by C. S. Harris
“Why not simply notify the authorities?”
“I wasn’t sure it was him.”
“No?”
“No.”
“For whom are you working at the moment?”
“No one.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Poole gave a scoffing exhalation of air. “I don’t rightly care what ye believe.”
Sebastian watched a towheaded little girl bounce a ball against a nearby brick wall. “So what was Hayes doing when you just happened to see him?”
“Nothin’ of interest. Just walkin’.”
“When was this?”
“A week or more ago. Don’t recollect precisely.”
“And you were still following him this past Tuesday or Wednesday?”
Poole’s eyes narrowed. “Who says I was?”
“The person who saw you.”
Poole gave a dismissive twitch of one shoulder. “Told ye I didn’t recollect exactly.”
“Have you ever worked for the Count de Compans?”
“Don’t think so. Don’t hold with workin’ for foreigners—especially Frogs. M’brother died in Holland, he did.”
“What about the Earl of Seaforth? Ever work for him?”
“Not so’s I recall.”
Sebastian watched the little girl chase after her ball as it rolled away toward the arch. “You seem to have a shockingly poor memory for a former Bow Street Runner.”
Poole set his jaw. “I pay attention when I need to.”
“For whom are you working now?” Sebastian asked again.
“Ain’t none o’ yer business, is it?” said the man.
Which was a slightly different answer, Sebastian noticed, from “No one.” He let his gaze scan the galleries fronting the second-story chambers that ran along two sides of the yard. “I’ll find out, you know.”
Poole took a menacing step toward him, his big head thrusting forward as his lips pulled back from his teeth in a sneer. “Ye reckon ye scare me? Because if that’s what yer thinkin’, yer thinkin’ wrong, yer lordship.” He accentuated the title in a way that turned it into an insult. “People who know what’s what, they’re afraid of Titus Poole. Not the other way around.”
Sebastian met the man’s gritty gaze. “Is that a threat?”
“Just some friendly advice.”
“Ah.” Sebastian gave the man a hard smile of his own. “Then in the spirit of friendship, I have some advice for you: If you’re smart, you’ll come clean sooner rather than later. Because I’ll be back.”
Chapter 24
A rriving at Tower Hill a short time later, Sebastian found Paul Gibson on the stoop behind his surgery emptying a basin of bloody water into the yard. He looked haggard, his face unshaven, his eyes sunken and almost bruised.
“You look like the devil,” said Sebastian.
“Thank you. I’ve finished your dead tea gardens owner, if that’s why you’re here,” growled Gibson, slapping his hand against the bottom of the upturned basin. “Did it late yesterday evening. And it’s a good thing too, given that I spent all of last night and most of the morning stitching up stab wounds and binding broken bones. This heat has got to let up soon, or we’re all going to die—or wish we could.”
“Find anything interesting with Pennington?”
“Nope. He was stabbed four times in the back, probably with just your ordinary, everyday knife. That’s all.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes against the fiercely blazing sun. “What about Hayes?”
“Finished him too. Didn’t see anything to change my opinion about what happened the night he died. The second slash of the sickle is probably the one that brought him down, and then the killer twisted the blade, severing the artery and killing him.”
“Would he have had much blood on him? The killer, I mean.”
“On his cuffs, maybe. But probably not much beyond that. The initial cuts didn’t hit anything vital. It’s the internal damage that did the work, so the blood would have seeped out slowly rather than spurting all over your killer.” Gibson gave his basin a final shake and turned. “How about a wee something to slake the thirst of this god-awful heat?”
Sebastian blew out a long, harsh breath. “Sounds good to me.”
It was later, when they were sitting at the table in Gibson’s kitchen, a pitcher of ale from the corner tavern on the boards between them, that Gibson said, “Did find one thing you might consider relevant—about your Earl’s disreputable son, I mean.”
“Hayes? What’s that?”
“He was dying of consumption.”
Sebastian felt a sudden chill sluice through him. “Do you think he knew it?”
“Don’t see how he could help but.”
“How much longer did he have to live?”
“Four to six months, at best. Probably less. Certainly no more.”
Sebastian stared out the window at the sun-drenched ancient stone outbuilding at the base of the yard where Nicholas Hayes still lay. “That casts everything in a slightly different light.”
Gibson nodded. “I thought it might.”
Chapter 25
H ero and Calhoun spent the morning searching the streets near Smithfield without any luck.
It was later, when she was in the library studying a map of London she had spread across the table, that she heard a visitor ply the knocker on the front door.
“Major Hamish McHenry to see Lord Devlin,” said an unfamiliar Scottish voice when Morey answered the door. “Is he receiving?”
Turning her head, she heard Morey say, “I beg your pardon, Major, but his lordship is not at present at home.”
There was a pause. Then the unknown major said, “I’ll try again later.”
Something about the depth of the disappointment in the man’s voice brought Hero to the library door. “May I help you, Major? I’m Lady Devlin.”
The major had been turning away, but at her words, he paused. He was a lean, sandy-haired man of medium height, probably in his early forties, with the chiseled features and weathered complexion of a man who’d spent many years serving his country in harsh, unforgiving climes. His eyes were framed by the kind of deep fan lines left by smiling or squinting into a bright sun, but Hero didn’t think they were smile lines. His face was somber and a little sad, and she had the feeling that expression was habitual.
“You’re very kind, my lady,” he said with a bow. “But I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
She smiled. “No trouble. It’s so dreadfully hot out; may I offer you something refreshing to drink? Lemonade, perhaps? Or if you prefer, we’ve a barrel of ale delivered fresh from the brewery this morning.”
A slow, answering smile spread across the Scotsman’s face, transforming it. “Ale sounds grand.”
“Then ale it is.”
Later, when they were seated in the drawing room, the major with a tankard of ale and Hero sipping a cup of tea, she said, “Have you recently returned from France?”
“Not so recently. My mother fell ill not long after Christmas, and the doctors weren’t holding out much hope for her recovery. My only brother’s in India, so I came home in March and missed the end of all the fighting, I’m sorry to say.”
“That must have been frustrating for you.”
He gave a wry smile. “I won’t try to deny it.”
“And how is your mother?”
His grin spread. “Fit as a fiddle at an Irish jig.”
“Thank goodness for that. Will you stay in the Army, now that Napoléon is finished?”
He nodded. “My regiment is being ordered to America. There’s talk we may try to take Washington, D.C., or perhaps New Orleans.”
“Ah, yes, of course. With all these endless celebrations for peace in Europe, it’s easy to forget we’re still at war with th
e United States.” She took a sip of her tea. “Did you know Devlin when he was in the Army?”
McHenry cleared his throat and glanced away. “No, my lady. I’m here because I understand he’s looking into the death of Nicholas Hayes.”
“You knew Hayes?”
“Not well. But his brother Crispin and I were good friends.”
“Crispin is the brother who drowned right before Chantal de LaRivière was killed?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat again, and Hero had the impression there was something he’d come here to say to Devlin but didn’t feel comfortable telling her. “Has . . . has Lord Devlin identified who was responsible for Nicholas’s death?”
“Not yet, no. Why? Do you know something that might help?”
“Not exactly. But no one will ever convince me that Nicholas killed that Frenchwoman—at least, not the way they say he did.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because he was never in love with her. He blamed her for Crispin killing himself.”
Hero’s teacup rattled in its saucer. “Crispin Hayes committed suicide?”
“Yes. You didn’t know?”
“No.”
The major nodded. “Threw himself off London Bridge. His father the Earl managed to get the coroner to rule it an accident, but it wasn’t.”
“But . . . why? Why did he kill himself?”
To Hero’s surprise, a faint flush rose to the major’s cheeks. “I don’t think anyone ever knew, precisely.” He cast a quick glance at the clock on the mantel and set aside his tankard. “I’ve imposed on your generous hospitality far too long.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you for the much-needed refreshment.”
She rose with him. “I’ll tell Devlin you called.”
“Thank you. I’ll be staying with my mother in Lower Sloan Street until my regiment is ready to set sail.”
Hero walked with him to the top of the stairs. “Do you have any idea why Nicholas Hayes would risk his life by coming back to England?”
“I’m thinking there must have been something he felt he’d left unfinished—a wrong that needed righting.”
“Or a man who needed killing?” suggested Hero.
The bluntness of her words obviously shocked him. But after a moment he gave a curt nod and said, “Or a man who needed killing.”
* * *
Devlin came in some five minutes later, hot, dusty, and calling for ale.
“Suicide?” he said when Hero told him of Major McHenry’s strange visit. “Crispin Hayes killed himself? Why the bloody hell didn’t Calhoun tell me that? Or Seaforth? All he said was that Crispin drowned.”
“Perhaps Seaforth was too ashamed to admit that his cousin killed himself.”
“I doubt it. He wasn’t too ashamed to talk freely about all of his cousin Nicholas’s sins.” Devlin took a long, deep drink of his ale. “Why do you think McHenry came today?”
“I could be wrong, but I had the impression there was something he wanted to tell you—something he didn’t feel comfortable saying to me.”
Devlin refilled his tankard and went to stand at the front window, his gaze on the heat-blasted street. “What he told you was explosive enough.”
Hero was quiet for a moment, watching him. “Gibson is quite certain Hayes was dying of consumption?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that helps explain why he risked his life by coming back to London now, after all those years of freedom. He knew he was dying, so he didn’t care if he was caught or not.”
“Seems likely, doesn’t it?”
“Do you think he came back to kill Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière?”
“Either LaRivière or Seaforth. Or maybe both.”
“Nicholas told Mott Tintwhistle that any one of four men could have hired Titus Poole to follow him. Seaforth and LaRivière are obviously two, and either Brownbeck or Forbes could be the third. But what about Hamish McHenry as the fourth?”
Devlin glanced over at her. “Why would Hayes want to kill his brother’s good friend?”
“I don’t know. But it might explain why McHenry came here today, wanting to talk to you.”
Sebastian drained his tankard and set it aside. “I think I need to have a long talk with your major.”
Chapter 26
J i was hungry, tired, and afraid.
The few coins Hayes had left with the child on that dreadful evening had disappeared unbelievably quickly. After a night spent huddled in the doorway of an old church with no dinner and no breakfast, Ji knew something had to be done. And though it hurt even to think about it, the child eventually came to the conclusion there was only one thing to do: pawn Hayes’s watch.
Hayes had told Ji, once, about the old watch given to him by his grandfather, and about the jeering soldier who’d taken it from him on the ship to Botany Bay. The first thing Hayes had bought after arriving in Canton was the watch Ji now had, and it was the only thing the child still possessed that had belonged to him. But if there was an alternative to selling it to a pawnshop, Ji couldn’t see it.
Ji knew about pawnshops because Hayes had explained them to the child before they went to visit his friend Mott Tintwhistle. Ji thought about taking the watch to Tintwhistle himself, but then the child remembered that Titus Poole knew about Tintwhistle. And Ji was trying to stay away from any place Poole knew about—or might know about.
In the end, the child selected a pawnshop near the enormous white temple Hayes had called St. Paul’s. The shop was a narrow, musty place jammed with everything from carpenters’ tools and battered saucepans to fraying corsets and old carpet squares. In a corner near the counter, half buried beneath a dusty pile of fans, Ji even spotted what looked like an old Chinese bamboo flute.
“Help ye there, lad?” said the wizened man behind the counter when Ji hesitated to approach him. “If yer here jist t’ drool or if yer thinkin’ about meybe tryin’ to lift somethin’, ye can jist turn around and git.”
The old man reminded Ji of the ancient, withered peasant who used to sell chicken feet in the market in Canton. He was short and skeletally thin, his skin gray and wrinkled like old parchment, the whites of his lashless eyes yellow. He had that old-man smell, and his shop reeked of dust and decay and damp.
Taking a step forward, Ji laid the watch on the counter and said, “What will you give me for this, sir?”
The old man looked at the watch, then at Ji. “Where the hell did ye get that, yer lordship?”
“Canton,” said Ji. The “lordship” reference made no sense at all.
“Oh, ye did, did ye? And where might that be?”
“In the east.” Too late, Ji suspected that burst of honesty about Canton was a mistake.
“Ho. Sure it ain’t in the west?”
“No, sir. It’s in the east,” said Ji, not understanding the implications of the man’s question.
“Who’d ye steal the watch from, then?”
“I did not steal it.”
“Sure ye didn’t.” The man picked up the watch and held it to his ear to listen to the tick.
“It runs perfectly fine,” said Ji, watching him.
The old man’s lips pulled back into a nearly toothless grin. “Oh, it does, does it? Perfectly fine. Not real good, mind ye, but perfectly fine, ye say?”
Ji had the sense that they were holding two entirely different conversations, and the old man was the only one who understood both.
He said, “I’ll give ye a shilling for it.”
Ji stared at him. “But it’s worth at least ten pounds! I know because I priced comparable items in the shops before I came here.”
“So ye priced comparable items, did ye? Well, it may be worth ten pounds in a shop, new. But it ain’t new, now, is it? For all I know, it could stop runnin’ in an hour, or whoever ye lifted
it off could walk in here this afternoon and claim it. And then I’d be out me shilling, now, wouldn’t I?”
“I did not steal this watch.”
“Sure ye didn’t, lad.” The man set the watch on the counter. “A shilling is me offer. Take it or leave it.”
“Five shillings,” said Ji, who had spent many a morning in the market watching Pema barter with everyone from fishmongers and butchers to greengrocers.
The old man snorted. “Two.”
“Two and a half—and the bamboo flute there by the fans. If it plays.”
The old man turned to stare at the instrument with an expression that told Ji he’d forgotten it was even there. “That?”
“Does it play?”
He extricated the flute from the jumble of other items and handed it to Ji. “You tell me.”
The dizi was old and worn, the scarlet silk thread wrapping the bamboo dark with age, the tassel bedraggled. But it had once been a fine instrument; the protective ferrules were of jade, and Ji couldn’t help but wonder what it was doing here, in this wretched dolly shop so far from China.
The child was afraid the dimo might be cracked or even missing. But when Ji sounded a tentative note, it hummed pure and true. At first Ji played with a soft-breath attack, and the tone was peaceful, floating. Then the child quickened, and the flute responded, the sound becoming sprightly and ethereal. For a moment, Ji was lost in the music, lost in a sound that spoke of plum blossoms and nightingales and trickling water—the sounds of home. Then an awareness of time and place returned, and Ji lowered the flute.
“I . . .” Ji drew a breath. “It still plays.”
The old man was staring at Ji with a stillness that the child could not read, for the people in this land were too strange, their ways too different.
Then he cleared his throat and reached to close his hand around the watch. “Right then. Two and a half shillings and the flute. It’s a deal.”
Chapter 27
M ajor Hamish McHenry was not an easy man to find.