Who Buries the Dead: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

by C. S. Harris

“No.” Sebastian took Knox’s hand in both of his and gripped it with a determined fierceness. “It’s not too late. I can find a vicar. Get a special license and—”

  But Knox’s hand lay limp in Sebastian’s grasp. And as he watched, the eyes that were so much like his own grew unfocused and empty, and the bandaged chest lay ominously still.

  “Breathe, damn you!” Sebastian sank to both knees, the rifleman’s hand still clenched tightly between his own as he watched, waited for the next breath.

  “Breathe!”

  He was aware of Hero coming to stand beside him, felt her touch on his shoulder although he did not look up. She stood beside him as the minutes stretched out, until the absence of life had shifted from a dread to an undeniable certainty.

  Finally, she said, “I am so sorry, Devlin.”

  He suddenly felt bone tired, his eyes aching, a tight band squeezing his chest as he shook his head slowly from side to side. “I don’t even know who he was. Don’t know if I just lost a brother, or not.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “On one level, no. But . . . I should know.” A man should know his own brother, thought Sebastian.

  His own father.

  She turned toward him, cradling his head in her palms to draw his body against her soft warmth. The only sounds were the patter of the wind-driven rain striking the windowpanes, the fall of the ash on the hearth, and his own anguished breath.

  “I thought he was you,” Hero said to Sebastian later as she sat by the fire in the library, a forgotten cup of tea on the table at her side. “I saw him coming around the corner from Bond Street as I was stepping down from the carriage. I called to him—called your name. And then I saw the bullet hit his chest and I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you and . . .”

  She swallowed, her voice becoming shaky. Hushed. “I didn’t know I could hurt that much inside. Then I realized it wasn’t you, it was Knox, and I was glad because it meant you were still alive.” Her face took on a stark, fierce look. “God help me, I was glad.”

  He knelt at her feet, his hands entwined with hers in her lap. He’d seen her shoot an attacker in the face and bash in a murderer’s head without losing her composure or equanimity. But what had happened today had obviously shaken her badly; he could feel the fine trembling going on inside her still.

  She said, “And then that poor woman—Pippa—came, and even though I felt sorry for her, all I could think was how relieved I was that it was her man who was dying. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. Because if I lost you . . . I don’t know how I’d bear it.”

  His hands tightened on hers. He understood how she’d felt because he’d known the same helpless despair when he thought he was about to lose her in childbirth. He said, “I’m sorry, Hero. I’m so sorry. But . . . I can’t stop what I do, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  She loosed her hands from his grip to press her fingers against his lips. “I’m not asking you to stop. I won’t pretend I don’t fear for you—I fear for myself, because I know my love for you makes me vulnerable. But I know too that what I feel is the same fear endured by every woman whose man ever marched off to war; every wife who watches her son or lover sail to sea or go down in a mine to earn his bread. Risk is a part of what it means to be alive. We can’t live our lives in a constant, paralyzing fear of death.”

  “Some do,” he said, his lips moving against her fingers.

  A fierce light shone in her eyes. “Yes. But I refuse to.”

  Her words echoed something Kat Boleyn had said to him once, long ago. He shifted his hands to Hero’s shoulders, leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against hers. “I will be careful. I can promise you that.” Once, he had been careless with his life, heedless of whether he lived or died.

  That was no longer true.

  She gave him a sad smile. “I know.”

  He kissed her, hard, on her mouth, then rose to unlock the upper right drawer in his desk and withdraw a sleek, walnut-handled dueling pistol. This was not the small, double-barreled flintlock he often carried, which was easily concealed but accurate only at close range. This pistol was made with a long, lightly rifled barrel that made it deadly even at some distance.

  “You think the shooter was Diggory Flynn?” she asked, watching as Sebastian set about loading and priming the pistol.

  “I’d say it’s more than likely, yes. I think he was watching the house, waiting for me. He saw Knox, and like you, he assumed Knox was me.” Sebastian paused, his hands stilling at their task as the bitter truth of it all washed over him anew. “Knox died because he looked like me. He died in my place.”

  She rested her hand on his arm. He thought she was going to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t keep blaming himself for deaths caused by others. Instead, she said, “Will you kill him?”

  “First, I’m going to find out who hired him.” Sebastian slipped the pistol into the pocket of his caped greatcoat. “And then I’m going to kill him.”

  Chapter 46

  S ebastian spent the next hour or so frequenting taverns favored by ex-military men, particularly those who’d served as exploring or observing officers.

  Most such men rode a war-torn countryside wearing their British uniforms, lest they be caught and ignobly hanged as spies. But there were some who knew how to blend in with the local populace, to slip behind enemy lines and return again with none the wiser. It was frowned upon, of course—for a gentleman to use subterfuge and deception. Yet for thousands of years, generals had relied upon those with such skills.

  Their motives differed. Some risked everything out of love of country, or for the sake of the men with whom they served, or because the vicissitudes of life had eroded their attachment to the things most other men held dear. But there were some who acted solely for the thrill of it all, for the joy of deception and the opportunities it offered.

  Sebastian suspected Diggory Flynn fell into the latter category.

  It was in a smoky, run-down inn off Cursitor Street that Sebastian found the old acquaintance he was looking for: a one-legged former lieutenant named Dillon Rutherford, who peered at him over the rim of a brandy glass and said, “Diggory Flynn? What do you want with him?”

  “I want to kill him,” said Sebastian, taking the seat opposite the lieutenant.

  A soundless chuckle shook the lieutenant’s thin chest. “You and a fair number of other people. Unfortunately, he’s not all that easy to kill.”

  Rutherford was one of those men who looked as if he could be anywhere between thirty and fifty. Of medium height and slim build, with a gaunt face and thinning brown hair, he’d been born the youngest of a country squire’s five sons. When he was sixteen, his family scraped together enough money to purchase his first pair of colors. But in more than ten years of service he’d managed to save enough to buy only one promotion. And after losing a leg and the use of his right arm at Medina de Rioseco, he’d been invalided out. He now survived by tutoring small boys from a rented room near the Inns of Court.

  “Where can I find him?” asked Sebastian.

  Rutherford licked his lips. “Flynn isn’t his real name.”

  Sebastian ordered two brandies and slid one across the table toward Rutherford. “What is?”

  “He’s used so many over the years that I have a hard time keeping them all straight. Barnes? Brady? Something like that.”

  “His father was a vicar?”

  “So they say.” The lieutenant sipped from his new glass of brandy.

  “Did he ever serve under Colonel Sinclair Oliphant?”

  The lieutenant widened his eyes. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “It was Oliphant kept him from being hanged, when Wellesley was all for stringing him up in Lisbon, back in 1808.”

  That would have been not long before Oli
phant was made colonel of Sebastian’s regiment. He said, “What had Flynn done?”

  “Killed a fellow officer in a fight over a woman. Flynn was the type best kept behind enemy lines. He had a habit of falling into trouble when left with too much time on his hands.”

  “What does he do now?”

  “I don’t know. Heard he found himself in a bit of an awkward spot in Jamaica.”

  “He was in Jamaica? With Oliphant?”

  Rutherford gave a shrug that could have meant anything. “Oh, not officially, of course. But a man like Diggory Flynn can be useful, if you know what I mean.”

  “Where can I find him?” Sebastian asked again.

  The lieutenant fingered his empty glass.

  Sebastian ordered another.

  Rutherford waited until the brandy appeared and took a drink before saying, “I honestly don’t know where you might find him. The fact is, you could run into him in the street and not recognize him. He’s that good.”

  “What does he look like? I mean, really look like.”

  The lieutenant frowned with the effort of memory. “Red hair. About my size, maybe a bit fleshier these days. He’s got one of those faces that blends easily into a crowd, although he’s right clever at shifting the way he looks. Don’t know how he does it. Only really distinctive thing about him is his eyes, and there’s nothing he can do about them.”

  “His eyes?”

  The lieutenant held up two fingers and pointed to his own somewhat bloodshot eyes. “One’s blue and the other’s brown. It’s the queerest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Sinclair, Lord Oliphant, entered his elegant, book-lined library and closed the door behind him. He carried a brace of candles, the flames flaring as he walked across the room to set it on the mantel. Then, as if becoming aware of another presence in the room, he froze.

  “Turn around very carefully,” said Sebastian, thumbing back the hammer on his flintlock. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Oliphant pivoted slowly, his habitual, faintly contemptuous smile firmly in place, his hands spread out at his sides. “Who let you in?”

  “Do you really need to ask?”

  “Nice black eye.”

  “Thank you.”

  Oliphant’s gaze drifted to a nearby window, where the heavy velvet drapes shifted in a draft. But all he said was, “May I offer you a drink?”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  “Mind if I have one?”

  “Not as long as you keep your hands in sight. And remember: I’d love an excuse to shoot you.”

  “And hang for murder?”

  “If necessary. The only reason you’re not dead already is because I want Diggory Flynn. And because as much as I might suspect you’re the one controlling him, I can’t prove it. Yet.”

  Oliphant moved to where brandy and a set of glasses waited on a table beside the fire. His movements were deliberate but seemingly untroubled, as if he were still utterly in control of the situation.

  “Diggory Flynn,” Sebastian said again. “I want him.”

  Oliphant’s attention was all for the task of pouring his brandy. “Who?”

  Sebastian found his finger tightening on the trigger and had to force himself to relax. “Allow me to refresh your memory: former exploring officer; hails from a vicarage in Buckinghamshire by way of Lisbon, where he should have hanged but, thanks to your intervention, did not.”

  Oliphant set aside his decanter with a soft thump. “You’ve been very busy.”

  “So has Flynn—or Barnes, or Brady, or whatever his real name happens to be. Except that rather than murdering me as intended, he shot and killed a Bishopsgate tavern owner who happens to look a fair bit like me.”

  “Oh? Now, there’s a pity.”

  “That an innocent man is dead? Or that I’m still alive?”

  Oliphant turned to face him, the brandy cradled in one hand. “As it happens, an exploring officer who liked to use the name Diggory Flynn did once serve under me. But I haven’t seen him since I left Jamaica.”

  “Why was he there?”

  “In Jamaica?” Oliphant shrugged. “How should I know? Needless to say, we didn’t exactly move in the same social circles. In fact, Preston père et fils accused him of working with a gang of slave runners operating in the area.”

  “The same allegations were made against you.”

  “Nasty lies, of course. Unfortunately, in Flynn’s case I suspect the accusation may well have been true. He was arrested and sentenced to hang, only somehow managed to escape.”

  “One of his talents.”

  “Oh, he’s very talented.” Oliphant took a slow sip of his brandy. “My point is, the man you call Diggory Flynn had a powerful grudge against the Prestons.”

  “You’re suggesting Flynn had his own reasons for killing Stanley Preston, are you?”

  “The man always did have a tendency to carry a grudge.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  Oliphant huffed a laugh. “I honestly can’t remember.”

  “Where would I find him?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. He’s fallen in with some rough elements since leaving the Army—not only slave runners, but smugglers as well.”

  Sebastian rose to his feet, the pistol still in his hand. “If I discover proof that you’re lying, I’ll kill you.”

  Oliphant raised one eyebrow in polite incredulity. “And risk leaving your young wife a widow and your newborn son an orphan? I think not.”

  Sebastian paused at the door to look back at him. “You and I both know there are ways to kill without being caught.”

  Oliphant paused with his brandy lifted halfway to his lips. “Are you saying you’d commit cold-blooded murder? For the sake of a common tavern owner?”

  “For Jamie Knox, and for the women and children of Santa Iria.”

  “The French killed the women and children of Santa Iria.”

  “So they did,” said Sebastian, and walked out of the library and out of the house.

  Chapter 47

  P ippa was filling three pewter tankards with ale when Sebastian pushed open the door to the Black Devil’s taproom.

  The tavern was crowded with its usual evening assortment of tradesmen, apprentices, and laborers. The smell of spilled spirits hung heavy in the smoky air and bursts of hearty laughter punctuated the soft roar of men’s voices. As the door closed behind him, she looked up and saw him, and for a moment she froze. Then she swallowed hard and went back to her task.

  “Is he dead, then?” she asked as Sebastian walked up to the counter, her attention seemingly all for the tankards of ale.

  “Yes.”

  He saw a quiver pass over her features, but she simply set her jaw and said nothing.

  He said, “The boy—Knox’s son. If he should ever require anything, I want you to know that all you need do is ask.”

  She looked up then, her eyes glazed with unshed tears, her face tight with anger. “What’s he to you, anyway?”

  Sebastian met her furious gaze. “I honestly don’t know.”

  She hefted the three tankards with practiced ease and carried them to the men at a nearby table. When she came back, she grabbed a cloth and set about wiping the surface of the bar as if indifferent to Sebastian’s presence.

  He said, “What do you know of Knox’s family in Shropshire?”

  She twitched one shoulder, her fist clenching on the cloth. “What’s there t’ know? His mum died when he was just a wee babe.”

  “Who raised him?”

  “His nana.”

  “His grandmother? Is she still alive?”

  “Last we heard. Just this afternoon, he was talkin’ about maybe goin’ t’ see her soon. Had somethin’ he wanted to give her.”

  “What?”
>
  She threw the cloth aside and disappeared into the back room to return in a moment with a gilded mechanical nightingale that she slammed down on the counter before him.

  Sebastian picked it up with a hand that was not quite steady, the jewels in its collar flaming with color as they caught the firelight. “Where did this come from?”

  “Got it off Priss Mulligan, he did. Said his nana was always partial to nightingales.”

  “Knox went to Houndsditch this afternoon?”

  He watched as a fearful light came into Pippa’s eyes. She said, “You know he did.”

  He hadn’t known it. In fact, it made no sense, although he remembered the rifleman saying, She doesn’t know any more. “What can you tell me about a man named Diggory Flynn?”

  Pippa wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Ne’er heard of him.”

  “Knox didn’t mention him?”

  “No.”

  He studied her closed, resentful face. She had always regarded him with both animosity and suspicion, instinctively knowing him for a threat even as his resemblance to Knox confused and frightened her. Now the father of her son was dead, and she held Sebastian responsible. And the truth was that if Sebastian had never come into their lives, Jamie Knox would still be alive.

  He set the mechanical nightingale on the counter between them. “I’m sorry.”

  She shoved the gilded bird toward him. “Take it. I don’t want it. I never want t’ see it again.”

  “You could send it to his grandmother,” he suggested. Yet even as he said it, he knew she never would.

  She stared at him, her eyes glittering with raw hatred.

  He picked up the nightingale. “What’s her name?”

  “Heddie. Heddie Kincaid. Lives in a village called Ayleswick, just outside o’ Ludlow.”

  He slipped an envelope thick with banknotes from his pocket and laid it before her. No amount of money could compensate for the loss of her son’s father. But it would make her life—and the boy’s—easier. “I’ll let you know when the funeral arrangements have been made,” he said.

  He thought she might object, might even throw his money in his face.