by C. S. Harris
“We sent word to the palace as soon as we knew what had occurred here,” Lovejoy was saying. “The papers are to be told that footpads were seen in the area, and a couple of ruffians will no doubt pay the ultimate price—quickly, of course, to calm the inevitable public nervousness.”
“Of course,” said Sebastian.
Lovejoy blew out a long, troubled breath. “At least it’s over and the murderer is dead, even if his infamy will never be known.”
It was raining harder now, and Sebastian stared off across the darkened ruins toward the looming shadow of the unfinished bridge. “I think there’s little doubt that Brownbeck killed Nicholas Hayes, Irvine Pennington, and Adele Bowers. But I’m not convinced that all is as it seems here.”
Lovejoy stared at him. “You’re not?”
Sebastian found himself studying the ungainly sprawl of the banker’s body. “What are the odds that Theo Brownbeck—whom I suspect never killed anyone in his life up until just over a week ago—would manage to hit Sir Lindsey’s heart with his first dagger thrust?”
Lovejoy frowned. “It’s unusual, I’ll admit.”
“And then Sir Lindsey—who admittedly began his career in the military but was already dying with a knife in his chest—likewise managed to shoot Brownbeck right in the heart?”
Lovejoy blinked against the wind-driven rain. “Oh dear.”
Sebastian said, “You’ve sent to the deadhouse for a couple of shells?”
“Yes. They should be here soon.”
“Good. I’d like to hear what Paul Gibson has to say about this.”
* * *
Saturday, 18 June
Gibson must have started work on the autopsies early the next morning, because by the time Sebastian arrived shortly after breakfast, he was already gory up to his elbows and had his hands deep in Sir Lindsey’s chest.
“Bow Street told you how the men were found?” asked Sebastian, trying not to look too closely at what Gibson was doing.
The surgeon lifted Forbes’s dripping heart from his chest and set it aside in a shallow basin. “They did. Not sure I believe it, though.”
Sebastian transferred his gaze to the ceiling. “Oh? Why not?”
Gibson grinned. “Part of it’s the angle of the shot. They’re saying Forbes was knifed first, then fell and somehow managed to shoot Brownbeck. But if that were true, then the bullet should have been traveling up from below when it hit his body, and it wasn’t. It was obviously fired by someone who was standing.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to where the banker’s naked, eviscerated body lay on one of the wide shelves running along the back of the room. “It’s possible Forbes could have shot Brownbeck before he fell. I’ve seen men stabbed in the heart run a couple of hundred feet before collapsing.”
Gibson reached for a rag and wiped his hands. “I suppose. But that’s only the first thing.” He turned to pick up the knife that lay on the shelf beside the bloody basin. “This is what’s really telling. Look at the knife your East India Company man had in him.” It was a small, common knife with a simple horn handle and a wide blade some six inches long.
“Now, look at this.” Setting the knife aside, Gibson grabbed the dead man’s shoulder and rolled the body onto its side.
Sebastian found himself staring at a small purple slit high up between the man’s shoulder blades. “Bloody hell. The blade went all the way through him.”
“It did. And if you’ll notice, it was a narrow blade. A very narrow blade.”
“What are you saying?”
Gibson eased the body back down. “I’m saying I think your man was killed with either a dagger or, more likely, a sword stick. And then, after he was dead, the killer thrust that knife into him and left it there to make it look like that’s what was used.”
“Huh.” Sebastian went to stand at the open door, his gaze on the clouds that were beginning to blow away and reveal patches of blue sky.
Gibson watched him. “That’s all you have to say? Huh?”
Sebastian turned, his hands dangling loose at his sides, a feeling of helpless frustration welling within him. “I know exactly who did this. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out how to prove it.”
Chapter 57
A fter leaving Tower Hill, Sebastian drove first to the Bell in Warwick Lane. Having moved on to Mayfair, he had a brief but useful conversation with LaRivière’s servants. Then he headed back toward the Tower again, this time to the ancient, picturesque church of St. Dunstan-in-the-East.
Drawing up outside the old lych-gate, he handed the reins to Tom and said, “If he kills me, you know what to tell Sir Henry.”
Tom scrambled forward to the high seat. “Ye don’t think ye meybe oughta let Sir ’Enry know what yer doin’ before ye talk to that Frog?”
Sebastian smiled as he hopped down into the narrow lane. “Somehow I doubt Sir Henry would approve of what I’m about to do.”
Lying between Great Tower Street and the Thames, St. Dunstan’s was one of the few medieval London churches to have survived the Great Fire of 1666. The afternoon was glorious, with high, puffy white clouds scattered across a brilliant blue sky and a light breeze that took the sting out of the sun’s heat. Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière, the Count de Compans, sat on a stool in the midst of the vast old churchyard, a sketchbook propped on one knee and a small folding table at his side to hold an elegant but well-used case containing various drawing implements. A sword stick leaned conspicuously against the table, for this was a rough section of London and the churchyard was deserted. He had his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, a faint smile curling his lips as he rendered the old church with quick, sure strokes.
“Nice day for it,” said Sebastian, walking up to him.
“It is,” agreed the Count, his attention all for his sketch. “I assume you’ve gone to the bother of tracking me here for a reason?”
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the quiet, leafy cemetery’s mass of gray, lichen-covered tombs and crowded headstones. “You’ve heard about the deaths of Brownbeck and Forbes?”
LaRivière studied the Gothic-style tower and steeple added to the old church by Wren after the fire. “I have, yes. Such a pity, isn’t it? Official word is that it’s the work of footpads, although I’m hearing whispers that they actually killed each other—or else one killed the other and then committed suicide.”
“Oh? I hadn’t heard any rumors of suicide. Who started that?”
LaRivière gave a very Gallic shrug. “I’ve no idea. You know how people are.”
Sebastian leaned his hips against a nearby tomb and crossed his arms at his chest. “Titus Poole didn’t kill Nicholas Hayes, you know.”
“I’m sorry; who?”
“Titus Poole, the man you hired to quietly murder Hayes and then hide the body someplace it would never be found. That’s why the killing was so messy—because Poole had nothing to do with it. When he came to see you the day after the murder and took credit for it, he was lying. It’s the only reason he was willing to accept half what you’d promised him in payment—because Poole hadn’t actually killed Hayes. Brownbeck did.”
LaRivière paused with his pencil hovering over the sketch for a moment before lowering it to his paper again. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. The only part you didn’t know is that Poole played you for a fool. After he talked to you, he went back to the Bell and laughed with all his mates about how he’d convinced ‘that stupid nob’ to pay him for a murder he didn’t even commit.”
The Frenchman’s lips tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing.
“At first I didn’t think Poole could have been working for you,” Sebastian continued, “because he told me once that he didn’t like foreigners, especially the French because they’d killed his brother. Except I just checked
with the newly widowed Mrs. Poole, and it turns out Poole didn’t even have a brother. The man was quite the accomplished liar.”
LaRivière squinted thoughtfully at the delicate tracery of the old medieval windows, then went back to his sketch.
Sebastian said, “Did you know Brownbeck was paying his daughter’s abigail to spy on her? That’s how he discovered Lady Forbes had arranged to meet Hayes in the tea gardens. Brownbeck actually drove up there that evening in his own carriage. That’s a mistake you never would have made, but then he obviously lacked your expertise in arranging these things. Then again, I don’t think he intended to kill Hayes.” Sebastian paused. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? While Brownbeck was quietly eliminating everyone he feared could tie him to Hayes’s murder, you set about doing the same thing. I wonder why you started with Seaforth. Was it because he was so weak and nervous? Did you tell him of your plan to hire Titus Poole? Were you afraid he would betray you?”
“Have you considered a career writing for the stage? You appear to have a definite flair for dramatic invention.”
“You should have stopped there, with Seaforth,” Sebastian continued. “I assume you kept your little killing spree going because you feared Seaforth’s death would panic the others. But eliminating Brownbeck and Forbes was definitely excessive. Of the four men who originally knew of Nicholas Hayes’s return to London, you’re now the only one left alive . . . which is more than suggestive.”
LaRivière dropped his pencil into its case and calmly snapped the lid. “An interesting theory, I’ll admit. But that’s all it is. Just a theory with no proof.”
“Well, we do have the bodies of the men who attacked me at the docks,” said Sebastian, pushing away from the tomb. “Are you so certain those men can’t be traced to you?”
The Count laughed out loud as he closed his sketch pad and set it atop the drawing case. “Do you imagine that was me? It wasn’t, you know. If you do ever discover who hired them, I believe you’ll find they lead you to a dead man. Forbes was quite put out by your interference in something that’s really none of your affair.”
Sebastian kept an eye on the Frenchman’s sword stick and said softly, “You’re forgetting the man who attacked my carriage last Monday night.”
LaRivière was still smiling, but his eyes were cold and hard. “Was your carriage attacked last Monday night? I had no idea. How . . . unfortunate.”
“More unfortunate than you know, given that the man has been identified as someone who worked with Poole. He says the attack was made on your orders.”
It was a lie, of course. Bow Street had never found the man responsible for the attack and probably never would. But LaRivière didn’t know that.
The Frenchman laughed again as he stretched to his feet. “And do you seriously think anyone would take the word of some lowborn, common scum against that of a count? Or that your Regent would ever allow the official representative of the French King to be accused of such a thing, let alone stand trial?”
“Probably not,” said Sebastian. “But you made one serious miscalculation. My wife was in the carriage with me that night. The bullet fired by your ‘lowborn, common scum’ came within a handsbreadth of killing her. You have met my wife, have you not? The former Miss Hero Jarvis, daughter of the Regent’s dear cousin Lord Jarvis? So you see, you don’t need to worry about anyone trying to arrest you. Once he learns what happened, Jarvis will take care of you himself. Quietly and efficiently.”
Lunging sideways, LaRivière snatched up his sword stick and, with a quick twist of his wrist, freed the blade to bring it hissing through the air. “I think not,” he said, settling into en garde. “I did offer to fence with you, did I not? Only you seem to have forgotten to bring your sword, monsieur.”
Sebastian leapt sideways as the Frenchman lunged forward in a straight attack, the steel of his blade flashing in the sunlight. Circling around him, Sebastian grabbed the wooden campstool and brought it up before him.
“Interesting shield,” said LaRivière, his blade tracing a mocking figure eight in the air.
Sebastian smiled. “Not much of a saber.”
“Yet it can be amazingly lethal,” said the Count, launching another attack.
Sebastian ducked behind a tombstone. “I saw what it did to Forbes. That knife was a decidedly clumsy attempt at misdirection, by the way.”
“But obviously effective.” LaRivière moved in with a lightning flicker of steel.
Sebastian dodged behind a table tomb so badly broken that its inhabitant’s scattered bones were clearly visible amidst the rotten remnants of his coffin and shroud.
“Hiding behind the dead now, are we?” said LaRivière with a smile.
The Frenchman was light on his feet, his shoulders straight, his wrists strong and agile. Darting out of reach of another quick strike, Sebastian pitched the campstool at the Frenchman’s head and then reached down to yank the dagger from his boot when the man ducked.
LaRivière straightened with a laugh. “Oh dear, monsieur le vicomte, I fear your blade is a tad too short.”
Sebastian shifted his hold on the knife. “It’s long enough,” said Sebastian, raising his arm to send the dagger spinning through the air.
The blade sank into LaRivière’s chest with a dull thwunk. The Frenchman looked down, the confident, contemptuous smile sliding off his face to be replaced by an expression of bemused horror.
Sebastian watched the sword stick slip from the Count’s fingers, watched the man’s knees buckle and his eyes roll back in his head. “That’s for what you did to Nicholas Hayes, you lousy son of a bitch.”
Chapter 58
I n a sense they all killed Nicholas, didn’t they?” said Calhoun. He was standing beside the empty hearth in Sebastian’s dressing room and staring unseeingly at the cold grate. “Brownbeck might have been the one to swing the sickle, but they all contributed to bringing Nick to that moment.”
Sebastian looked up from washing his hands and face at the basin. “I think you can say that, yes.”
Calhoun turned to hand him the towel. “I’m glad they’re all dead.”
“So am I.”
The valet started to say something, then hesitated.
“What?” prodded Sebastian.
Calhoun drew a steadying breath. “I wasn’t strictly honest with you, my lord. When I told you how Nick came to escape Botany Bay, I mean. I said the soldier caught in that flood with him was already dead when Nick found him. But Nick told me he killed the man. Said he was desperate to get away and the man was one of the guards who’d tormented him something fierce. But the killing still bothered Nick, even after all these years.”
“Why did you feel the need to change the story?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I was afraid you’d think less of Nick if you knew the truth. See him as the rogue everyone claimed he was rather than the admirable man I knew him to be.”
“He was admirable,” said Sebastian, taking the clean shirt Calhoun held out to him. “Loyal, brave, and strong. I wish I could have known him.”
His lips pressed into a tight line, Calhoun met Sebastian’s gaze and nodded.
* * *
“The papers will be told LaRivière died of an apoplexy,” said Jarvis later that evening, his face dark with anger as he stood in the center of Sebastian’s library.
“Not footpads this time?” Sebastian poured himself a brandy, then raised the carafe toward his father-in-law. “Are you certain you won’t have a drink?”
“No, thank you,” said Jarvis. “Fortunately, the French have agreed to keep the truth quiet.”
“The truth? Do they know the truth?”
“As much as was considered necessary.”
“Oh? For their sake, or yours?”
Jarvis’s jaw tightened. “A French count, a British earl, a Director of the East India Company, and the m
an expected to become the next Lord Mayor of London are all dead because of you, and you consider this a time for levity?”
“Ah, yes, if only I had minded my own business and allowed four powerful, loathsome, murderous men to continue to walk unmolested amongst us, we would be so much better off.”
Jarvis’s eyes were now two narrow slits. “You find it amusing that you’ve just killed a close friend of the newly restored King of France?”
Sebastian took a sip of his brandy and shook his head. “Louis never liked him. He was only close to Louis’s brother Charles, and you know it.”
“Charles will be king soon enough.”
“Undoubtedly. But he won’t rest easy on the Bourbons’ newly recovered throne. I wouldn’t be surprised if the French have another revolution in ten or fifteen years.”
“You’re mad.”
“You think so? Ideas can be repressed for a time, but they can’t be buried forever.”
“By which I take it you mean this ridiculous notion of democracy?” Jarvis sneered the word. “If we lose the legitimate rulers given us by God, we’ll simply have more tyrants like Napoléon thrown up by the mob—except they’ll be worse.”
“Worse than the crowned tyrants? It’s possible, I suppose. But what the people raise up, they can also pull down.”
“Is that the kind of world you want to live in?”
“I’m not convinced we’re going to have a choice.”
“Of course we have a choice. But you just imperiled it.”
Sebastian laughed out loud, then drank long and deep. “I think you give me too much credit.”
* * *
Monday, 20 June
Kate Forbes sat on a gilded, satin-covered chair in the midst of her spacious, beautifully appointed drawing room. She wore the deep mourning that society expected of a woman who’d just lost both husband and father, but Hero thought her attitude was more that of someone who’d just been set free.