Who Speaks for the Damned

by C. S. Harris

  “Somehow, I doubt you fall into the trap of that kind of thinking.”

  “Not often, perhaps. But I suspect I do sometimes. It’s human nature, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is.” He watched a pigeon flutter down to peck at some crumbs on the pavement. “So, what was Chantal like—really like—beneath her famous beauty?”

  “It’s difficult to say. She cultivated an aura of helplessness mixed with good-natured sweetness and one of those breathy little-girl voices that somehow make a woman seem simultaneously childlike and yet highly attractive to men in that way Claiborne is shocked to hear his mother talk about.”

  “But?” prompted Sebastian when she hesitated.

  “I could be wrong, but I always suspected that beneath all the filmy white muslin and the wide, perfect smiles, she was shrewd, hard as granite, and utterly amoral.”

  “She was?”

  “There, you see?” said his aunt. “You’re shocked, aren’t you? You’ve been picturing her as this gentle, innocent, tragic little thing, haven’t you?”

  “I suppose I have. What makes you think she wasn’t?”

  “A woman’s intuition, mainly. But I also watched her work her wiles on several different men. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

  “Which men? Can you remember?”

  “Crispin Hayes, for one. But there were others.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  Aunt Henrietta stared off down the street. “Hmmm. There was one young Scotsman in particular. I can’t recall his name, but I remember wondering why she bothered with him. He was attractive, but not excessively so. And his father was nothing more than a Marine officer.”

  Sebastian drew up short. “You mean Hamish McHenry?”

  “Ah, yes, that was his name. I don’t know what became of him.”

  “He bought a pair of colors.”

  “Then that explains why he disappeared.”

  “Did you ever see the Countess ‘work her wiles’ on Nicholas Hayes?”

  “No. Not that it would have done her any good. I told you, he had eyes only for Kate.”

  “Even after she married?”

  “By the time she was married, Nicholas had been banished by his father.”

  Sebastian watched the pigeon take flight at the approach of a rumbling old landau. “I’m told Chantal de LaRivière left a child.”

  “Yes, Compans’s heir.”

  “So he’s still alive?”

  “Last I heard. I believe he left for France with the Bourbons.”

  “And the Count de Compans never remarried?”

  “No.”

  “Because he’s still desperately in love with his dead wife?”

  Aunt Henrietta sniffed. “To be honest, I don’t know that he was ever in love with her. He was obviously proud of her beauty—saw her as reflecting well on him. And I believe he liked knowing that other men desired and coveted his wife. There’s no doubt he now plays the part of the bereaved husband, although from what I understand it hasn’t kept him from maintaining a string of mistresses over the years.”

  “In other words, Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière is as much of a playactor as Chantal was. She played at being sweet and innocent, while he has now assumed the role of a bereaved widower forever in love with his murdered wife. So where lies the truth? I wonder.”

  The Dowager drew up at the corner and turned. “In my experience, the truth is generally the exact opposite of what such people would have you believe.”

  * * *

  After leaving Bond Street, Sebastian paid another visit to Lower Sloan Street.

  He found Mrs. McHenry alone in her parlor, tatting. “Oh dear,” she said when a nervous young housemaid showed him in. “Hamish isn’t here again. But you did find him yesterday, didn’t you, my lord?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Sebastian was beginning to suspect Hamish McHenry had regretted stepping forward and was now trying to avoid him.

  “Oh dear,” she said again. “I think he’s gone off to watch the barges on the river. The Regent is taking the Allied Sovereigns to Woolwich today, you know, for the launching of the Enterprise. Now that should be a grand sight. Hamish has always loved the tall ships.”

  “I’m surprised he bought a pair of colors rather than joining the Navy or the Marines like his father.”

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice as if imparting an embarrassing secret. “Well, to be honest, he gets frightfully seasick, you see. He’s dreading this coming voyage to America.” She settled back against the cushions. “Still enjoys seeing the ships, though. He was talking about going down to Woolwich for the launch, but I believe he decided simply to watch the barges from London Bridge.” She glanced down at the watch she wore pinned to her shelflike bosom. “I suspect you could catch him there, if you hurried.”

  “Thank you,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet. “I believe I shall.”

  Chapter 32

  T he masses of spectators converging on the waterfront to gawk at the Allied Sovereigns’ grand barge expedition were formidable. Finally forced to abandon his curricle and horses in Tom’s care at the Strand, Sebastian worked his way through the jovial, laughing crowd toward the river. By the time he reached London Bridge, this stretch of the sun-spangled Thames was already filled with dozens of elegant barges rowed by uniformed watermen.

  The barges carrying the Regent and his royal guests were the most opulently carved and gilded. But even those of the Admiralty and the Navy and the various city companies were impressive, draped with colorful bunting and silk flags that flew gaily in the warm breeze. All along both shores and crowding every bridge were masses of onlookers, cheering, waving their hats, and throwing flower petals.

  It took Sebastian some time to push his way through the crowd to the center of the bridge, where a lean, trim man in Hessians and a military-cut coat was standing beside the stone balustrade, his gaze on the spectacle below.

  “You’re Hamish McHenry?” said Sebastian, walking up to him.

  The man turned, his eyes widening in surprise. “I am. Who are you?”

  “Devlin. My wife tells me you came to see me yesterday.”

  “I did, yes. But . . . how did you know to find me here?”

  “Your mother.”

  “Ah.” McHenry’s eyes creased with what might have been a smile as he turned to look out over the flotilla of barges. “It’s a grand sight, you must admit.”

  “That it is.”

  He kept his gaze on the river. “Did your wife tell you I was a friend of Crispin Hayes?”

  “She did. She also said you never believed Nicholas killed Chantal de LaRivière.”

  A roar went up along the bridge and adjoining banks as the barge of the Czar of Russia and his sister came into view below, for the Duchess was a great favorite with the crowds. McHenry watched for a moment as the Duchess waved and smiled for her admirers. Sebastian had the impression he was choosing his words carefully. “Let me put it this way: I never believed it happened the way LaRivière claimed.”

  “Why not?”

  The Scotsman brought up one closed fist to tap against his lips in the manner of a man considering his response . . . or perhaps regretting what he has already said. “It’s difficult to explain, actually.”

  “Is it because you knew Nicholas?” suggested Sebastian. “Or because you knew Chantal de LaRivière?”

  McHenry threw him a quick glance, then returned his gaze to the pageantry on the river. “Both, I suppose.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Honestly? I think Nicholas went storming over there in a rage and got into a fight with LaRivière. Only, somehow or another, Chantal was the one who ended up dead.”

  “You don’t believe Nicholas went there to rape her?”

  “Good God, no. He w
as furious with her.”

  Sebastian watched the barge of the Ordinance Board shoot out from beneath the bridge, the oars of its liveried watermen throwing up cascades of water that glimmered like sheets of diamonds in the bright sunlight. “Anger and rape aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. Most people think men rape because they’re overwhelmed by desire or uncontrolled lust. But from what I’ve seen, I’d say it’s most often a tool of hate and punishment, or maybe a frustrated desire for control.”

  McHenry shook his head. “Nicholas wasn’t like that. If the Count de Compans had accused him of walking in the door and simply shooting Chantal, I might have been able to believe it. But rape? No.”

  “Why was Nicholas so furious with her?”

  McHenry was silent for a moment, the wind off the river ruffling his fair hair and flapping the tails of his coat. “Because he blamed her for Crispin’s suicide.”

  “I’ve heard that Crispin Hayes was in love with Chantal. Is that true?”

  “Oh yes. Desperately.”

  “So what makes you think Nicholas blamed her for his brother’s death?”

  “I know he did. Nicholas came to see me that day—the day after Crispin died.”

  “To tell you his brother’s body had been found?”

  “Not exactly. He was looking for answers. He said that right before he killed himself, Crispin had come to see him at that wretched inn where Nicholas was staying.” McHenry paused, his face held tight. “The weather was horrible that night, with a howling wind and an endless hard rain like something you’d see in the tropics. Nicholas said Crispin was wild, saying all kinds of crazy things, most of which made no sense. But one of the things Crispin said was something to the effect that ‘Hamish tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen.’”

  “Warn him about what?”

  McHenry pressed his lips together and said nothing.

  “Did you warn him that Chantal de LaRivière was”—Sebastian paused, searching for the right word, and finally settled on—“a coquette? That she’d been working her wiles on you too?”

  A flare of surprise crossed the man’s face. He turned to stare out over the river and after a moment gave a short, sharp nod.

  “I take it Crispin didn’t believe what you said about Chantal?”

  “Not when I told him, no. He was furious with me for saying something like that about the woman he loved.”

  “So what happened to change his mind? It must have been rather drastic for the man to decide to kill himself over it.”

  McHenry let out a long, painful breath. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Sebastian studied the major’s sharp-boned profile, lit now by a pattern of dancing lights reflecting off the rough waters of the river below. “You didn’t see Crispin that night—the night he died?”

  “No. I hadn’t seen him since I told him Chantal was playing with him—using him. Like I said, he was furious with me.”

  “How long between when you spoke to Nicholas and when he went to confront Chantal?”

  “I don’t know precisely, but it wasn’t long.”

  “Did you tell the authorities about this?”

  “Good God, no.” The Scotsman looked genuinely shocked.

  “Why not? Nicholas’s life was at stake. He could easily have been hanged. As it was, they shipped him off to a living hell.”

  McHenry’s hands curled around the balustrade before him. “Nicholas begged me not to. He didn’t want it known that Crispin had killed himself, and the Earl was convinced that if Nicholas was convicted of anything, it would be manslaughter. Not murder.”

  “That’s why Nicholas claimed he and the Count were arguing, but refused to say what the argument was about? Because he was protecting his dead brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Noble young fool,” said Sebastian, half to himself. “And Compans refused to acknowledge the argument because he didn’t want to admit his wife had a habit of playing the coquette.”

  “Yes.”

  Sebastian turned to look out over the sun-sparkled river. The barges had all come out from beneath the bridge now and were slowly making their regal way down the river. The music from the barge carrying a German band floated back to them on the gusting breeze. After a moment, he said, “Who do you think killed Nicholas Hayes?”

  McHenry’s nostrils had taken on an odd, pinched look. “When I went to see Nicholas in prison after he was arrested, he told me his cousin, Ethan—now the Earl of Seaforth—was the one who betrayed him.”

  “I know.”

  “So maybe Seaforth killed him.”

  “Is he capable of such a thing, do you think?”

  “Seaforth? I don’t know if he’s capable of personally stabbing someone in the back, but I can easily imagine him hiring someone to do it for him. He’s always been a sneaky son of a bitch.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not terribly well, but enough to know that. I mean, he used the authorities to try to kill Nicholas eighteen years ago, didn’t he?”

  “He did. So why would Seaforth hire someone to kill Nicholas now? If Seaforth knew Nicholas Hayes was back in London, why not simply inform on him and let the Crown hang him? Why go through all the bother and expense of hiring someone to murder him?”

  “That I can’t answer. Except that some people looked askance at Ethan eighteen years ago for informing on his cousin. If it came out that he’d done it again, and with both Lucas and the old Earl now dead? Everyone would be saying he did it the first time to get his hands on the title and the estates and then did it again to make certain he was able to keep what wasn’t rightfully his. He’d be blackballed from society forever, wouldn’t he? Well, wouldn’t he?”

  “Probably,” said Sebastian. The barges were growing smaller and smaller in the distance, the men, women, and children on the bridge talking excitedly and laughing and calling to one another as the crowd began to disperse. Sebastian brought his gaze back to the man beside him. “Tell me this: Did you lie with the Countess de Compans?”

  A betraying line of color rode high on the major’s cheeks. “And if I did?”

  “Did Crispin, do you think?”

  McHenry hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  “What if Crispin didn’t actually throw himself into the Thames that stormy night? What if Compans pushed him?”

  “He wouldn’t,” McHenry said quickly.

  “Why not? Crispin was cuckolding him.”

  “Compans didn’t care.”

  “That’s a bit difficult to believe.”

  “They were . . . a strange couple. I could never understand them.”

  “If LaRivière didn’t care, then why the fight with Nicholas Hayes?”

  The major turned his face away to gaze down at the now-empty river, his throat working as he swallowed. “I don’t know. I can’t explain exactly what happened that night. All I know is that it didn’t play out the way LaRivière claimed. And if you want to find out who killed Nicholas, I suspect you need to remember that.”

  Chapter 33

  J i watched the barges from a wharf near the grim, looming fortress Hayes had called the Tower of London.

  The River Thames was a wonder to Ji. The waterways and canals of Canton were filled with vessels of every description—junks, chop boats, sampans, coffin boats, leper boats, and endless houseboats jammed one next to the other and occupied by people who lived their entire lives on water. Ji still found it amazing that there were no houseboats clogging this river.

  But today’s parade of carved, gilded barges with their flapping silk banners and rich carpets felt familiar to Ji—an ostentatious display of wealth and privilege that seemed expressly designed to emphasize the existence of a gulf much wider than the expanse of mere water that separated these special beings from the ragged, hungry crowds who cheered them fro
m every bridge and wharf.

  Ji had played the bamboo flute for the first time that morning. It was a form of begging, really, and that knowledge had brought feelings of great shame. But the battered old tin cup Ji had bought from a street stall filled quickly—too quickly, for the lilting, haunting music was so strange to English ears that it drew a great deal of attention. And too much attention could be deadly.

  Ji would need to be careful, playing the flute just enough to buy a safe place to sleep at night and keep from going hungry, but not so much as to attract the man Poole.

  Poole and whatever dangerous enemy had hired him.

  Chapter 34

  I think he’s hiding something,” said Sebastian later that afternoon as he and Hero walked the shady gravel paths of Grosvenor Square with Simon.

  Hero looked over at him in surprise. “Major McHenry? What could he possibly be hiding?”

  “I don’t know. But the story he tells doesn’t quite hang together.”

  She was silent for a moment, obviously considering this. “You didn’t even know the man existed until he came to Brook Street yesterday. Why would he seek you out, only to lie to you?”

  Sebastian smiled as he watched Simon hunker down to study a pretty pebble in the gravel that caught his eye. “You have a point there.”

  “Perhaps what you sensed was his embarrassment over having lain with another man’s wife.”

  “Perhaps. There’s no denying it’s an ugly tale. What do you think happened to cause Crispin Hayes to throw himself into the Thames that night?”

  Hero reached out to catch Simon’s hand before he could put the rock in his mouth. “Presumably he discovered the lovely Chantal de LaRivière was trifling with him.”

  “Would that be enough, you think?”

  “For some men. Although I suppose it’s also possible the Count de Compans gave Crispin a little push into the water.”

  Simon started to fuss at the sudden loss of his rock, and Sebastian swung the boy up onto his hip. “I feel like I’m missing something. Something that should be obvious.”