Who Speaks for the Damned

by C. S. Harris

  She paused for a moment, the confused look on her face suggesting she’d lost herself in her own parenthesis.

  Sebastian said, “You sent Robert to look for her?”

  “Oh, yes, your lordship. I sent Robert, and in just a few minutes, he was back again. White as a sheet, he was, and his eyes staring out of his head with fright.”

  “He’d found her?”

  Miss Bowers nodded. “Somebody’d dragged her back into the alley just off the square. It was Mr. Owens—Robert’s father—who called the constables. He told me not to go look at her, so I didn’t.”

  “That was probably wise,” said Sebastian. “Did your mother go to Pennington’s Tea Gardens much?”

  “She did, yes, my lord. In fact, she went there the day before she died. She loved walking in those gardens. She had ever so much trouble with the arthritis crippling her hands, you see, so she couldn’t make hats anymore. Sometimes her hip bothered her too, but she said the walking helped ease the stiffness. So she’d walk up to those gardens nearly every afternoon. She’d sit on one of the benches for a time and then walk back. Sometimes I worried about her going up there all alone like that. But she’d just laugh at me and say the earth and green growing things and the birds soothed her soul and gave her energy.”

  Miss Bowers paused, as if vaguely embarrassed by what she’d said. “Mama was a bit peculiar in that way.”

  “I can understand it.”

  “Can you?” Miss Bowers looked at him as if he must be a bit peculiar too, even if he was a real viscount. “I never could. But then, Mama was different from me. I’ve always been good with my needle, but Mama was the one with what she called ‘vision.’ She said she could see her hats in her head before she started making them.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “So where do you get your ideas?”

  She nodded to a nearby stack of well-thumbed editions of Ackermann’s Repository and The Ladies’ Monthly. “From fashion plates, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Sebastian. “Do you by any chance know if your mother was acquainted with either the Count de Compans or the Earl of Seaforth?”

  Miss Bowers stared at him blankly. “I don’t think so, my lord.”

  “How about a Major Hamish McHenry?”

  “No, your lordship.”

  “Sir Lindsey Forbes?”

  Miss Bowers shook her head. “Mama used to make hats for her ladyship when she was Miss Katherine Brownbeck and living in Bloomsbury. But I don’t think she ever met Sir Lindsey, no.”

  Sebastian knew a quickening in his blood. “So she knew Theodore Brownbeck?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord. In fact, she was telling me just the other day that she’d seen him up in the tea gardens. Ran into him in the shrubbery, she said. She mentioned it because he was all red in the face and acting peculiar, and she thought the heat must have got to him.”

  “What day was this?” asked Sebastian, his voice sharp enough that Miss Bowers looked momentarily taken aback.

  “Must have been Thursday of last week, my lord—the day before she died. I remember because it was so hot that afternoon—the day she was killed, I mean—that she decided not to walk up to the tea gardens and said she’d only go for her evening constitutional after the sun was down. That’s when she told me about having seen Mr. Brownbeck the day before and thinking the heat must have got to him because he was acting so queer.”

  Chapter 55

  S ebastian reined in near the corner of St. James’s Square, his gaze on the impressive home of Sir Lindsey and Lady Forbes.

  He found himself remembering the angry visit from Theo Brownbeck that had followed so hard on the heels of Hero’s first call on Lady Forbes. At the time they had simply assumed Sir Lindsey must have sent word to his father-in-law of Sebastian’s involvement in the investigation of Hayes’s death. But it now appeared more likely that the warning to Brownbeck had come not from Forbes but from her ladyship’s abigail—the same abigail who had accompanied her mistress to Hatchards in Piccadilly and doubtless overheard her arrange to meet Nicholas Hayes in Pennington’s Tea Gardens.

  Had the abigail always spied on her mistress for her former employer? Sebastian wondered. Or had Brownbeck’s chance sighting of Hayes that afternoon in Russell Street prompted him to task the abigail with watching his daughter’s every move? However it had come about, that was obviously how Brownbeck had learned of the planned meeting between Hayes and the former Kate Brownbeck. And so he had gone to the gardens that night to— What? Break up the assignation? Warn Hayes to stay away from his daughter?

  Kill him?

  The latter seemed unlikely, Sebastian decided, given the choice of murder weapon. Far more likely that Brownbeck had gone to the gardens that night planning to confront Hayes. No doubt the two men had exchanged heated words. And then what? What would a man steeped in the teachings of Buddhism do when confronted with the angry father of the woman he still loved?

  Walk away, of course.

  And so Nicholas had turned his back on Theo Brownbeck. Whereupon that esteemed pillar of society, that pious writer of endless tirades against the lowborn “criminal” classes of society, had grabbed the sickle left by a forgetful gardener and buried the blade deep between Hayes’s shoulder blades. Then he had run away, red in the face and shaking with reaction, and unfortunately encountered an arthritic old widow who’d once made his daughter’s hats.

  The killing of Nicholas Hayes had been impulsive, a product of rage and seething impotence. But the murders of Adele Bowers and Irvine Pennington were deliberate and planned. After a night’s agitated reflection, Brownbeck must have cold-bloodedly decided on the need to quickly silence the two people he knew could tie him to the gardens that night. And then he’d set about doing it.

  And Seaforth? Why kill Seaforth? Had the Earl threatened Brownbeck in some way?

  Still pondering that question, Sebastian handed the reins to his tiger. “Walk them, will you? I’ve no idea how long I’ll be.”

  “Aye, gov’nor,” said Tom, scrambling forward to the seat.

  Sebastian hopped down and was turning toward the Forbeses’ town house when he noticed Lady Forbes herself standing alone at the railing surrounding the square’s central basin. The day was cool and overcast, with a blustery wind that ruffled the gray surface of the water and tugged at the green ribbons of her ladyship’s fashionable straw hat. She was watching him, and Sebastian changed direction to walk toward her.

  “Sir Lindsey isn’t here,” she said as he drew nearer. She was wearing a stylish muslin walking dress with an elegant hunter green spencer, and looked every inch like what she was—the daughter of one very rich man and the wife of another. And between them, those two rich, supremely selfish men had made her life miserable.

  “Actually,” said Sebastian, pausing beside her, “I’ve come to see you.”

  She turned her face away to stare off across the vast expanse of ornamental water. “You’ve figured it out, have you?”

  Sebastian studied her beautiful, pale, carefully composed features. “Have you?”

  She gave a faint laugh that held no real amusement. “I’ll admit I’ve been frightfully thick about a few things. But a bit of calm reflection made it all rather clear.”

  “You know your abigail was informing on you to your father?”

  “I didn’t. But I know now. She burst into tears when I confronted her with it. Swore she’d done it for my own good, and then cried even harder when I dismissed her without a character reference.” She paused, her features hardening. “Given everything that’s flowed from what she did, she’s lucky I didn’t murder her. I honestly think I could have, in that moment.” She swung her head to look at Sebastian, and he saw the raw fury and everlasting grief in her eyes. “Does that shock you?”

  “No.” He stared across the water to whe
re a pigeon was preening itself atop the head of the equestrian statue of William III in the center of the basin. “Have you seen your father?”

  She shook her head. “I went there—to Bloomsbury—meaning to confront him about it all. But it seems he’s missing. The servants say he went out last night and never came back. I’d be inclined to believe he’s simply given them orders to put me off, except that they were obviously quite frightened and unsure as to what to do next.”

  “Have you told Sir Lindsey?”

  “That Father is missing?” She gave another of those strange, ragged laughs. “That would be rather difficult, given that Sir Lindsey also seems to have disappeared.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Very. He went out last night as well, and hasn’t been seen since. According to Simmons—that’s our butler—he sent one of the footmen for a hackney, which is most unusual. You must know that hackney carriages are quite beneath the touch of Sir Lindsey Forbes.”

  “And you’ve no idea at all where he’s gone?”

  “None.”

  “Have the authorities been informed?”

  “Not to my knowledge. You know what servants are like. We train them to ignore all our eccentricities and reprehensible behavior, don’t we? So how could they dare go to the authorities when their master might walk in at any moment and be furious with them for causing such a stir?”

  Sebastian was thinking, What about you? when she said, “He can be rather nasty when he’s put out, you know—Sir Lindsey, I mean.”

  And he understood.

  She looked away again, blinking rapidly enough now that Sebastian realized just how great was this woman’s struggle to hold back her tears. “Was Forbes a part of it, do you think? Killing Nicholas, I mean. And Seaforth as well?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, her voice quieter, “Have you found the little boy yet? Nicholas’s child?”

  “No. Although we have seen him—or I should say we’ve seen her, because we’ve discovered the child is a girl. She’s the reason Nicholas came back to London—because he was dying of consumption, and he was hoping his sister would take care of the little girl after he died.”

  Katherine Forbes stared at him. “And Lady Anne turned him down? How could she?” She brought up one hand to cup her mouth, then let it fall. “That’s what Nicholas was going to ask me, isn’t it? He wanted to ask me to take care of his child after he died.” Her voice broke. “Dear God. And my father killed him.”

  “I suspect so.” Sebastian hesitated, then said, “Do you have any idea—any idea at all—where your father might have gone?”

  “No. He’s never gone off like this before.” The wind tugged at the brim of her elegant, expensive hat, and she put up a hand to catch it. “How did you know? How did you know it was Father?”

  “He was seen in the gardens that night.”

  “Then perhaps he’s run away. France is open these days, isn’t it?” She glanced back at her grand house on the eastern side of the square. “And Forbes?”

  “He knew Hayes had returned to London. But I don’t believe he played a part in his death.”

  “Then where has he gone?”

  Sebastian met her gaze and saw there a flare of hope that he understood only too well. “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  “They’re both missing?” said Hero when Devlin told her of the disappearance of Brownbeck and Forbes. “Are you certain?”

  “It looks like it. I swung by Brownbeck’s house in Bloomsbury on my way to Bow Street. The servants tried to cover up their master’s strange behavior, but it didn’t take me long to get the truth out of them. Seems he went out shortly after dark—in a hackney, same as Forbes—and never came back.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Devlin went to pour himself a brandy from the carafe that stood on the table near the drawing room fireplace. It was dark now, the room lit by golden candlelight and a small fire laid on the hearth to drive away the evening’s chill. “Lovejoy is doing what he can to look into it, but it’s rather delicate, given the prominence of the two men involved.”

  Hero was silent for a moment, her gaze on the leaping flame of the candle at her side. “I’ll confess I’ve always despised Theo Brownbeck. He’s sanctimonious, hypocritical, and—given the hateful ‘statistics’ he invents—basically dishonest. But I never would have pegged him as a murderer.”

  “He’s a weak and supremely selfish man. I suspect he struck out at Hayes in a moment of rage. And then, rather than own up to what he’d done, he went on a killing spree to eliminate anyone who might be a threat to him.”

  “Including Seaforth?”

  “One presumes so.”

  “Do you think he has now killed Forbes?”

  “I had the distinct impression that Lady Forbes is hoping her husband is her father’s latest victim.”

  “I can’t say I blame her.”

  “No.”

  Hero watched him take a long, slow swallow of his drink. “Do you think LaRivière is now in danger?”

  “I don’t know. I keep coming back to the fact that while Brownbeck obviously killed Nicholas Hayes, one of the other three men—either Seaforth, Forbes, or LaRivière—hired Titus Poole and thus mistakenly believes that he himself is responsible for what happened up in Somer’s Town.” He paused. “Although I suppose in the case of Seaforth, I should say believed.”

  The distant sound of a door opening echoed up from below, followed by a crash and running footsteps on the stairs. They heard Morey’s warning hiss, then Tom’s excited voice shouting, “But ’e’s gonna want t’ know.”

  An instant later, the tiger burst into the drawing room, bringing with him the smell of horses and warm boy and London air. “They’re dead, gov’nor! Both o’ ’em! Forbes and Brownbeck. Some ex-soldier found ’em in the ruins o’ the old Savoy Palace o’er by that new bridge they’re buildin’. Brownbeck ’as been shot, and Forbes ’as got a knife stickin’ out of ’im!”

  Chapter 56

  S ebastian arrived at the ruins of the old Savoy Palace to find the site illuminated by the hellish glow of flaring torches and a scattering of bobbing horn lanterns. A sizable crowd was beginning to gather despite the softly falling rain, with a couple of constables fighting to hold people back.

  “Sir ’Enry’s waiting for ye,” called one of the constables when he recognized Sebastian.

  Leaving the curricle with Tom, Sebastian worked his way down the wet slope, past scattered piles of stone and rough timbers. Lying between the Strand and the Thames, Savoy Palace had once been the grandest nobleman’s house in all of medieval London, home to the uncles and sons of kings. Now it was mostly gone, marked only here and there by a half-demolished tower or the fragment of a wall, with most of the rest swept away for the construction of the grand new bridge slowly inching toward completion. Only the small fifteenth-century chapel of Henry VII was to be spared, and it was there that the bodies of Theo Brownbeck and Sir Lindsey Forbes lay.

  “How long have they been here?” asked Sebastian, walking up to where Lovejoy stood huddled beneath an umbrella.

  The magistrate looked pale in the torches’ light. “A while, I suspect—most likely since last night. They were only discovered by chance when an ex-soldier went searching for someplace to get out of the rain. From the looks of things, it appears that Brownbeck knifed Forbes, and then, as he was dying, Forbes shot Brownbeck.”

  “Lovely.”

  The two men were near the southern end of the old Tudor chapel, their bodies hidden from both stray passersby and the bridge’s workmen by the crumbling remnants of the stone walls that had once connected the chapel to the rest of the complex. Forbes had fallen on his left side, his head thrown back as if in agony, his right arm extended. The knife
that had killed him was still buried in his chest; a flintlock pistol lay in the rubble-strewn weeds near his outflung hand. Brownbeck was flat on his back some eight to ten feet away, one knee bent awkwardly, the chest of his old-fashioned waistcoat dark with his blood.

  Sebastian went first to hunker down beside the dead banker. Forbes’s shot had caught Brownbeck square in the chest and probably killed him almost instantly. His jaw was slack, his eyes open and sunken, his body stiff with rigor mortis and wet from the rain.

  “I think you’re right about the timing,” said Sebastian, pushing up to go take a better look at Forbes. The knife had been thrust into the East India Company man’s chest at such an angle that it had slid in under the ribs, right into the heart. And that struck Sebastian as odd.

  “What in the bloody hell were they doing here last night?” said Sebastian, rising to his feet.

  “It’s peculiar, isn’t it?” A wind gusted up, and Lovejoy hunched his shoulders against the driving rain. “A couple of the lads were interviewing Mr. Brownbeck’s servants when word came that the bodies had been found. According to his valet, Brownbeck went out late in the afternoon of Nicholas Hayes’s murder and came back several hours later with blood on his cuffs.”

  “The valet is certain of the day?”

  “He is. He’s been with Brownbeck for more than twenty years, and when he read about Hayes’s murder in the papers the next morning, he naturally found himself thinking about that blood. So he spoke to Brownbeck’s coachman and discovered that Brownbeck had driven up to Somer’s Town that evening.”

  And yet neither man said a thing, thought Sebastian. But then, good positions were hard to find.