Why Kill the Innocent

by C. S. Harris

“They are. Although not as much as Napoléon believes.” Hendon walked on in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, his face troubled. “You think Rothschild killed that woman?”

  “It’s looking increasingly likely. Either Rothschild or Jarvis.”

  “Jarvis, more likely. The Rothschilds might keep one of our age’s greatest intelligence networks, but I don’t think they’re anywhere near as fond of assassins as your father-in-law.”

  “They might make an exception for someone who threatened a windfall of two million pounds.”

  “True.” Hendon sighed. “It’s a damnable business, this war financing. I’ve heard Napoléon likes to say that when a government depends on bankers, the bankers control the government. I fear I’m beginning to agree with him.”

  “Only beginning?” said Sebastian, and the Earl looked over at him and laughed.

  * * *

  A light snow was falling again by the time Sebastian climbed the hill to Brook Street. He found Hero sitting cross-legged on the hearth rug before the library fire, her head bowed as she focused on petting Mr. Darcy, who lay curled up nearby.

  “They hanged her?” Sebastian asked quietly, going to pour himself a brandy.

  Hero nodded. “Along with a man and his two boys. It was beyond ghastly. How can anyone possibly watch something like that for fun?”

  “I don’t know. But tens of thousands do.”

  She rested her hands on her knees as the cat stood and stretched. “Surely, you haven’t been at the inquest all this time?”

  He shook his head. “The inquest was little more than a formality.” He came to sit in one of the upholstered armchairs beside her and told her of his discussions with Ambrose, Sheridan, and Rothschild.

  “And Hendon confirmed this?” she said when he had finished.

  “He did.”

  She stared at the fire beside her. “Jarvis’s name keeps coming up. First with regard to Orange, and now this.”

  “It does. But then, little of importance happens in this Kingdom that he’s not involved with in one way or another.”

  “You think he killed her?”

  Sebastian hesitated, then said, “It’s certainly a possibility.”

  “Dear God.” She pushed to her feet and went to stare out the window at the quietly falling snow. “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I will,” she said.

  He felt a heavy weight of sadness settle over him. Hero’s love for her father was deep and powerful, and Sebastian wasn’t sure what it would do to her if she were to discover Jarvis’s hand at work in this. But all he could say was “If that’s what you want.”

  She turned her head to meet his gaze, her eyes dark and hurting. “It’s what I want.”

  * * *

  Jarvis was seated at the elegant French desk in his chambers in Carlton House when Hero arrived. According to his clerk, he’d only recently returned from the Foreign Office and was reading a report from Castlereagh. But he set the papers aside at the sight of her.

  “I know about the gold, Rothschild, and Jane Ambrose,” she said without preamble.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Oh?”

  “That’s why you sent your carriage for her several weeks ago, isn’t it? Not because she was spying for you, but because she had accidently stumbled upon the details of the gold transfers through the Rothschilds. You had her brought here so that you could threaten her. Scare her.”

  “Under the circumstances, do you blame me?”

  Hero went to stand with her back to the window, her gaze on his face. “Our warships control the Channel. You’ll never convince me you couldn’t send that gold directly to Spain.”

  “To Spain, yes. But Wellington is over the Pyrenees and into France now. The French bankers are insisting on heavily discounting our government notes to such an extent that Wellington was getting desperate. Sending the gold through Paris was easier, quicker, and, believe it or not, cheaper.”

  “Cheaper?”

  “Yes, cheaper. These things are complicated.”

  “Obviously.” She kept her gaze hard on his face. “You told me you didn’t kill her, and I believed you.”

  Jarvis pushed to his feet. “As it happens, I did not kill her. I won’t deny that if I had felt it necessary to eliminate her, I would have done so. But I had no reason to kill her. She had already told her uncle Sheridan about the gold, but I convinced her that she would be signing the death warrant of anyone else who heard about it from her. She wisely saw the importance of keeping quiet.”

  “So who did kill her?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Rothschild?”

  Jarvis shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “But you don’t care?”

  “Is there a reason I should?”

  She watched him walk over to pour wine into two glasses. “I’ve heard it said Rothschild brags that whoever controls Britain’s money supply controls the Kingdom—and you and I both know that he controls Britain’s money supply.”

  Jarvis smiled. “Rothschild is an extraordinarily clever, ruthless, and unprincipled financier. But I could wipe him out just like that—” He raised one hand and snapped his fingers. “If he doesn’t realize it, he’s a fool.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “So certain?”

  “Yes.” He held out one of the glasses, and after a moment she took it.

  She said, “Someone tried to kill Devlin in Fleet Street.”

  “So I had heard.”

  “Was that you?”

  Jarvis took a sip of his own wine. “He told you I warned him?”

  “As it happens, no; he did not.”

  “Interesting.”

  Hero waited a moment, then said, “I notice you didn’t say it wasn’t you.”

  “Not this time.”

  “I hope that was said in jest.”

  Jarvis reached out to touch her cheek in a rare gesture of affection. “I did not try to kill your tiresome husband. Not yet.” He hesitated a moment, his expression vaguely troubled, or perhaps simply confused. “Why do you continue to take such a personal interest in this woman’s death? Simply because you happened to be the one to find her?”

  “That’s part of it, I suppose. But it’s also because . . .” She paused, searching for a way to put her thoughts into words. “If I were to simply go on with my life, forgetting about her and how she died, then it would be as if I myself had had a part in killing her.”

  “This is nonsense. You barely knew the woman.”

  “You think that should matter?” She searched his face, but found none of the reassurance she so desperately needed to see there and gave a faint shake of her head. “This is the fundamental difference between you and me, isn’t it? The Kingdom and its monarchy mean everything to you, and you will do anything to serve and protect them. Yet the people—the hardworking, poor, everyday people who form the bedrock of what Britain is and always has been—are to you nothing more than the coal beneath our soil or the timber in our forests: a resource to be exploited and, if necessary, destroyed.”

  “Oh, I care about the people of Britain. But on an individual level? No, of course not. That would be ridiculous.”

  Hero shook her head. “I can’t understand that way of thinking.”

  “A defect you obviously share with your husband,” said Jarvis.

  But at that, Hero only smiled.

  Chapter 35

  Sebastian was cleaning his pistol at his desk when he heard a distant door slam, followed by a shout. He looked up as Tom came skidding into the room.

  “I got what ye wanted, gov’nor!” exclaimed the tiger, ignoring Morey’s loud hiss from the entrance hall. “I been askin’ around the Percy Arms about that Italian cove yer interested in, and I finally found a chambermaid says �
�e went off about midday last Thursday. ’E come back fer a bit t’ change ’is clothes and get ’is ’arp, but then he went off again.”

  Sebastian carefully replaced the pistol’s flint. “She’s certain about the day?”

  “Aye. Says it was the day they got their chimneys swept, and the sweep’s boy got stuck up the one in Vescovi’s room for hours. Only Vescovi never knew it ’cause he didn’t come in till late!”

  * * *

  A respectable eighteenth-century redbrick inn with white sash windows and a tidy, symmetrical facade, the Percy Arms lay on Red Lion Square in Holborn. When Sebastian pushed open the street door and turned toward the public room, a warm atmosphere heavy with the smells of coal and tobacco smoke, roasting meat and spilled ale enveloped him. He ordered a tankard and then went to pull out the opposite chair of the table where Signor Valentino Vescovi sat eating a plate of sausages beside the fire.

  The Italian froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Per l’amor di Dio. What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think?” said Sebastian, settling himself comfortably.

  “But I’ve told you everything I know!”

  Sebastian took a slow sip from his tankard and set it on the table between them. “I think not.”

  Vescovi thrust a large chunk of sausage into his mouth and chewed in silence.

  Sebastian said, “You can begin by telling me where you really were last Thursday. And don’t even think of trying to convince me you were here all day, because I now know that for a lie. I did warn you, did I not?”

  The Italian swallowed his half-chewed sausage, his eyes going wide.

  “Where were you?” Sebastian said again.

  “With the Big Princess—Princess Caroline of Wales,” said Vescovi, his voice hoarse.

  Sebastian sat back in his chair and folded his arms at his chest. “You do realize I will check, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes—of course. But I was there. I swear it.”

  “All afternoon and evening?”

  The harpist twitched one shoulder. “Late afternoon to evening. Before that, I was skating.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why were you at Connaught House so long? You were obviously there for something more than a simple music lesson.”

  Vescovi sat up straighter and said with an assumption of great dignity, “Her Highness was hosting a dinner party, and I provided the music.”

  “Oh? And who was at this dinner party?”

  Vescovi frowned. “I’m not convinced I should tell you that.”

  Sebastian met the man’s gaze and held it. “Actually, I rather think you should.”

  The Italian’s gaze faltered away. “Brougham. Henry Brougham was there. Whitbread. Earl Grey. Some others.”

  “Phineas Wallace?”

  “No. Not him. He was supposed to attend, but he canceled at the last minute.”

  Interesting, thought Sebastian. Aloud, he said, “I’ve been slowly piecing together a picture of Jane Ambrose’s last days. On Thursday, the twentieth of January—exactly one week before she died—Peter van der Pals attempted to cajole Jane into spying on Princess Charlotte for him and then threatened her when she refused. The following day she told Miss Kinsworth of the incident, unaware of the fact that the Duchess of Leeds’s nasty young daughter was listening at keyholes again. So when did Lady Arabella talk to you?”

  Vescovi slumped in his seat and looked miserable. “The following Monday.”

  “And Jane confronted you beside the canal in St. James’s Park that same day?”

  “Yes,” said Vescovi again, obviously not seeing where this was going. “Why?”

  “Because the following afternoon—Tuesday—Jane went to see a certain gentleman of her acquaintance to ask about Orange’s sexual interests. So far I haven’t been able to discover who told her about Orange. But given the timing, I’m beginning to think it was you.” Sebastian hesitated. “Am I right?”

  Face tight with worry, Vescovi set down his fork with a clatter and pushed his half-eaten plate away.

  Sebastian said, “Signor?”

  The Italian drew a pained breath and nodded. “I was . . . angry. We both were. She made a number of unjust accusations about me, and I told her she was naive—that she didn’t understand the situation at all.”

  “That’s when you told her about Orange?”

  Vescovi nodded. “But she didn’t believe me. At least, she said she didn’t.”

  “She may not have believed you at first. But she was concerned enough about what you said that she sought out someone she thought could confirm it.”

  Vescovi swiped his hands down over his face. “And this person she went to see, did he tell her the truth?”

  “He did.”

  “Dio mio,” he whispered. “You think that’s why she was killed? Because someone was afraid she might pass on what she’d learned to Charlotte?”

  “I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

  “Dio mio,” he said again.

  Sebastian studied the musician’s haggard, troubled face. “The Orange alliance is important to a number of powerful people, none of whom are the sort to take kindly to having their ambitions thwarted.”

  Vescovi brought up a shaky hand to cup his mouth.

  “What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.

  The musician cast a quick look around, then leaned forward and dropped his hand. “Those pushing for the Orange alliance are extraordinarily ruthless and powerful. But some of those working to prevent the marriage—while less powerful—can also be dangerous.”

  Sebastian frowned. “But Jane was against the marriage herself. Why would they be a threat to her?”

  “You must understand that those working against the alliance do not all share the same motivations, nor do they all have the Little Princess’s best interests at heart. Some wish simply to protect Charlotte from a miserable future and are opposed to the marriage for that reason, while others would like to prevent the Dutch entanglement but not at the cost of harming the Princess. Yet there are those who will do anything to prevent the alliance and they don’t care if Princess Charlotte is hurt in the process.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. How might she get hurt? If anything, it’s in her best interests if the marriage is called off.”

  “That depends on why it’s called off, does it not?”

  “Meaning—what?”

  “Please.” Vescovi’s voice turned into an agonized whisper. “Don’t ask me. I cannot tell you.”

  Sebastian studied the other man’s drawn, frightened face. “You might be safer if you did.”

  “I cannot.”

  And with that, the Italian pushed up from his chair and walked quickly away, his head bowed and the fingers of one hand sliding nervously up and down his watch chain.

  Chapter 36

  Sebastian stood beside the stone balustrade of Blackfriars Bridge and stared out over the uneven frozen plain that had once been the River Thames. Two straggly parallel lines of gaily painted booths and tents were beginning to form, with roving vendors selling everything from gingerbread and tea to gloves and hairbrushes. Troops of jugglers, acrobats, and tumblers performed for the growing crowd, while close to one of the arches of the bridge someone was roasting a sheep over a large iron pan full of coals and charging sixpence to watch or a shilling for a slice of mutton. The air was heavy with the scent of roasting meat, hot chestnuts, and ale.

  There hadn’t been a Frost Fair on the Thames since Sebastian was a boy. In his memories it loomed as a magical thing, a marvel of music and laughter and fanciful sights that seemed far more exciting than those of more humdrum fairs such as Bartholomew’s or Southwark’s. He supposed the wonder had something to do with a Frost Fair’s ephemeral, spontaneous nature, as well as the inevitabl
e spice of danger that came from knowing the ice could at any moment crack and give way, plunging everyone into the frigid waters below.

  There were tents for drinking, eating, and dancing; toy stalls and skittles alleys; even a Punch and Judy show. And near the roasting sheep, a couple of apprentices were helping their master set up a printing press in a booth decorated with gaily colored streamers. The apprentices were unknown to Sebastian, but he recognized the printer. It was Liam Maxwell.

  A young mother and two small children, all wrapped up warmly against the cold, were picking their way across the ice toward Maxwell’s booth. For a moment the younger boy paused to gaze in wide-eyed wonder at a juggler tossing flaming torches high into the air, and Sebastian found his thoughts spinning away, inevitably, to Jane Ambrose’s last days.

  He suspected that, near the end, she must have felt something like a juggler herself, desperately trying to control the dangerous men who threatened her world. One of them had eventually killed her. If Sebastian could figure out how and where, it might tell him which one. But at the moment his thoughts were all up in the air, going round and round in an endless, useless whirl.

  He was still staring thoughtfully out over the growing fair when a slim, elegantly dressed courtier came to stand beside him, the breeze rising off the ice to ruffle the artful curls that framed his handsome face.

  “A curious level of excitement, this,” said Peter van der Pals, his gaze on the bustle below. “One would think they’d never seen a Frost Fair before.”

  “They don’t happen here often.”

  Van der Pals shifted his posture to lean one hip against the snow-covered battlement and face Sebastian. “I’m told you’ve been making inquiries about me.”

  “I have. I don’t appreciate it when people lie to my wife.”

  The Dutch courtier stiffened. It was considered a grave insult, calling a gentleman a liar. “I beg your pardon?”

  Sebastian kept his voice even and pleasant, his gaze on two men setting up a swing below. “When you claimed Jane Ambrose was jealous of your attentions to Lady Arabella, that was a lie. Her anger was actually provoked by your attempts to convince her to spy on Princess Charlotte. When she refused, you threatened to make her ‘sorry’ if she told anyone. But she did tell someone, and now she’s dead. All of which makes you a prime suspect in her murder.”