What Angels Fear

by C. S. Harris

  The boy laughed, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He wasn’t just good at this sort of thing, Sebastian was beginning to realize; Tom enjoyed it.

  “Right then,” he said, one hand coming up to anchor his hat to his head. “I’m off. But you watch yer back,” he called as he dashed away. “You hear?”

  Kat drew the folds of her black mantle more closely about her and hastened her step. The air was cold and damp, the gray clouds over the rooftops pressing down heavy and low. She should have called a hackney, she decided, just as a man’s darkly coated form loomed up before her. She let out a small gasp of surprise, quickly stifled.

  “This isn’t like you, Leo,” she said, keeping her voice light. “You must be nervous if you’ve taken to slinking around London.”

  Leo Pierrepont fell into step beside her. “Did you manage to get into Rachel’s rooms?”

  “Last night.”

  “And?”

  “As you said, there was nothing incriminating.”

  A narrow line appeared between the Frenchman’s brows. “You checked the compartment in the bedroom mantel?”

  “Of course. It contained Rachel’s appointment book. Nothing more.”

  “You’re quite certain? You searched everywhere?”

  “There was nothing else to search. Rachel’s maid cleaned the place out. Down to the walls.”

  “Her maid?” Something in Leo’s tone made Kat look over at him. “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “Mary Grant. Why? What did you think I might find there?”

  Instead of answering her, he said, “I had an unpleasant conversation last night with your young viscount. Somehow or other he’s found out I was paying for Rachel’s rooms.”

  “Hugh Gordon told him.”

  “Gordon? How the devil could he have known?”

  “One can only assume he heard it from Rachel.”

  Leo’s intense gray eyes narrowed as he searched Kat’s face. “He’s been in contact with you, has he? Devlin, I mean.”

  Kat shrugged and quickened her pace. “One could say he has a vested interest in discovering who killed Rachel.”

  “And you’re helping him?” Leo reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, stopping her. “Be careful, mon amie. He might find out some things you’d rather he didn’t learn.”

  Kat swung to look up at him. “I’m always careful.”

  A smile quirked up one side of the Frenchman’s thin, tight lips. “Except with your heart.”

  Kat stood very still. “Especially with my heart.”

  There were only so many places a young man of Bayard’s crowd could be found in London on a cold, foggy January afternoon.

  Sebastian finally ran his nephew to ground at the Leather Bottle, a tavern near Islington that was popular with cutpurses and highwaymen, and the bored, rich young men who liked to rub shoulders with them and learn their thieves’ cant and make believe for a few, gin-soaked hours that their lives had, if not meaning, then at least excitement and challenge.

  It was early enough that the crowd in the tavern was still thin. A few of the men looked up at Sebastian’s entrance, but he had dressed for the part, taking as his model the dashing young gentleman of the highway who had attempted some months back to hold up his carriage one night on Houndslow Heath.

  Bayard was at the bar, laughing and talking too loudly with two or three of the gangly, socially maladroit young men with whom he tended to associate. Bayard was very much his father’s son, brown haired and weak chinned and already inclined even at his young age to run to flesh.

  Ordering a glass of blue ruin, Sebastian leaned in close to his nephew and poked the muzzle of the Cassaignard between his ribs. Bayard froze.

  “That’s right,” whispered Sebastian, his voice pitched low and rough. “This is a pistol, and it will go off if you do anything—I repeat, anything—stupid.”

  Bayard’s eyes rolled frantically sideways.

  “No, don’t turn around. And stop looking like you just shit your pants or some such thing. We wouldn’t want to alarm your friends, now would we? You need to smile.”

  Bayard gave a sick giggle that came out sounding more like a half-choked hysterical sob. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  “We’re going to walk together, very slowly, to that table over there, near the far corner. You’re going to sit down first, and I’m going to sit opposite you, and we’re going to have a nice little chat.” Sebastian reached for his drink, but the muzzle never left Bayard’s side. “Walk, Bayard.”

  Bayard walked, his legs trembling and unsteady.

  “Now sit.”

  Bayard sat. Sebastian took the rickety, straight-backed chair opposite. The light in the tavern was murky, the few small windows obscured by grime, the tallow dips dim and foul smelling. A heavy odor of sweat and tobacco and spilled gin filled the air.

  “Now,” said Sebastian, smiling, “you need to try very, very hard not to forget that I have a gun pointed at your crotch.”

  Bayard nodded, his eyes widening as he got a good look at Sebastian for the first time. “Good God. It’s you. Whatever are you doing in that rig? You look like a bloody bridle cull.”

  Sebastian smiled. “An appropriate getup, don’t you think, for one in danger of cutting a caper upon nothing?”

  Sebastian watched, bemused, as Bayard’s fear slowly dissipated beneath the onslaught of a deep and powerful fury. “I heard it was you,” he said, enunciating the words through clenched teeth, “you who killed her.”

  “You’re forgetting the pistol, Bayard,” said Sebastian as his nephew half rose from the table.

  Bayard sank back into his chair, his gaze locked on his uncle’s face. “Did you do it? Did you? Did you kill Rachel?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Me? But I love her.” The present tense of the verb wasn’t lost on Sebastian. “Besides, it’s your flintlock they’re saying was found on her body.”

  “And yet it’s you who’s been preying on the poor woman since before Christmas.”

  Bayard’s eyes widened, that brief flash of anger sliding away as the fear surged again. “Preying on her? What are you saying? I never touched her! Why, I never even managed to summon up the courage to approach her. The one time I found myself face-to-face with her, I was so overcome I couldn’t open my mouth.”

  “You never actually spoke to her?”

  “No! Never.”

  Sebastian leaned back in his seat. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Bayard worried his lower lip between his teeth. “Monday night, I think. I went to her performance. But that was all! I swear.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Sebastian stared across the table at his nephew. As a child, Bayard had been not only spoiled and cruel, but also dangerously, almost pathologically untruthful. He wondered how much, if any, the boy had changed. “Where were you Tuesday night?”

  Bayard might be self-indulgent and weak, but he wasn’t stupid. His eyes widened. “You mean, the night Rachel was killed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We planned to spend the evening in Cribb’s Parlor.” He jerked his head toward the two men still leaning on the bar, their attention focused on the mammoth breasts of the woman slinging gin behind the counter. “Robert and Gil and I. We’d been here—at the Leather Bottle—most of the afternoon, so we were pretty well lit by the time we got there.”

  “You were there all night?”

  “Well, actually, no.” He scrubbed one hand across his face, as if to wipe away an unpleasant memory. “I started feeling unwell.”

  “You mean you shot the cat.”

  A deep stain of mortification and resentment colored the younger man’s cheeks. “All right. Yes. Robert and Gil were hauling me out of there when what should we do but run smack up against my father. It was damned embarrassing, I can tell you that. He insisted on taking me home. I must have passed o
ut in the carriage because the next thing I know, I’m in my own bed and he’s hauling off my boots and prosing on about how lucky I am that my mother didn’t see me.”

  “What time was that?”

  Bayard looked confused. “What time was what?”

  “At about what time did you pass out?”

  Bayard shrugged one shoulder. “I couldn’t say for certain. Early. Around nine, I suppose.”

  Sebastian studied his nephew’s red, sulky face. It would take time, but it should be easy enough to trace Bayard’s movements through the course of Rachel York’s final day. If he were telling the truth.

  “Wait a minute,” Bayard said suddenly, sitting forward. “I did see Rachel on Tuesday. It must have been about midway through the afternoon, when I swung by the theater on my way here. I was hoping I might get a glimpse of her, and there she was.”

  “At the theater?” Sebastian frowned, trying to remember Rachel’s schedule for the afternoon before her death. “They were rehearsing?”

  “No, no. She wasn’t actually at the theater, you see. She was in the goldsmith’s across the street. I wouldn’t even have noticed her except for the way he was shouting—”

  “He?”

  “That actor. You know the one? He was doing Richard III at Covent Garden when it burned down.”

  “You mean Hugh Gordon?”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “You’re certain?” said Sebastian, frowning. What was it Hugh Gordon had said at the Green Man? I haven’t spoken to her for six months or more.

  Bayard nodded vigorously. “I’d have recognized his voice even if I hadn’t seen him.”

  “They were quarreling?”

  “I don’t know about that. But I could see he had her by the arm and he was leaning into her, all threatening-like. I was about ready to go in there and ask him what the devil he thought he was doing, treating a lady that way, when he gave her a little shake and let her go.”

  “You didn’t hear anything he said?”

  “Not so’s I remember. Except at the very end, right before he turned away. He said—” Bayard broke off, a strange, arrested expression narrowing his eyes and slackening his jaw.

  From somewhere at the back of the room came a sharp breaking of glass, followed by an outburst of laughter. “What?” said Sebastian, his gaze on his nephew’s face. “What did Gordon say?”

  “He said he’d make her pay.”

  Chapter 26

  Sir Henry Lovejoy stared at the man who stood in the center of the office. The Earl of Hendon was built big and powerful, with a barrel-like torso and a thick head, his nose broad and flat in a slablike, plain-featured face. If there was any resemblance between this man and his son, Lovejoy couldn’t see it. “You, my lord? You’re confessing to the murder of Rachel York?”

  “That’s right. She went to that church to meet me.” The Earl fixed Lovejoy with a fierce blue stare, as if he could somehow compel the magistrate to believe him. “And I killed her.”

  Lovejoy sat down so fast, his chair made a little thumping noise. He had been expecting some kind of trouble from Viscount Devlin’s influential father, but never in Lovejoy’s wildest imaginings could he have anticipated this. He shook his head, his voice coming out even higher pitched than usual. “But . . . why?”

  It was a question the Earl didn’t seem to have expected. “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why did she meet you in St. Matthew’s?”

  Hendon pressed his lips together and sucked in a deep breath that flared his nostrils and expanded his chest. “That is none of your damned business.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but if you expect me to accept your confession, it is very much my business.”

  Hendon swung away to take a quick turn across the room and back. “What the bloody hell do you think I went there to meet her for?” He glowered at Lovejoy, heavy eyebrows furrowed, as if daring Lovejoy to disbelieve him. “A girl like that?”

  The implications were as inescapable as they were unbelievable. Lovejoy met the Earl’s challenging gaze without flinching. “In a church, my lord?”

  “That’s right.” Hendon rested his hands flat on the desk and leaned into them. “What are you saying? That you don’t believe me?”

  Lovejoy sat very still. It was obvious what the Earl was trying to do, of course. This was hardly the first time Lovejoy had been confronted by an anxious father willing to do anything, say anything to save a beloved son. When it came to a father’s love for his child, Lovejoy supposed it made no difference, after all, whether the father was a blacksmith or a peer of the realm.

  A heavy, sad sigh escaped Lovejoy’s chest. “There is the matter of Lord Devlin’s pistol, which was found on the body.”

  “That’s just it. It’s not Sebastian’s pistol. It’s mine.”

  Reaching for the wooden box he’d set on the desk, Hendon flipped open the brass clasps and flung back the lid. It was a dueling pistol case, Lovejoy realized. And there, nestled in green baize, lay the mate to the flintlock Constable Maitland had found on Rachel York’s body. The molded cradle for the pistol’s twin was conspicuously empty.

  “They were given to me by my father,” said Hendon, “the Fourth Earl, shortly before his death. When I was Viscount Devlin.”

  There was a small engraved brass plate affixed to the front of the box. Lovejoy leaned forward to read it. TO MY SON, ALISTAIR JAMES ST. CYR, VISCOUNT DEVLIN.

  Lovejoy knew a moment of deep disquiet. “This proves nothing,” he said slowly. “You could have given these pistols to your own son at any time these past ten years or more.”

  “My son has his own dueling pistols.” The Earl’s mouth curled up into a hard smile. “As a matter of fact, he was using them the very morning after that girl’s murder.”

  “So I had heard.” Standing up, Lovejoy went to stare out the window overlooking the bare branches of the plane trees in Queen Square below. Not for an instant did he believe Lord Hendon’s tale. But if the Earl were to stick to this confession, if he were to insist that he and not his son had perpetrated that savage act of carnage in St. Matthew’s on Tuesday night . . . Abruptly, Lovejoy swung back to face him. “Describe for me the disposition of the body.”

  “What?”

  “Rachel York’s body. You say you killed her. You should be able to describe for me precisely how you left her. Where she was, what she would have looked like when she was found.”

  Lovejoy watched, fascinated, as the nobleman’s face seem to collapse in upon itself, becoming pale and almost slack with horror, as if he were being forced to look again upon that bloodied, savaged body.

  “She was in the Lady Chapel,” Hendon said, his voice hushed, strained. “On the altar steps, on her . . . on her back. She had her knees bent up, and there was blood. . . .” He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working with the effort. “The blood was everywhere.”

  Reaching out, Lovejoy wrapped his hands around the wooden back of his desk chair and gripped it hard. “What was she wearing, my lord?”

  “A gown. Some satin. I don’t remember the color.” Hendon paused. “And a pelisse. Velvet, I think. But both were ripped. And stained dark with her blood.” His eyes squeezed closed as if to block out a horrific vision, and he brought up one clenched hand to press the knuckles against his lips.

  Lovejoy stared at the man standing across from him. They had been very, very careful to keep the more sordid details of Rachel York’s murder from the papers. The only way Hendon could have known these things was if he had seen Rachel York’s body himself . . . or had it described to him by someone who had seen her dead. By the man who had killed her.

  Lovejoy pulled out his chair and sat down again. “You say you had an assignation to meet Miss York at St. Matthew’s?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lovejoy yanked a paper pad toward him and reached for his pen. “And for what time was this meeting scheduled?”

  Hendon didn’t even hesitate. “Ten.”


  Lovejoy looked up. “Ten? You’re quite certain, my lord?”

  “Of course I’m certain. I arrived a few minutes late, but not by much.”

  Lovejoy set aside his pen and pressed his fingertips together. “So you arrived at St. Matthew’s a few minutes after ten? And walked inside to meet her? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Hendon’s heavy brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “That’s right.”

  Lovejoy felt a sad, almost pained smile thin his lips. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, my lord. Miss York was killed sometime between five and eight o’clock, which is when St. Matthew of the Fields is locked every evening.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lord Hendon’s fleshy face turned a dark, angry color, his voice booming out so loud that he brought the clerk, Collins, scurrying to the door in alarm. “I arranged to meet that woman in St. Matthew’s at ten, and the door in the north transept sure as hell wasn’t locked when I got there.”

  Lovejoy held himself very still. “With all due respect, my lord, I believe you are attempting to protect your son by taking the blame for Rachel York’s murder yourself.” Reaching across the desk, Lovejoy closed the lid on the dueling pistols case and drew it toward him. “You’ll understand our need to keep this, of course. No doubt it shall prove to be a valuable piece of evidence. . . .” Lovejoy hesitated, then said it anyway. “At your son’s trial.”

  Chapter 27

  By the time Sebastian reached Kat Boleyn’s townhouse in Harwick Street, the fog was so thick the streetlamps were little more than murky hints of dim light, and the familiar, bitter stench of soot choked the cold evening air. It would be a dark night, a good night for smugglers and housebreakers.

  And grave robbers.

  He pushed the thought from his mind. His assignation with Jumpin’ Jack Cochran and his crew wasn’t until midnight. There was much to do before then.

  Sebastian lifted the collar of his coat against the damp and studied the house opposite. It was early enough that Kat hadn’t left for the theater yet. He could see her slim, elegant shape, silhouetted against the drawing room drapes, along with the shadow of what looked like a child. Puzzled, Sebastian crossed the street.