about the matter: one, that a great effort had been made to disguise the man’s identity. Two, that there was some connexion between the dead man and the brothel in Meacham Street—which in turn meant that there must be some connexion with Joseph Trevelyan.

  This seemed vaguely wrong; if one’s chief motive was to disguise identity, why clothe the corpse in such a distinctive gown? His mind supplied the answer, belatedly reminding him of what he had seen but not consciously noted at the time. The man had not been dressed in the gown after death—he had been wearing it when he was shot.

  There was no doubt about it. The bullet hole in the dress was singed round the edges, and there were powder grains in the fabric of the dress for some distance around it; likewise, the wound in the chest had shreds of fabric driven into it.

  That began to make matters seem more sensible. If the victim had been wearing the gown when shot, and there was some reason not to remove it—then the smashing of the man’s face to obscure identity was a reasonable step.

  Look at it from the other direction, he thought. If Magruder had not been on the alert for any mention of a green velvet gown—for no one could have known that there was any official interest in such a thing—what might have been expected to happen?

  The corpse would have been discovered, and taken to the nearest morgue—which was … where, exactly? Near Vauxhall, perhaps?

  That was promising; Vauxhall was a rowdy district, full of theaters and amusement parks, much patronized by ladies of the evening and by painted mollies out for an evening’s jollification at one of the many masked balls. He must ask Magruder to discover whether there had been a ball on Tuesday night.

  So, then. If not for Magruder’s interference, the body would have been taken to a morgue, where it would likely have been assumed to be that of a prostitute, such women not uncommonly meeting with violent ends. Everyone who had seen the body had in fact assumed it to be that of a woman, until Tom the barber’s son had spotted the tiny patch of telltale stubble.

  That was it, he thought, with a small spurt of excitement. That was why the gown was not removed and why the face was smashed; to disguise not the identity per se, but the sex of the victim!

  He felt Tom glance at him in curiosity, and realized that he must have made some exclamation. He shook his head at the boy and paced on, too engrossed in his speculations to suffer the distraction of conversation.

  Even if the truth of the corpse’s sex had been discovered, he thought, it would likely have been assumed that the body belonged to the shady half-world of transvestite commerce—no one of consequence, no one who would be missed.

  The body would then have been promptly disposed of, taken off to a dissection room or a potter’s field, depending on its state—but in either case, safely gone, with no chance of its ever being identified.

  All of which gave him an unpleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach. A number of boys and young men from that shadow world disappeared in London every year, their fates—when they were noticed at all—usually concealed in official wording that sought to soothe society’s sensibilities by ignoring any hint that they had been involved in abominable perversion.

  Which meant that for such trouble to be taken in disguising this particular death—the dead man was someone of consequence. So
meone who would be missed. The bundle under his arm seemed suddenly heavier, dragging at him like the weight of a severed head.

  “Me lord?” Tom Byrd laid a tentative hand on the bundle, offering to take it from him.

  “No, Tom, that’s all right.” He shifted the bundle, tucking it more firmly under his arm. “I smell like a slaughterhouse already; no need for you to spoil your clothes as well.”

  The boy took his hand away, with an alacrity that informed Grey of the nobility of the original offer. The bundle did stink abominably. He smiled to himself, face hidden in the darkness.

  “I’m afraid we will have missed our supper—but I suppose Cook will let us have something.”

  “Yes, me lord.”

  Piccadilly lay just ahead; the streets were opening out, lined with the shops of clothiers and merchants, rather than the libkens and taverns of the narrower ways near Queen Street. At this time of night, the streets were busy with foot traffic, horses and carriages; random snatches of conversation, shouts and cheerful bustle drifted past.

  A light rain was falling, and mist rose from the pavements round their feet. The lightermen had come already; the streetlamps flickered and glowed under the glass of their canopies and shone upon the wet stones, helping to dispel the lurking horror of that conference in the hay shed.

  “Do you get used to it, me lord?” Tom glanced at him, round face troubled in the transient glow.

  “To what? Death, do you mean, and bodies?”

  “Well … that sort of death, I suppose.” The boy made a diffident gesture toward the bundle. “I’d think this was maybe different than what you see in battle—but maybe I’m wrong?”

  “Maybe.” Grey slowed his pace to let a group of gay blades pass, laughing as they crossed the street, dodging an oncoming detachment of mounted Horse Guards, harness glittering in the wet.

  “I suppose it is no different in the essentials,” he said, stepping out as the sound of hooves clattered off down Piccadilly. “I have seen more dreadful things on a battlefield, often. And yes, you do get used to that—you must.”

  “But it is different?” Tom persisted. “This?”

  Grey took a deep breath, and a firmer hold on his burden.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I should not like to meet the man to whom this is routine.”

  Chapter 14

  A Troth Is Blighted

  Grey was rudely roused from his bed just after dawn, to find Corporal Jowett arrived on the doorstep with bad news.

  “Ruddy birds had flown, sir,” Jowett said, handing over a note from Malcolm Stubbs to the same effect. “Lieutenant Stubbs and I went round with a couple of soldiers, along with that Magruder fellow and two constables, thinking to take the Scanlons unawares whilst it was still dark.” Jowett looked like an emaciated bulldog at the best of times; his face now was positively savage. “Found the door locked and broke it in—only to find the place empty as a ruddy tomb on Easter morning.”

  Not only had the Scanlons themselves decamped; the entire stock of the apothecary’s shop was missing, leaving behind only empty bottles and bits of scattered rubbish.

  “They had warning, eh?” Jowett said. “Somebody tipped ’em—but who?”

  “I don’t know,” Grey said grimly, tying the sash of his banyan. “You spoke to the neighbors?”

  Jowett snorted.

  “For what good it did. Irishmen, all of ’em, and liars born. Magruder arrested a couple of them, but it won’t do any good—you could see that.”

  “Did they say at least when the Scanlons had decamped?”

  “Most of them said they hadn’t the faintest—but we found one old granny down the end of the street as said she’d seen folk carrying boxes out of the house on the Tuesday.”

  “Right. I’ll speak to Magruder later.” Grey glanced out the window; it was raining, and the street outside was a dismal gray, but he could see the houses on the other side—the sun was up. “Will you have some breakfast, Jowett? A cup of tea, at least.”

  Jowett’s bloodshot eyes brightened slightly.

  “I wouldn’t say no, Major,” he allowed. “It’s been a busy night.”

  Grey sent the Corporal off to the kitchen in the charge of a yawning servant, and stood staring out the window at the downpour outside, wondering what the devil to make of this.

  On the positive side, this hasty disappearance clearly incriminated the Scanlons—but in what? They had a motive for O’Connell’s death, and yet they had simply denied any involvement, Scanlon looking cool as a plateful of sliced cucumbers. Nothing had happened since that might alarm them in that regard; why should they flee now?

  What had happened was the discovery of the dead man in the green velvet dress—but what could the Scanlons have had to do with that?

  Still, it seemed very likely that the man had been killed sometime on Tuesday—and Tuesday appeared to be when the Scanlons had fled. Grey rubbed a hand through his hair, trying to stimulate his mental processes. All right. That was simply too great a coincidence to be a coincidence, he thought. Which meant … what?

  That the Scanlons—or Finbar Scanlon, at least—were involved in some way with the death of the man in green velvet. And who the hell was he? A gentleman—or someone with similar pretensions, he thought. The corpse was no workingman, that was sure.

  “Me lord?” Tom Byrd had come in with a tray. He hadn’t yet washed his face, and his hair stuck up on end, but he seemed wide-awake. “I heard you get up. D’ye want some tea?”

  “Christ, yes.” He seized the steaming cup and inhaled its fragrant steam, the heat of the china wonderful in his chilled hands.

  The rain poured in sheets from the eaves. When had they left? he wondered. Were Scanlon and his wife out in this, or were they safe in some place of refuge? Chances were, they had decamped immediately following the death of the man in green velvet—and yet, they had taken the time to pack, to remove the valuable stock from the shop.… These were not the panicked actions of murderers, surely?

  Of course, he was obliged to admit to himself, he hadn’t dealt with many murderers before—unless … The recollection flashed through his mind, as it did now and then, of what Harry Quarry had told him about Jamie Fraser and the death of a Sergeant Murchison at Ardsmuir. If it was true—and even Quarry had not been sure—then Fraser also had remained cool and unpanicked, and had gotten away with the crime in consequence. What if Scanlon had a similar temperament, an equal capacity?

  He shook his head impatiently, dismissing the thought. Fraser was not a murderer, whatever else he might be. And Scanlon? For the life of him, Grey could not decide.

  “Which is why we have courts of law, I suppose,” he said aloud, and drained the rest of the cup.

  “Me lord?” Tom Byrd, who had just succeeded in lighting the fire, scrambled to his feet and picked up the tray.

  “I was merely observing that our legal system rests on evidence, rather than emotion,” Grey said, setting the empty cup back on the tray. “Which means, I think, that I must go and find some.” Brave words, considering that he had no good ideas as to where to look for it.

  “Oh, aye, sir? Will you be wanting your good uniform, then?”

  “No, I think not yet.” Grey scratched thoughtfully at his jaw. The only hope of a clue that he had at present was the German wine. Thanks to the helpful Mr. Congreve, he knew what it was, and who had bought it. If he could not find the Scanlons, perhaps he could discover something about the mysterious man in green.

  “I’ll wear it when we call upon Captain von Namtzen. But first—”

  But first it was high time to discharge an unpleasant duty.

  “I’ll wear the ice-blue now, if it’s decent,” he decided. “But first, I need a shave.”

  “Very good, me lord,” said Byrd, in his best valet’s voice, and bowed, upsetting the teacup.

  Tom Byrd had mostly succeeded in removing the odor from the ice-blue suit. Mostly.

  Grey sniffed discreetly at the shoulder of hi
s coat. No, that was all right; perhaps it was just a miasma from the object in his pocket. He had cut a square from the green velvet dress, crusty with dried blood, and brought it with him, wrapped in a bit of oilcloth.

  He had, after some hesitation, also brought a walking stick, a slender affair of ebony, with a chased silver handle in the shape of a brooding heron. He did not intend to strike Trevelyan with it, no matter how the interview progressed. He was, however, aware that having some object with which to occupy one’s hands was useful in times of social difficulty—and this occasion promised to be rather more difficult than the usual.

  He’d thought of his sword, merely because that was an accustomed tool, and the weight of it at his side a comfort. This wasn’t an occasion for uniform, though.

  Not that he wasn’t an oddity among the crush of seamen, porters, barrowmen, and oysterwomen near the docks, but there were at least a few gentlemen here as well. A pair of prosperous-looking merchants strolled together toward him, one holding a chart, which he seemed to be explaining to the other. A man whom he recognized as a banker picked his way through the mud and slime underfoot, careful of his coat as he brushed past a barrow full of slick black mussels, dripping weed and water.

  He was aware of people looking at him in curiosity as he passed, but that was all right; it wasn’t the sort of curiosity that would cause talk.

  He had gone first to Trevelyan’s house, only to be informed that the master had gone down to his warehouse and was not expected before the evening. Would he leave his card?

  He had declined, and taken a carriage to the docks, unable to bear the thought of waiting all day to do what must be done.

  And what was he going to do? He felt hollow at the thought of the coming interview, but clung firmly to the one thing he did know. The engagement must be broken, officially. Beyond that, he would get what information he could from Trevelyan, but to protect Olivia was the most important thing—and the only thing that he, personally, could insure.

  He wasn’t looking forward to going home afterward and telling Olivia and his mother what he had done—let alone why. He’d learned in the army not to anticipate more than one unpleasant contingency at a time, though, and resolutely ignored the thought of anything that lay beyond the next half hour. Do what must be done, and then deal with the consequences.