When Maidens Mourn: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

by C. S. Harris

  “His only heir?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can that be?”

  D’Eyncourt’s thin nostrils quivered with indignation. “That is none of your affair.”

  Sebastian advanced on him, backing the dandified parliamentarian up until his shoulders slammed against the rough stone wall behind him. “Gabrielle Tennyson’s death made it my affair, you god damned, pompous, self-congratulatory son of a bitch. A woman is dead and two innocent little boys are missing. If you know anything—anything—that can help make sense of what has happened to them—”

  “I am not afraid of you,” said d’Eyncourt, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed.

  “You should be.”

  “You can’t accost me in the streets! What are you imagining? That those two children stand between me and my father’s wealth? Well, you are wrong. My father disinherited my older brother and made me his sole heir when I was six years old. Why else do you suppose my brother took holy orders and now serves as a rector? Because that is his future! Everything my father owns—the estates, the investments—all will in due time pass to me.”

  “I can think of only one reason for a man to disinherit his twelve-year-old son and make his youngest child his sole heir.”

  Two bright spots of color appeared on d’Eyncourt’s cheeks. “If you are suggesting that my brother was disinherited because he is…because he is not my brother, then let me tell you right now that you are sadly mistaken. My brother was disinherited because by the time he reached the beginnings of puberty it had become obvious to our father that his health and temperament were totally unsuited for the position which would be required of him.”

  “But not unsuited to his becoming a rector?”

  D’Eyncourt stared back at him. “The requirements of the two callings are utterly dissimilar.”

  “So tell me,” said Sebastian, “how has your brother adjusted to having a fortune of some half a million pounds wrested from his grasp?”

  “He was, naturally, somewhat aggrieved—”

  “Aggrieved?”

  “Aggrieved. But he has with time grown more accustomed to his situation.”

  “As an impoverished rector at Somersby?”

  “Just so.”

  Sebastian took a step back.

  D’Eyncourt made a show of adjusting his cravat and straightening the set of his coat. “I can understand how it might be difficult for someone of your background to understand, but you must remember that my family’s wealth—while substantial—is only recently acquired. Hence the rules of primogeniture do not apply. My father is free to leave his property as he sees fit.”

  “True,” said Sebastian. “But it occurs to me that if your father could change his will once, he is obviously free to do so again—in favor of his two grandsons, this time.”

  D’Eyncourt stiffened. “If you mean to suggest—”

  “The suggestion is there, whether it is put into words or not,” said Sebastian, and turned away.

  Sebastian arrived back at Brook Street to be told that Lady Devlin had already departed for a musical evening in the company of her mother, Lady Jarvis.

  “However,” said Morey, bowing slightly, “I believe Calhoun has been most particular to have a word with you.”

  “Has he? Then send him up,” said Sebastian, heading for the stairs.

  “Well?” asked Sebastian when Calhoun slipped into the dressing room a few minutes later. “Find anything?”

  “Not as much as I had hoped, my lord,” said Calhoun, going to lay out Sebastian’s evening dress. “From what I have been able to ascertain, Mr. Knox arrived in London just three years ago. He used to be with the 145th Rifles but was discharged when his unit was reduced after Corunna.”

  “So he actually was a rifleman.”

  “He was, my lord. In fact, he’s famous for having killed some bigwig Frenchy by shooting the man off his horse at some seven hundred yards. And I’m told he can shoot the head off a running rabbit at more than three hundred yards.” Calhoun paused a moment, then added, “In the dark.”

  Sebastian looked up from unbuttoning his shirt. “How did he end up in possession of the Black Devil?”

  “Reports differ. Some say he took to the High Toby for a time before he either won the tavern at the roll of the dice or killed the previous owner.” “Taking to the High Toby” was slang for becoming a highwayman. “Or perhaps both.”

  “He seems very sensitive about his cellars.”

  “That’s not surprising, given the nature of some of his associates.”

  “Oh? And who might they be?”

  “The name that came up most frequently was Yates. Russell Yates.”

  Chapter 22

  Sebastian waited beyond the light cast by the flickering oil lamp at the head of the lane. The theater was still closed for the summer, but rehearsals for the upcoming season were already under way. The dark street rang with the laughter of the departing troupe.

  He kept his gaze on the stage door.

  The night was warm, the wind a soft caress scented by oranges and a thousand bittersweet memories. He heard the stage door open, watched a woman and two men walk toward the street. The woman paused for a moment beneath the streetlight, caught up in conversation with her fellow players. The dancing flame from the oil lamp glinted on the auburn highlights in her thick, dark hair and flickered seductively over the familiar, beloved planes of her face. She had her head thrown back, lost in laughter at one of her friends’ remarks. Then she stilled suddenly, her head turning, her eyes widening in a useless attempt to probe the darkness. And Sebastian knew she had sensed his presence and that the bond between them that had existed all these years, while weakened, had not broken.

  Her name was Kat Boleyn, and she was the most celebrated actress of the London stage. Once, she had been the love of Sebastian’s life. Once, he had thought to grow old with her at his side, and to hell with the shocked mutterings of society and the outraged opposition of his father—of the Earl of Hendon, he reminded himself. Then an ugly tangle of lies and an even uglier truth had intervened. Now Kat was married to a flamboyant ex-privateer named Russell Yates, a man with a secret, forbidden passion for his own gender and shadowy ties to the smugglers and agents who plied the channel between England and Napoléon’s France.

  Sebastian watched her say good night to her friends and walk up to him. She wore an ivory silk cloak thrown over her shoulders, the hood thrust back in a way that framed her face. He said, “You shouldn’t walk alone at night.”

  “Because of these latest murders, you mean?” She turned to stroll beside him up Hart Street. The pavement was crowded with richly harnessed horses and elegant carriages, their swaying lamps filling the air with the scent of hot oil. “Gibson tells me you have involved yourself in the investigation.” He watched her eyebrows pinch together in a worried frown as she said it, for she knew him well. She knew the price he paid with each descent into the dark world of fear and hatred, greed and despair, that inevitably swirled around a murder. Yet even though she knew, intellectually, what drove him to it, she could never quite understand his need to do what he did.

  He said, “Don’t worry about me.”

  A smile lit her eyes. “Yet you are free to worry about me?” The smile faded as she paused to turn toward him, her gaze searching. She had deeply set eyes, thickly lashed and of a uniquely intense blue that she had inherited from her natural father, the Earl of Hendon. And every time he looked into them, he knew a searing pain that was like a dagger thrust to the heart.

  She said, “You’re not here for the sake of auld lang syne, Sebastian; what is it?”

  “I’m told Yates has dealings with a tavern owner named Jamie Knox.”

  She sucked in a quick breath that jerked her chest. It was an unusual betrayal for an actress who could normally control her every look, every tone, her every word and movement.

  He said, “Obviously, you know Knox as well. What can you tell
me about him?”

  “Very little, actually. He is an intensely private person, cold and dangerous. Most people who know him are afraid of him. It’s an aura he cultivates.”

  “You met him through Yates?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated, then asked, “He is involved in this murder? How?”

  “He was seen arguing with Gabrielle Tennyson several days before she was killed. He claims it was over a Roman mosaic.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “No. But I don’t understand how he fits into anything else I’ve learned, either.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.” The door to a tavern near the corner opened, spilling light and voices and laughter into the street. “Has Knox seen you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Her gaze met his. “You know why.”

  They had reached the arch where her carriage awaited. Sebastian said, “A few weeks ago, I met a man in Chelsea who told me I reminded him of a highwayman who’d once held up his carriage on Hounslow Heath.”

  “You believe that was Knox?”

  “I’m told he took to the High Toby for a time after he left the Rifles. I wouldn’t want to think there are three of us walking around.”

  He said it lightly, but his words drew no answering smile from her. She said, “I know you’ve had men on the Continent, searching for your mother. Have they found her?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t simply…let it go, Sebastian?”

  He searched her pale, beloved face. “All those years when you didn’t know the identity of your father, if you thought you had the truth within reach, could you have…‌let it go?”

  “Yes.” She did smile then, a sweet, sad smile. “But then, my demons are different from yours.” Reaching up on tiptoe, she brushed her lips against his cheek, then turned away. “Good night, Sebastian. Keep yourself safe.”

  He walked down increasingly empty streets. The sky above was dark and starless, the air close; the oil lamps mounted high on the dark, looming walls of the tightly packed, grimy brick houses and shops flickered with his passing. At one point he was aware of two men falling into step behind him. He tightened his grip on the walking stick he carried tucked beneath one arm. But they melted away down a noisome side alley, their footfalls echoing softly into the night.

  He walked on, rounding the corner toward Long Street. He could hear the thin, reedy wail of a babe somewhere in the distance, the jingle of an off-tune piano, the rattle of carriage wheels passing in the next block. And from the murky shadows of a narrow passageway up ahead came a soft whisper.

  “C’est lui.”

  He drew up just as the same two men burst from the passage and fanned out to take up positions, one in front of him, the other to his rear. Whirling, Sebastian saw the glint of a knife in the hand of one; the other, a big, fair-haired man in dark trousers and high leather boots, carried a cudgel he slapped tauntingly against his left palm.

  “Watch!” shouted Sebastian as the man raised the club over his head. “Watch, I say!”

  Before the man could bring the club down, Sebastian rushed him, the walking stick whistling through the air toward the assailant’s head. The man threw up his left arm, blocking Sebastian’s blow at the last instant. The impact shattered the ebony shaft of the walking stick, shearing it off some eight inches from Sebastian’s fist. But the shock of the unexpected counterattack was enough to send the man staggering back. He lost his footing and went down.

  His companion growled, “Bâtard!”

  “Watch!” shouted Sebastian again, swinging around just as the second man—smaller, leaner, darker than his companion—lunged, his knife held in an underhanded grip.

  Sebastian tried to parry the man’s thrust with the broken shaft of the walking stick and felt the blade slip off the wood to slice along his forearm. Then the man on the ground closed his hands around Sebastian’s ankle and yanked.

  Lurching backward, Sebastian stumbled over the fallen man and went down, bruising his hip on a loose cobblestone as he rolled. Swearing long and hard, he grabbed the cobblestone as he surged up onto his knees.

  The man with the cudgel took a swipe. Sebastian ducked, then came up to smash the stone into the side of his attacker’s head with a bone crushing twunk. The man reeled back, eyes rolling up, the side of his face a sheet of gore. Panting hard, Sebastian reached into his boot and yanked his own dagger from its hidden sheath.

  The knife clenched in one hand, the bloody rock still gripped in the other, he rose into a low crouch. “Come on, you bastard,” he spat, his gaze locking with that of his remaining assailant.

  The man was clean-shaven and relatively young, no more than thirty, his coat worn but clean, his cravat simply but neatly tied. He licked his lower lip, his gaze flicking from Sebastian to the still figure lying between them in a spreading pool of blood.

  His nostrils flared on a quickly indrawn breath.

  “Well?” said Sebastian.

  The man turned and ran.

  Sebastian slumped back against the brick wall, his injured arm cradled against his chest, his blood thrumming in his ears, his gaze on the dead man beside him.

  Chapter 23

  “Ghastly,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, peering down at the gory head of the dead man sprawled on the pavement at their feet. The watch had arrived, panting, only moments after the attack on the Viscount, who sent the man running to Bow Street, just blocks away. Now Sir Henry shifted his glance to Lord Devlin. “Who is he? Do you know?”

  “Never saw him before,” said Devlin, stripping off his cravat to wind around his bleeding arm.

  “And his companion who fled?”

  “Was also unfamiliar to me.”

  Lovejoy forced himself to look more closely at the dead man. “I suppose they could have been common footpads after your pocketbook.”

  “They could have been.”

  “But you don’t think so. I must confess, he does not exactly have the look of a footpad.”

  “He’s also French.”

  “French? Oh, dear; I don’t like the sound of that. Do you think there could be some connection between this incident and the Tennyson murders?”

  “If there is, I’ll be damned if I can see it.” Devlin looked up from wrapping his arm. “Have you found the children’s bodies, then?”

  “What? Oh, no. Not yet. But with each passing day, it becomes increasingly difficult to believe that they could still be alive.” Lovejoy nodded to the men from the dead house who had arrived with a shell, then stood watching them shift the body. “We’ve begun to look into the backgrounds of the various men involved in the excavations up at the moat. Some disturbing things are coming to light about this man Rory Forster.”

  Devlin finished tying off the ends of his makeshift bandage. “Such as?”

  “He’s said to have quite a temper, for one thing. And he’s not above using his fists on women.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Of course, his wife backs up his claim that he was home with her Sunday afternoon and evening. But I wouldn’t put it beyond him to bully her into saying it. The problem is, I don’t see how he could possibly be the killer.”

  Devlin flexed the hand of his injured arm, testing it. “Why’s that?”

  “Because if he is, how did the Tennysons get up to the moat in the first place? The logical conclusion is they could only have driven up there in the company of their murderer.”

  “The same could be said of Sir Stanley Winthrop. If he is the killer, then how the devil did the Tennysons get to Enfield?”

  Lovejoy cleared his throat. “My colleagues at Bow Street are of the opinion that it is ridiculous even to suggest that Sir Stanley might be involved in any way.”

  Devlin laughed. “There’s no doubt it would negatively impact the nation’s war effort, to have one of the King’s leading bankers arrested for murder.”

  Lovejoy studied the blood seeping through the Viscount’s makeshift ba
ndage. “Don’t you think you should perhaps have that properly attended to, my lord?”

  Devlin glanced down and frowned. “I suppose you’re right. Although I fear the coat is beyond help.”

  “You’re certain you heard them speaking French?” asked Paul Gibson, his attention all for the row of stitches he was laying along the gash in Sebastian’s arm.

  “I’m certain.” Sebastian sat on a table in the front room of Gibson’s surgery. He was stripped to the waist, a basin of bloody water and cloths set nearby.

  Gibson tied off his stitches and straightened. “I suppose it could have been a ruse to mislead you.”

  “Somehow I don’t think the intent was to allow me to live long enough to be misled. I suspect my questions are making someone nervous.”

  Gibson reached for a roll of bandages. “Someone French, obviously.”

  “Or someone involved with the French.”

  “There is that.”

  “Of course,” said Sebastian, watching his friend work, “just because my questions are making someone nervous doesn’t necessarily mean that particular someone is the killer. He could simply have something to hide.”

  “Yet it does tell you this ‘someone’ isn’t afraid to kill to keep his secrets.”

  “Powerful men usually do have a lot of secrets…and there are several powerful men whose names seem to keep coming up in this.”

  Gibson tied off the bandage and frowned. “Who else besides d’Eyncourt and Sir Stanley?”

  Lord Jarvis, Sebastian thought, although he didn’t say it. He slipped off the table and reached for his shirt. “Isn’t that enough?” He pulled the shirt on over his head. “Have you finished the autopsy of Miss Tennyson’s body?”

  “I have. But I’m afraid there’s not much more I can tell you. She was stabbed through the heart sometime Sunday. No other sign of injury. Whoever killed her made no attempt to force himself on her.”