When Falcons Fall

by C. S. Harris

  “Not quite all of them, I’m afraid.”

  “I think you underestimate yourself, my lord.”

  Sebastian watched her cut off a long cane with a quick snip. Until that moment, he’d had sympathy for this woman, or at least for the young and vulnerable girl he imagined she’d once been. Now he began to wonder if some of that sympathy hadn’t been misplaced.

  He said, “How long has your husband been dabbling in smuggling?”

  Her attention was all for her roses. “I am a woman. What would I know of such things?”

  “You know.”

  When she remained silent, he said, “Tell me this, Mrs. Weston: Why does your husband take such care to preserve the old gibbet that stands near the crossroads?”

  Her hand momentarily faltered at its task. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  She shrugged. “He would tell you that gallows and gibbets, like whipping posts and stocks, play an invaluable role in reminding the lower orders of the folly of forgetting their proper place in the scheme of things. But the truth is, my husband is a nasty, vindictive man. He hated Alex Dalyrimple with the kind of passion not even death can satisfy, and he maintains that gibbet as a testament to what he sees as his victory over an enemy. If my husband had had his way, Dalyrimple’s body would still be moldering up there.”

  “Why? Because Dalyrimple dared try to oppose your father’s Bill of Enclosure?”

  “In part. But mainly because Dalyrimple was nothing more than a base-born, self-taught wheelwright, yet he was ten times the man Eugene Weston could ever hope to be—and Eugene knows it.”

  Sebastian watched her step back to evaluate her work. He wondered when she had realized the folly of her marriage. Before her father’s death, obviously, given that she had successfully persuaded the enfeebled old man to tie up her inheritance in a way that kept what was left of it from Weston’s grasp. Was that truly when Weston had turned to smuggling? he wondered. Or had it started before? Perhaps even before the erection of that tar-blackened gibbet at the crossroads.

  Sebastian touched his hat with a slight bow. “When your husband returns, if you would be so kind as to tell him I’d like to speak with him?”

  “Of course,” said the major’s wife, that eerie little smile still curling her lips. “If he returns.”

  “You think the major done run off after killin’ all them people?” asked Tom when Sebastian returned to the curricle.

  Sebastian craned around to stare at his tiger. “How did you know Weston is missing?”

  “Heard the cook talkin’ about it with the groom. They can’t think why else ’e ain’t come home.”

  Sebastian could think of another very good reason for Major Weston to have disappeared. But he kept that possibility to himself as he drove back to the village.

  “See the chestnuts taken care of,” he told Tom as they drew up before the Blue Boar. “Then I want you to find Squire Rawlins and suggest that it might be a good idea to send his constable out to nose around Maplethorpe’s carriage house.”

  The boy scrambled to take the reins, his sun-reddened face sharpening with sudden understanding. “’Oly ’ell! Ye think the major might be dead?”

  “His wife certainly thinks it.”

  “’Oly ’ell,” said Tom again. “What’ll I tell the Squire if ’e asks where you’ve gone?”

  “Tell him . . . Tell him I’ve gone for a walk.”

  Chapter 56

  Sebastian had just passed the outskirts of the village when Lucien Bonaparte came thundering toward him mounted on a magnificent dapple-gray Arabian.

  “My lord,” said Napoléon’s brother, the gray sidling and tossing its head as he reined in hard beside Sebastian. “I was coming to see you.”

  “Oh?” Sebastian kept walking. He was in no mood to deal with the Emperor’s spoiled, self-indulgent brother.

  “Is it true what they’re saying? That Daray Flanagan is dead?”

  Sebastian glanced up at the Corsican’s pale, slack face. “Why? Are you admitting you knew him?”

  “So it is true? He is dead? Mon Dieu. This is dreadful.”

  “It’s certainly dreadful for Flanagan.”

  The Corsican kicked his feet from the stirrups and dropped awkwardly to the ground. “There is something I must tell you,” he said, tugging at his rucked-up waistcoat as he fell into step beside Sebastian.

  “Yes?”

  “I fear I was not quite truthful when I said I am not in contact with Paris. Not with Napoléon, you understand, but with my mother.”

  “I’d already figured that.”

  Bonaparte’s jaw sagged. “You had?”

  “I take it Flanagan was sent here as a courier?”

  “He was, yes. But . . . how did you know?”

  “Call it a good guess. You met with him on Monday? At the priory?”

  The Corsican nodded miserably. “At three o’clock.”

  Sebastian drew up abruptly and swung to face him. “Who was with him?”

  Whatever Bonaparte saw in Sebastian’s face caused him to take a quick step back. “No one.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who arrived at the priory first? You or Flanagan?”

  “Flanagan.”

  “So he was waiting there for you?”

  “He was, yes.” Bonaparte looked puzzled. “That’s important. Why?”

  Sebastian said, “And you saw no sign there of Emma Chandler?”

  “No, nothing. And now Flanagan is dead, and I’ve just learned that young woman was at the priory that afternoon as well, and—”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “That she was there? No! Not until just now, when I heard Lady Seaton discussing it with her steward.”

  Emma’s presence at the priory that afternoon was known by everyone who had attended Emma’s inquest. But then, Lucien Bonaparte hadn’t been present at the inquest; he’d sent his son in the company of Lady Seaton and Samuel Atwater.

  Bonaparte sucked in a quick, nervous breath. “Is it someone sent by Whitehall who’s doing this? I know that man, Hannibal Pierce, was their creature—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Flanagan warned me. I wondered why he always insisted on passing me the packets from Paris in broad daylight rather than under cover of darkness. But he said anyone I met at night would immediately be suspect, whereas we might briefly encounter each other during the day without attracting undo attention.”

  “Did you order Pierce killed?”

  “No! I haven’t ordered anyone killed! I don’t kill people. I have never killed anyone. Never.”

  “The message from Paris; what was it?”

  “I can’t tell you that!”

  Sebastian suppressed the urge to grasp the Corsican by the lapels of his coat and shake him. “Bloody hell. At least four people are dead because of that message—if not six.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “You know it too. It’s why you’re here.”

  Napoléon’s brother brought up two shaky hands to swipe them down over his face. “My mother wrote to say that if the armies of this new alliance continue to march against us, France will surely fall. Even the world’s most brilliant general needs an army, and there simply aren’t enough men between the ages of fourteen and sixty left to defend our borders. She wants to know if London would be agreeable to Napoléon abdicating in favor of his infant son, the King of Rome.”

  “I could answer that question for her.”

  Lucien nodded sadly. “I fear the time for such an action has passed. But I have sent out feelers to Castlereagh.”

  Sebastian understood why Lucien had been reluctant to divulge the contents of his mother’s message. It was one thing for malcontents on the streets
of Paris to whisper about Napoléon abdicating in favor of his son. But it was something else entirely for the Emperor to actually be considering it.

  “The other French agent here in Ayleswick,” said Sebastian, “who is it?” It was a question he was afraid he already knew the answer to, but he found he was still hoping to be proven wrong.

  Lucien Bonaparte chewed the inside of one cheek and gave Sebastian a glassy stare.

  “God damn it; who is it?”

  “I don’t know. Flanagan always called him ‘our friend.’ But I never learned his identity. It’s the way these things are structured; you must know that. The messages are sent in a sealed packet from Paris to the ship. Then, once the ship arrives off your shore, the packet is handed to whoever is in charge of the horses that collect the cargo from the beach. They carry it here to Ayleswick.”

  “And give it to whom? Weston?”

  “Pphff.” Bonaparte pushed a derisive breath out between his front teeth. “The man is an idiot content to pocket a few dollars here and there. Who would trust him?”

  “So who? Who took delivery of the packets and passed them to Flanagan to carry to you? He’s the man who’s actually been running Weston’s little smuggling operation from the very beginning, isn’t he? From long before you were sent to Shropshire.”

  “I don’t know who he is! You must believe me.”

  “Why the bloody hell should I?”

  “Because it’s the truth.” Bonaparte’s horse began to sidle, and he tightened his grip on its reins. “I don’t understand the reason for all this killing. Why is it happening?”

  “Because Emma Chandler was at the priory sketching when Daray Flanagan and the man you call your ‘friend’ arrived. She must have accidently seen or heard something that betrayed their links to Paris, and they killed her for it.”

  “But Flanagan’s friend wasn’t there!”

  “Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. You say Flanagan knew about Hannibal Pierce. If that’s true, his ‘friend’ probably came along that day for the sake of security.”

  “And you’re saying this man has now killed Flanagan? But why?”

  “Because he’s afraid of being exposed. Flanagan was expendable, but his ‘friend’ isn’t; another courier can always be brought in.”

  “But all this killing! It’s too much. Too much.”

  “You’re certain you don’t know who he is?”

  “No!”

  “Then you’d best hope he believes that.”

  Lucien Bonaparte gave him a strange look. “Why?”

  “Because I wouldn’t put it past him to kill you too.”

  “Me?”

  “Why not?”

  The Corsican opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again.

  Sebastian said, “Still certain you don’t know who he is?”

  Lucien Bonaparte gave a short, jerky shake of his head, his forehead beaded with sweat, his lips twitching with fear.

  And in spite of himself, Sebastian believed the man.

  Chapter 57

  The hollow twunk of an axe slicing into wood echoed in the sultry stillness of the afternoon as Sebastian approached the small stream that led to the old priory.

  He followed the sound around the side of Heddie Kincaid’s cottage, to a dirt yard where Jenny Dalyrimple was chopping lengths of wood into kindling. Her face was flushed and sheened with sweat, and she threw him a quick glance over one shoulder before reaching for another section of wood to rest on the block before her.

  He came to a halt some distance from her. “Tell me about your cousin, Sybil Moss.”

  Jenny swung her axe, and the wood on the block shattered. “What about her?”

  “Do you know the name of the gentleman she was seeing at the time she died? The one who put a babe in her belly?”

  “Course I know it.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  She reached for another length of wood but simply held it, her gaze on his face. “You really want to hear it?” The words were like a challenge thrown at him.

  “Yes.”

  She set the section of wood on the block and swung again, splitting it neatly, the lean muscles in her shoulders and arms working beneath the thin cloth of her dress. Then she turned to face him, her breath coming hard and quick from her exertion. “All right; I’ll tell you, then. It was Leopold Seaton—the present Lord Seaton’s father.”

  Sebastian searched her tightly held, sweat-sheened features, looking for some sign of calculation or deception. But he found only contempt and an old, old anger.

  He said, “Is it possible Lord Seaton killed her?”

  For a long moment, Sebastian didn’t think she meant to answer him. Then she set her jaw and shook her head. “No. Not in the way you mean.”

  “What about Lady Seaton? Could she have done it?”

  Jenny tilted her head to one side. “Why you care how Sybil died?”

  “Because I don’t believe she threw herself off the cliffs of Northcott Gorge, just as I don’t believe Hannah Grant drowned herself in the millpond or Leopold Seaton simply fell off his horse coming home drunk one night from the Blue Boar. I think they were murdered. And I think whoever killed them is now responsible for the death of Emma Chandler and all the other killings that have followed on from it.”

  Jenny swung her axe to sink the blade deep into the chopping block beside her. “You’re wrong. Sybil did throw herself off the cliffs of Northcott Gorge.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  She swiped her sweaty face with the sleeve of one crooked elbow. “Because I was there.”

  “At the gorge?”

  Jenny lowered her arm, her hands dangling loose at her sides as she silently stared back at him.

  He said, “Tell me what happened.”

  She continued to stare at him, and there was something about her face in that moment that reminded him so much of the last time he’d seen Jamie Knox that it tore at his gut.

  “Why?” she said at last.

  And he thought, Because I don’t want to believe that the man who was like a brother to Jamie is a killer, although I am very, very afraid that he is.

  But all he said was, “It’s important.”

  She twitched one shoulder. “Sybil never made any secret of the fact she was lying with his lordship—had been for months. She was so pretty, no one was surprised when she caught his eye. He went after all the pretty girls.”

  Sebastian studied the flaring line of Jenny’s cheekbones, the gentle curve of her lips. She was still an extraordinarily attractive woman. And he found himself wondering if she herself had once attracted Leopold Seaton’s attentions. If so, Seaton must have quickly realized that this woman was far too dangerous to trifle with.

  She drew a painful breath. “But Sybil . . . Somehow she convinced herself things were different with her. She was so excited when she realized she was carrying his child. She thought once he knew, he’d set her up in a fine house in Ludlow with servants and a carriage and fancy clothes and jewels. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Said I was jealous and didn’t want her to be happy.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She told him about the baby on Midsummer’s Eve, during the bonfires. At first he just laughed at her for thinking he’d acknowledge one of his bastards. But she didn’t take it well, so then he flew into a rage. Told her if she tried to claim he’d fathered her brat, he’d have her taken up for being a whore and whipped through the village at the cart’s tail.” Jenny swiped at her forehead again. “He was like that. He could be smiling and oh so handsome one minute, and then, just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“he’d turn mean and ugly. In the end, he pushed her away from him hard enough to send her sprawling. Then he just walked off and left her there on the ground.�
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  She fell silent. Sebastian held himself very still, waiting for her to continue.

  She said, “I went to help her up; put my arms around her and told her everything was gonna be all right. But she wouldn’t stop crying. She was talking wild, about what a fool she’d been and how she just wanted to die—that she ought to go throw herself off Monk’s Head. Then she pulled away from me and ran off into the night.”

  He could picture the scene all too well. The hellish glow from the bonfires lighting up the darkness and reflecting on the young girl’s tears. The warm night air heavy with herb-scented smoke. The laughter and excitement of villagers drunk on cider and a primitive tradition older than anyone knew.

  “What did you do?” he asked quietly.

  “What you think I did? I found Jude, and we went after her.”

  “To Northcott Gorge?”

  Jenny nodded. “Jude, he didn’t think she’d really do it, even though she was standing at the edge of the cliff when we got there. The wind was whipping at her skirts and blowing her hair across her face. I begged her to get back from the edge, and Jude, he told her not to be such a damned fool. She looked over at us—didn’t say anything, just looked at us in a quiet, steady way that scared the hell out of me. There was a full moon that night, and I could see the determination in her eyes. Then she just . . . stepped over the edge into nothing.”

  Jenny fell silent again, her gaze fixed unblinkingly on the distance, and Sebastian knew she was seeing again the young woman’s skirts billowing in the moonlight, hearing the bone-breaking thump and tumble of her body hitting the rocks as she plummeted into the gorge.

  “You didn’t tell anyone?”

  Her features hardened. “Why would we? So they could bury her at the crossroads with a stake through her heart? That’s the last thing we wanted. We told anyone and everyone who’d listen to us that she was laughing the last time we’d seen her, that she was happy. That there was no way she’d deliberately kill herself. But the coroner’s jury didn’t believe us.”

  “When Lord Seaton died a few months later, did you never think someone might have killed him?”