by C. S. Harris
D’Eyncourt put up a hand to straighten his cravat, his chin lifting and turning to one side as if to ease a kink in his neck. “What man are you suggesting is dead because of me?”
“Arceneaux!”
D’Eyncourt looked dumbfounded. “I don’t know how you think you can hang his death on me, but who cares if he is dead? The man killed Gabrielle and my nephews. Or hadn’t you heard?”
Sebastian swiped the back of his arm across his wet cheek. “What the devil are you talking about?”
A condescending smirk spread over d’Eyncourt’s self-satisfied face. “Seems that the night before he died, Arceneaux confided to one of his fellow French officers that he killed Gabrielle and the boys.” D’Eyncourt’s tight smile widened. “What’s the matter? Did Bow Street forget to tell you?”
Chapter 43
Sir Henry Lovejoy paused beneath the protective arches of the long arcade overlooking the market square of Covent Garden. The rain had started up again, sweeping in great windblown sheets over the shuttered stalls and lean-tos in the square. He was not a man prone to profanity, but at the moment the urge to give vent to his anger against Charles Tennyson d’Eyncourt was undeniably powerful.
He swallowed hard and said to the man who stood beside him, “I would like to apologize, my lord. I had not intended for you to learn of this development in such a manner.”
“Never mind that,” said Devlin. “How did this come about?”
“A gentleman approached us this morning with word that Arceneaux’s death had inspired one of his fellow French officers to come forward with the information.”
“What’s this officer’s name?”
“Alain Lefevre—an infantry captain, I believe, taken at Badajos. He says Arceneaux confessed whilst in his cups to having stabbed Miss Tennyson in the midst of a lover’s quarrel.”
“And the two boys, Alfred and George?”
“He says Arceneaux claimed at first to have been overcome with remorse for what he’d done, so that he set out to drive the boys back to London. Only, he panicked and decided to kill the boys too, in an attempt to cover up his guilt. The children’s bodies are hidden in a ditch or gully somewhere. We’ve set men out searching the routes between the moat and the city, but at this point it’s becoming doubtful the poor lads’ bodies will ever be found.”
Devlin kept his gaze focused on the square, where loose cabbage leaves fluttered in the wind. “I’d be interested to speak with this Lefevre.”
“Unfortunately, the man is already on his way back to France.”
Devlin swung his head to stare at him. “He what?”
“As a reward for his cooperation. I understand they thought it best to get him out of the country quickly, for his own protection.”
An eddy of wind blew a fine mist in their faces. Lovejoy removed his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief before carefully fitting them back on his face. “His information does fit the facts as we know them.”
“Only if one were unacquainted with Philippe Arceneaux.”
When Lovejoy remained silent, the Viscount said, “What was the basis of Arceneaux’s quarrel with Miss Tennyson supposed to have been?”
“Lefevre did not know. But there are some recent developments that may shed light on the subject. Earlier today, four paroled French officers were captured attempting to escape to France. One of the men retaken—a hussar captain named Pelletier—was reputedly one of Arceneaux’s intimates.”
Devlin frowned. “Is this Pelletier a big bear of a man with blond lovelocks and a long mustache?”
“That sounds like him, yes. Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him. When did the escaping men leave London?”
“Sometime before dawn this morning, we believe. They were found hidden in the back of a calico printer’s cart that had been fitted out with benches on the inside. The speculation is that there were originally to have been six men involved in the escape attempt, with Arceneaux being one of the missing men, and the other being the French officer you killed when he attacked you in Covent Garden the other night. There appears to have been some sort of falling out amongst the conspirators, which is doubtless why Arceneaux was killed—for fear that he meant to betray them.”
“Does this hussar captain, Pelletier, confirm that?”
“All of the fugitives taken up are refusing to speak to anyone about anything. One of the constables attempting to retake the men was shot and killed, which means they’ll all now hang for murder.” Lovejoy shook his head. “Shocking, is it not? For officers to go back on their sworn word…It displays such an utter want of all the feelings and instincts of a gentleman.”
Lovejoy expected Devlin, as a former military man himself, to be particularly harsh in his condemnation of any officer who so dishonored himself. The Viscount was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he stared out at the rain. But when he finally spoke, his voice was oddly tight. “I suppose they were homesick and despaired of ever seeing France again. Sometimes it does seem as if this war will never end.”
“I suppose so, but—”
Devlin turned toward him suddenly, an arrested expression on his face. “Did you say a calico printer’s cart?”
Lovejoy blinked. “Yes. Although I fear we may never determine precisely which calico printer is involved—if indeed one is. You find that significant for some reason, my lord?”
“It just may be.”
Jamie Knox was supervising the loading of a dray in the rain-washed courtyard of Calvert’s Brewery in Upper Thames Street when Sebastian came to stand under the arch. Propping one shoulder against the rough bricks, he crossed his arms at his chest and watched the tavern owner at work.
The air was heavy with the yeasty smell of fermenting hops, the tang of wet stone and brick, the odor of fish rising off the nearby rain-churned river. Knox threw him one swift glance but continued barking orders to the men lashing barrels to his wagon’s high bed. He conferred for a moment with his driver. Then he walked over to stand in front of Sebastian, rainwater running down his cheeks, his yellow eyes hooded.
“You’re obviously here for a reason; what is it, then?”
Sebastian stared into the lean, fine-boned face that was so much like his own. “I know why you killed Philippe Arceneaux.”
Knox let out a bark of laughter. “That’s rich. So tell me, then; what reason would I have for killing this young French—ah, lieutenant, was he not?”
“He was.” Sebastian stood back as a cart piled with sacks of hops and drawn by a bay shire horse turned in under the arch, steam rising from the animal’s wet hide, hooves clattering over the cobbles. “I noticed there’s a calico printer’s shop across the lane from your tavern.”
“So there is. But there must be several dozen or more calico printers scattered across London. So if you’re thinking there’s any connection between the calico printer’s cart I hear those four escaping French officers were taken up in and my tavern, then let me tell you right now, you’re fair and far out.”
“I might have believed you if I hadn’t discovered that Philippe Arceneaux was present at that little set-to you had with Miss Tennyson last Thursday at the York Steps. I’m thinking there’s a reason you left that detail out, and this is it.”
Knox stood with his hands on his slim hips, his cheeks slightly hollowed, a faint smile dancing around his mouth as if he were amused.
Sebastian said, “You see, I’m thinking there were originally supposed to be six Frenchmen in that cart, with Arceneaux being one of them. Only, somehow the woman he loved—that would be Miss Tennyson, by the way—found out he was planning to escape and begged him to stay. So he backed out.”
“An interesting theory, to be sure. Although I fail to see what the hell any of this has to do with me.”
Sebastian watched the team of heavy dapple grays hitched to Knox’s beer wagon lean into their collars. “I’m told that six hundred and ninety-two paroled French officers have escaped—or attempted to escape—from
England in the past three years. That’s an extraordinary number of men. Is that how you pay for the French wine and brandy you smuggle in? With escaped prisoners of war?”
The rain drummed around them, pounding on the puddles in the courtyard and sluicing off the brewery’s high roof. Knox stared back at him, silent, watchful.
Sebastian said, “It’s a clever, lucrative rig you’re running, but it’s also dangerous. Did Gabrielle Tennyson discover what you were doing? Is that why you were quarreling with her by the York Steps last Thursday? Because there’s some men who might consider that kind of threat a good motive for murder, if they thought a woman was going to give their game away. Did Arceneaux accuse you of killing her, I wonder? Did you decide to kill him before he could cause you any trouble?”
A cold, dangerous light glittered in the depths of the rifleman’s eyes. “And the two lads? Am I to have killed them too, just for the sport of it?”
“In my experience there’s a certain kind of man who can turn decidedly lethal when he’s feeling cornered. Maybe you saw an opportunity to strike against her and you didn’t let the fact that the boys were there, too, stop you.”
“And what was I doing out at that moat with Miss Tennyson and the two brats? Mmm? You tell me that. You think she drove out there with me? Her in love with Arceneaux and thinking me a smuggler and all-around degenerate character?”
It was the one inescapable flaw in Sebastian’s theory, and he’d known it when he decided to approach the rifleman. “I don’t know why she went out there with you. Maybe you followed her. Maybe she wasn’t even killed at the moat. Maybe that’s why the two lads’ bodies have never been found, because you killed and buried them someplace else.”
The tight smile was back around Knox’s lips. “Someplace such as St. Helen’s churchyard, perhaps? Now, there’s a clever place to hide a couple of bodies, don’t you think? In a graveyard full of moldering corpses?”
“Perhaps,” said Sebastian. “Then again, it’s always possible you didn’t kill Miss Tennyson at all—that someone else killed her for a different reason entirely. But Arceneaux would have no way of knowing that, would he? Something he said to me the other day suggested he was afraid he might be responsible for what had happened to her. So maybe he accused you of killing her, even when you hadn’t. Maybe he threatened to expose you once his friends escaped. The timing of his death is curious, wouldn’t you agree?”
All trace of amusement had drained from the rifleman’s face, leaving it hard and tight. “I’ve killed many men in my day; what soldier hasn’t? But I’ve never killed a woman or a child, and I’ve never murdered a man in cold blood.”
The two men stared at each other. The rain poured around them, loud in Sebastian’s ears. He settled his hat lower on his forehead. “If I find out you shot Philippe Arceneaux, I’ll see you hang for it.”
Brother or no brother, he thought. But he didn’t say it.
Chapter 44
Sebastian stood at the top of the Cole Harbour Steps, the storm-churned waters of the Thames slapping the ancient masonry at his feet. Behind him loomed the soot-covered brick walls of the brewery and the steelyard beyond that. Dark clouds pressed down on the city, heavy with the promise of rain.
More and more, he was beginning to think there was something in Gabrielle Tennyson’s life that he was missing, something that would explain the puzzle that was her death and the mysterious disappearance of her two young cousins. He had pieced together much of it—her love for the scholarly young French lieutenant, the conflicts swirling around her work on the legends of King Arthur and Camelot, the ill-fated escape attempt by Arceneaux’s fellow officers. But something still eluded him. And he couldn’t shake the growing conviction that the missing children were the key.
Had Gabrielle and the two boys driven up to Camlet Moat in the company of their killer? Or was her body simply planted there for reasons Sebastian could only guess at? Why would the killer leave Gabrielle at the moat and then take her young cousins elsewhere to kill or bury them? Had the cousins been killed, or were they even now out there, somewhere, alive?
Sebastian turned, his gaze narrowing as he stared up the river. From here he could look beyond the soot-blackened expanse of Blackfriars Bridge to the distant bend marked by the rising arches of the new Strand Bridge. Farther beyond that, lost in the mist, lay the imposing facade of the Adelphi. An idea was forming in his mind, a scenario that made more sense as the different possibilities he was looking at spiraled narrower and narrower.
Swinging away from the river, he darted through the rain to Upper Thames Street, where he flagged down a hackney and directed the driver to Tower Hill.
“Come to collect your dog, have you?” asked Gibson, limping ahead of Sebastian down his narrow hall.
Sebastian swung off his wet cloak and swiped his sleeve across his dripping face. “Is he going to be all right, then?”
Gibson led the way into his tattered, cluttered parlor, where the little black and brown dog raised his head, his tail thumping against the worn rug in welcome. But Chien made no effort to get up, and Sebastian could see blood still seeping through the thick bandage at his shoulder.
“It might be better if you left him with me a wee bit longer, just so I can keep an eye on him.” Gibson rasped a hand across his chin, which from the looks of things he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. “Although there’s no denying he’s a sore trial.”
“What have you been doing, Chien? Hmm?” Sebastian went to hunker down beside the dog. “Stealing the ham Mrs. Federico had intended for our good surgeon’s dinner?”
“As a matter of fact, he tried. But that’s not the worst of it. I let him out in the yard to answer nature’s call, and what does he do but bring me back a bone. Thankfully, he wasn’t chewing on it—just presented it to me like he’d found something precious and expected a reward.”
“Did Mrs. Federico see it?” Gibson’s housekeeper, Mrs. Federico, was both extraordinarily squeamish about her employer’s activities and blissfully ignorant of what lay buried in his yard.
“Fortunately, no. But if he starts digging holes out there, I’m going to be in trouble.” Gibson eyed Sebastian darkly. “Go on, then, laugh if you want. But if you’re not here for the dog, then why are you here?”
“Do you still have the clothes Gabrielle Tennyson was wearing when she was murdered?”
“I do, yes. Why?”
“Something’s been bothering me.”
Sebastian found Hero sipping a hot cup of tea in the drawing room. She wore a sarcenet walking dress and her hair was damp, as if she had just come in out of the rain. He set a brown paper–wrapped bundle on the table beside her and said, “I’m beginning to think it’s more and more likely that Gabrielle Tennyson was actually murdered in London and then taken up to Camlet Moat.”
Hero looked at him over the rim of her cup. “I thought Gibson said there was no evidence that she’d been moved after death.”
“He did. But just because he found no evidence of it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” He untied the string holding the bundle together. “This is what Gabrielle was wearing when she was killed. Is it the sort of thing she would be likely to put on to go up to Enfield?”
She reached out to touch one of the gown’s short puffed sleeves, a quiver passing over her features as she studied the bloodstained tear in the bodice. “The material is delicate, but it is a walking dress, just the sort of thing a woman might wear for a stroll in the country, yes.” She turned over the froth of petticoats to look at the peach half boots. Then she frowned.
“What is it?” asked Sebastian, watching her.
“Is this everything?”
“Yes. Why?”
“She had a pretty peach spencer with ruched facings and a stand-up collar I would have expected her to be wearing with this. Only, it isn’t here.”
“Sunday was quite hot. She might have left the spencer in the carriage. The shade in the wood is certainly dense enough th
at she wouldn’t have needed to worry about protecting her arms from the sun.”
“True. But I wouldn’t have expected her to take off her bonnet, as well. She had a lovely peach silk and velvet bonnet she would have worn to pick up the color of the sash and these half boots. And it’s not here, either.”
“Would you recognize the spencer and bonnet if you found them in her dressing chamber?”
Hero met his gaze. Then she set aside her tea and rose to her feet. “I’ll get my cloak.”
“Hildeyard could have already directed Gabrielle’s abigail to dispose of her clothes,” said Hero as they drove through the rain, toward the river.
“I doubt it. His energy has been focused on the search for the missing children. And even if he did, the woman will surely remember what was there.”
Hero was silent for a moment, her gaze on the wet streets. “If you’re right, and Gabrielle was killed here in London, then what do you think happened to the children?”
“I’d like to think they’re in the city someplace, hiding—that they ran away in fear after witnessing the murder. But if that were true, I think they’d have been found by now.”
She turned to look at him. “You think it’s d’Eyncourt, don’t you? You think he killed George and Alfred over the inheritance and hid their bodies someplace they’ll never be found. And then he drove Gabrielle up to Camlet Moat to make it look as if her death were somehow connected to the excavations or her work on the Arthurian legends.”
Sebastian nodded. “I keep going back to the way he was just sitting there, calmly reading The Courier in White’s. What kind of man wouldn’t be out doing everything he could to search for his own brother’s children? He’s either more despicable than I thought, or—”
“Or he knew they were already dead,” said Hero, finishing the thought for him.
They arrived at the Adelphi to find Hildeyard Tennyson still up at Enfield.