by C. S. Harris
“That doesn’t mean I knew he’d returned to England.”
Sebastian studied the older man’s handsome, surprisingly ageless face. “Did you tell your wife? That Hayes was alive and living in China, I mean.”
Angry color stained the East India Company Director’s cheeks. “You leave my wife out of this. Do you hear?”
“Then tell me about the child.”
Without a word, Forbes slammed open one of the building’s ornate front doors and walked outside.
Sebastian kept pace with him as he turned down the narrow cobbled lane toward the river, the company’s vast brick warehouses looming around them. “The sums are rather simple to do,” said Sebastian, “even with the limited information available. Chantal de LaRivière was killed in April of 1796, six months after the late Earl of Seaforth flew into a rage over his youngest son’s elopement and cut him off without a penny. That means the elopement took place around September or October of 1795. If, as now seems likely, an unborn child was the reason for that hasty bolt to the border, then the baby would have been born—when? April? May?”
Forbes pressed his lips together and kept walking.
“What happened to the little girl? It was a girl, was it not?” When the man remained silent, Sebastian said, “According to Nicholas Hayes, you killed her.”
Forbes drew up again and cast a quick look at the surrounding warehouses before saying with low, careful insistence, “I did not kill it.”
“Her. Not ‘it.’ Her. And if you didn’t kill the child, then who did?”
“No one did. Brownbeck gave the baby to a woman to nurse, and it died. These things happen.”
“How did Hayes find out about the child’s death?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. But given that the convict ship didn’t leave for Botany Bay until the end of the year, someone obviously told him.”
“When did the baby die?”
Forbes looked vaguely stunned by the question. “You seriously think I remember?”
“No, of course not.”
The angry color deepened in the man’s face, but he simply turned and started walking again.
Sebastian said, “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
“No, but I have no doubt you’ve every intention of telling me. So let’s humor you, shall we? What does it mean?”
“It means Nicholas Hayes had a very good reason to want to kill you.”
“I had nothing to do with the brat’s death. Brownbeck is the one who gave it to that drunken woman, not me.”
That drunken woman. Jesus.
“You think that matters?” said Sebastian, his voice rough with revulsion. “What counts is that Hayes considered you responsible, and you knew it. He’d already tried to kill you once in Macau because of it, and he might well have come back to England specifically to try again. In China, he was protected by a powerful Hong merchant, so you didn’t dare move against him. But in London, you could easily hire someone to quietly take care of him. Someone like, say, Titus Poole.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d known Nicholas Hayes was in England, I’d have simply informed the authorities and let them kill him. Legally.”
“Perhaps. Except that Bow Street can be a tad slow at times, which means there was a chance that Hayes might get to you before they caught him. And what if they did catch him? A man in prison and on trial can talk. In fact, the newspapers love to interview condemned men, hoping for a lurid confession. I suspect you wouldn’t want all of London reading what he had to say.”
At some point they had quit walking again. Forbes’s light blue eyes were reduced to two narrow slits, and his jaw was clenched so tightly, he had to practically spit the words out. “For the last time, I tell you I did not know that man was in London. But let me warn you: If word of this gets out—any word at all—I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
“You can try,” said Sebastian, and left the man standing there in a narrow slice of sunlight that slanted down between the towering masses of the surrounding warehouses.
Chapter 38
J i played the dizi in Leicester Square that morning. The day was clear and warm, the crowd large. But less than half an hour into the pitch, the child saw a blind, lame woman enter the square from Green Street, a worn old hurdy-gurdy tucked up under one arm as she leaned heavily on her cane.
Ji had seen the older woman several days before, on the Strand, and for some reason he only dimly understood, the sight of her filled him with an odd combination of compassion and dread. At the time the woman had been led by a girl, but today she was alone. At the entrance to the square, the woman paused, her sightless eyes turning toward the sound of Ji’s music.
Ji stopped playing and lowered the flute.
A warm wind gusted up, carrying the scents of ale and roasting meat from a nearby tavern, along with the furtive whisperings of two dirty, ragged older boys who’d been eyeing Ji in a way the child didn’t like.
Uncomfortably aware of the two boys watching, Ji picked up the tin cup and dumped the coins in a pocket. Don’t run, Ji almost whispered aloud. Don’t let them know you’re scared.
Tucking the flute out of sight, Ji walked rapidly away toward Castle Street, then ducked into a narrow passage.
It was a mistake.
Ji heard running footsteps, coming fast. One of the boys pushed past with a snickered “’Scuse me” as he slammed both hands hard between Ji’s shoulder blades.
Ji staggered and drew up, caught between the two boys. They looked to be perhaps fourteen or fifteen, their faces gaunt and grime smeared, their tattered and patched clothes held together with pieces of twine.
And they had Ji trapped between them.
“Ho there,” said the first boy, his lips pulling back in a sneer. He was larger than his companion, his teeth so big and crooked, they didn’t seem to fit in his mouth. “That’s right. I’m talkin’ to ye. Goin’ someplace, are we, me fine lad?”
Ji was finding it hard to breathe. “What do you want?”
“What ye think we want, then? Eh, me bright little boy?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“Hear that, Davey? He don’t rightly know.” The one Ji was starting to think of as Big Teeth shared a laugh with the other boy, eyes alight with a hatred that Ji recognized even as its origins remained unfathomable. “Ye talk real flash, don’t ye, boy?” His scornful gaze swept Ji’s coat and trousers. After days on the street, Ji’s clothes were dirty and rumpled. But compared to the rags of Big Teeth and his friend, they were very fine indeed. “Dress flash too. Don’t ye?”
Ji remained silent.
“Right, then,” said Big Teeth, reaching out one grubby hand in a mocking, beckoning gesture. “Let’s ’ave yer blunt. And don’t even think about holdin’ any of it back.”
Ji stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yer money, bright boy.”
Swallowing an ocean of rage and fear, Ji dug out that morning’s take and held out the coins.
Big Teeth scooped them up with a triumphant whoop. “Right. Now, give us the rest of it.”
“But that’s all I have!”
Big Teeth’s lips pulled back in an ugly smile. “Why don’t I believe ye?” His gaze shifted to his companion. “Take ’im down.”
The second boy, the one called Davey, hooked an elbow around Ji’s neck and jerked. Ji fell back, spine slamming hard against the ground. Winded, eyes watering, choking on blind terror, Ji felt hands groping pockets, tugging off shoes, pulling at socks. Ji kicked out desperately, uselessly.
“Ho!” called Big Teeth in triumph as the coins Ji had hidden in one sock hit the cobbles with a clatter. “Knew it.” The hands moved up Ji’s leg. “What else ye hidin’, then?”
“Please let me go. I don’t have anything else. I swear it.”
�
��No?” Big Teeth yanked the bamboo flute from Ji’s grasp and peered at it as if it were something strange and vaguely repulsive. With a shrug, he snapped the dizi against his knee and threw the broken pieces against the nearby brick wall.
“No!” screamed Ji.
Big Teeth laughed. Then an older woman’s voice said, “Let him go, you vile pack of mindless gallows thatches.”
Two dirty, unkempt heads turned. The ruffians were surprised enough that their grips loosened, and Ji scooted out of the way just as the hurdy-gurdy player’s cane whistled through the air.
The first blow caught Davey above the ear with an ugly crack. He let out a howl and took off running up the passage.
“Ye stupid ole woman,” snarled Big Teeth. “Ye think—”
She swung again, the cane catching him flat across the middle of his face and breaking his nose.
“That’s right, you nasty vermin,” the woman shouted as Big Teeth scrambled after his companion. “Go on, get! Get!” Then she said to Ji, “You all right there, lad?”
Ji crawled to where the dizi lay trampled in the muck of the passage.
“Lad?” said the woman again. “You all right?”
Ji swallowed hard and said in a small, shaky voice, “Yes. Thank you, ma’am. How . . . how could you know what they were planning to do? You’re blind.”
Too late, Ji recognized it as a horribly rude thing to say. But the woman just laughed. “I heard them whispering. When you’ve been blind since birth, your ears get real good. Your ears, and a few other senses people don’t seem to have a name for.”
“Thank you,” said Ji again, and started to cry.
“Aw. There, there now, tyke,” said the woman, lowering herself awkwardly beside Ji so that the two of them sat side by side with their backs to the dirty wall. “It’ll be all right.”
“No, it won’t! I hate this place! I wish Hayes had never brought me here. We should have stayed in Canton. Oh, why did he have to go and die? I wish I were dead too. I can’t live like this. I just can’t. I thought I could. I thought I could take care of myself, but I can’t!”
She reached out awkwardly to pat Ji’s knee. “How old you reckon I am, lad?”
Ji blinked at her. “I don’t know. Why?”
“I’m sixty-two. Because I was born blind, they taught me to be a musician. That’s what they do with the blind, whether they’re any good at it or not. And I’ll be the first to admit I never was very good. But I’ve been playing my hurdy-gurdy on the streets for forty-six years now.”
Ji stared at her. “How? How could you possibly survive?”
She gave a soft laugh. “I won’t try to pretend it hasn’t been hard sometimes, especially now that I’m getting older. But there’ve been some good times too. Lots of good times.”
Ji was crying unashamedly now, great, gasping sobs that felt as if they’d never end. “But they broke my flute!”
“Did they? Oh, now, that was real mean, it was. You play like an angel, you do.”
“How do you know?”
“Heard you when I first came into the square. I was planning to just rest and move on to find another pitch when you stopped and didn’t start up again. You did that for me, didn’t you?”
When Ji remained silent, the woman smiled. “You’re a good lad. I used to have a girl to guide me, but she took up with a fellow and left me a couple of days ago. I find it sorely difficult to get around without her, and I’d be right grateful if you’d agree to take her place—at least for a little while. I don’t usually earn more than ten or twelve pence a day, but if we’re real frugal, maybe we can save up enough to buy you a new flute. What do you say?”
Ji sniffed and wiped a grimy sleeve across wet eyes. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Alice. Alice Jones.”
Chapter 39
T heo Brownbeck was seated at a large, cluttered desk in the library of his Bedford Square house, surrounded by untidy piles of manuscripts and books, when a footman showed Sebastian in.
“As you can see, I’m busy,” announced Brownbeck, throwing down his quill with enough force to send ink splattering across his page. “This had better be important.”
He didn’t rise or step from behind his desk. Nor did he invite Sebastian to sit. So Sebastian wandered the room, taking in the tall bookshelves overflowing with well-thumbed religious volumes, the worn leather chairs beside the empty fireplace, the portrait of a pretty young woman in powdered hair and eighteenth-century dress he took to be the wellborn but long-dead former Miss Julie Osborne. “Working on a new article, are you?”
“I am. On the shocking number of young pickpockets that infest our sadly beleaguered city.”
“Making up the ‘statistics’ as usual, I assume?”
Brownbeck’s nostrils flared. “My statistics are based on careful reasoning and precise analysis. If you’re here simply to insult me, you can go away.”
Sebastian stopped before a strange, disturbing print of what looked like the Archangel Gabriel handing the world to a personification of Britannia. “Actually, I’m here about your granddaughter.”
Brownbeck’s eyes narrowed. “I have no grandchildren and you know it.”
“Not anymore. But you did have, once. A baby girl born to your daughter, Katherine, and Nicholas Hayes in the spring of 1796. What happened to her?”
Brownbeck rose to his feet, his face dark crimson, his plump hands pressing down flat on the surface before him. “Get out. Get out of my house this instant.”
Sebastian held the older man’s furious gaze. “I’ll go if you insist. But you have a choice: You can answer my questions here and now, or I can ask them elsewhere in a manner I can guarantee you’ll find highly embarrassing.”
Brownbeck swung away to where glasses and a carafe of brandy rested on a surprisingly plain tray. He poured himself a hefty measure without offering Sebastian any and threw down half of it before turning to say, “How did you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. The point is, Nicholas Hayes knew about the child. He knew about her birth, and he knew of her death, and he blamed you for it. You and Sir Lindsey Forbes.”
Brownbeck took another mouthful of brandy and rolled it on his tongue before swallowing. “The child died. Children die all the time without anyone being to blame.”
“Unless they hand the babe over to a drunken wet nurse.” When Brownbeck remained silent, his glare pugnacious and unapologetic, Sebastian said, “What did she do? Roll over on the child in a drunken stupor and accidently smother her?”
“I never asked for the particulars. And it wasn’t a wet nurse, by the way. It was a foster mother.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Of course not.”
Brownbeck took another drink. “This is all ancient history. What purpose can possibly be served by digging up the past?”
Sebastian studied the rich, self-satisfied old man’s broad, fleshy face, the coarse-grained skin and small, angry eyes. “Nicholas Hayes was dying of consumption and he knew it. That explains why he didn’t worry about being hanged if he came back to England—he probably figured he’d die before anyone could put a noose around his neck. But it doesn’t explain why he would want to return in the first place. I think he came here to revenge his baby’s death by killing either you or Forbes. Or both.”
A noticeable sheen of perspiration showed on the older man’s face. “You’re mad.”
“Am I? Why do you think he came back?”
“I neither know nor care!”
“You should. Because if Hayes came back to London to kill you, it means you had a very good reason to kill him.”
Brownbeck stared at him for a long moment, then raised his glass with a shaky hand and drained it in one long pull. “This is nonsense. I didn’t even know the rogue was
in London. And you’re mistaken if you think he cared enough about that dead child that he’d risk the freedom of his last remaining days on earth to come back here and revenge its death.”
“Her death,” said Sebastian. “Not ‘it.’ Her.”
Brownbeck waved a dismissive hand through the air. “You think Hayes cared about my daughter? Well, let me tell you, he didn’t. All he cared about was getting his hands on her inheritance. And when that slipped through his grasping fingers and his father disowned him, he took up with some disreputable tavern wench.” His lips twisted in an ugly, suggestive sneer. “Maybe that’s why he came back to London—to see his lowborn paramour.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The woman who ran the flash house where Hayes took refuge. Within months of abducting my daughter, he was carrying on with her in the most disgusting way imaginable. I know—”
“Nicholas Hayes didn’t ‘abduct’ your daughter,” Sebastian said quietly.
Brownbeck tightened his jaw and rolled determinedly on. “I know because I was worried he might try something else, so I had my people watching him.”
A silence fell on the untidy library. It could have been a lie, of course. But it had a ring of the truth. Hadn’t Sebastian himself suspected something similar?
Aloud, he said, “A troubled man can take comfort in the arms of an understanding woman and still nourish an abiding hatred for those he holds responsible for the death of his child.”
“You didn’t know Nicholas Hayes. I did.”
“Did you? How well?”
“Well enough to know he was hot-tempered, unpredictable, and dangerous.”
“In other words, well enough to be frightened of him if you discovered he’d somehow managed to return to England.”
Brownbeck slammed down his empty glass. “You’re right in that, at least. If I had known of Hayes’s return to England, I probably would have been frightened. But I did not know.” He walked over to give the bellpull a sharp tug. “This conversation is over.”
A footman appeared in the doorway, and Brownbeck snapped, “His lordship is leaving.”