by C. S. Harris
Monday, 27 July
By the next morning, the rain had settled into a steady downpour.
Arriving at the Mount Street burial ground just after eight, Sebastian found Sir Henry Lovejoy standing beside Alexander Ross’s half-opened grave. He had his hat pulled low, his shoulders hunched as he watched a sexton and his young helper struggle to shift the wet, heavy mud.
“Nasty day for it,” said Sebastian, coming up beside him.
“Nasty work, full stop,” said the magistrate.
They stood together in silence, watching the gravediggers. There was a loud scratching as the shovels scraped along wood. One of the men exclaimed, “It don’t look good, Sir ’Enry.”
Lovejoy peered through the pounding rain. “What does that mean?”
“The lid o’ the coffin’s all busted up.”
With a rare oath, Sir Henry ventured closer to the edge of the open grave. “Are you telling me the resurrection men got him?”
The sexton clambered down into the hole with his ropes. “That’s what I was thinkin’ when I first seen it, sir. ’Cept the coffin’s mighty heavy, for all that.”
The sexton’s face turned red as, between them, the two men slipped their ropes beneath the shattered casket and heaved. The coffin came up out of the ground with a sucking plop, the lid bouncing and clattering loosely as it hit the wet grass, hard.
Lovejoy held a thickly folded handkerchief to his nose. “Well?”
“Something’s in here,” said the sexton, cautiously sliding the lid to one side. “Course, it could jist be rocks. I’ve seen ’em do that.”
The lid fell away to reveal Alexander Ross lying nestled in the mud-streaked satin liner of his casket, his death-swollen face now turned a ghastly shade of reddish green, his body clothed with rare skill by one of London’s finest, who’d risen admirably to the occasion despite the considerable handicaps imposed by darkness, the need for speed, and the disjointed nature of the gentleman involved.
“Don’t understand it, sir. ’E’s ’ere, all right. But ’is shroud’s been cut off and left in a muddy wad at ’is feet.”
“Perhaps the sack-’em-up boys were interrupted at their work,” suggested Sir Henry.
“Could be, sir. ’Cept why then was the grave filled back in?”
Sir Henry nodded toward the shell borrowed from the nearby dead house. “The important thing is, he’s here. Move the body to the shell.”
“Why not simply transfer him in his own coffin?” suggested Sebastian.
“We use shells,” said Sir Henry. He turned to the sexton. “Get him out of there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sexton positioned himself at the body’s feet. He and his young helper had a minor argument over the best way to effect the transfer. Then the younger man grasped the body’s shoulders and the sexton seized his ankles.
Sebastian clasped his hands behind his back.
And waited.
Chapter 37
O n the count of three,” said the sexton. “One, two—”
The men heaved. The body’s limbs, held together by nothing more than Calhoun’s artistry, separated from the torso. The sexton, finding himself grasping two loose legs, landed on his backside in the mud. One of the corpse’s arms flopped back into the open grave; the other—formed of wadded cloth owing to Gibson’s inability to retrieve the original—dangled at a disjointed angle.
“What the bloody ’ell?” howled the sexton.
Sir Henry stood quite still. Around them, the rain poured. After a moment, he said quite calmly, “Collect what is left of Mr. Ross and convey the body to Paul Gibson on Tower Hill.” He turned a wooden countenance toward Sebastian. “Or should I perhaps say, convey the body back to Mr. Gibson?”
Hero devoted several hours that morning to the task of interviewing the impoverished distant relative she hoped might serve as companion to Lady Jarvis.
Once, Mrs. Emma Knight had been young, pretty, and headstrong, but those days were behind her. The spirited daughter of a country vicar, she had eloped at the age of nineteen with a dashing but penniless lieutenant. Her father immediately disowned her, and he had never relented, even when the dashing lieutenant got himself blown to pieces by a badly aimed artillery barrage in India.
A hardscrabble life and the need to constantly defer to others had left Emma a little too timid for Hero’s taste. Still, she would do until Hero was able to find someone more suitable.
After that, she spent some time with her mother, who was blissfully consumed by the heady task of deciding What to Wear for the Wedding. Then, her duties as a daughter satisfied, Hero ordered her carriage. Her conversation with Devlin had left her with a number of questions, not all of which her father had been able to resolve.
But Hero knew where to look for some of the answers.
Her first destination was Montagu House on Portman Square. Once the home of the eighteenth-century queen of the bluestockings, the house now served as the residence of the Turkish Ambassador to the Court of St. James. The Ambassador’s wife, Yasmina Ramadani, received her in an exotic kiosk in the residence’s extensive, high-walled rear gardens. By now the morning’s rain had cleared, leaving the deep blue sky clean and fresh.
“Miss Jarvis,” said Yasmina, taking Hero’s hand to draw her toward the kiosk’s array of plump cushions and exquisite silk carpets. “I’ve been hoping you would visit me again. Please, come join me.”
She was a beautiful woman, fine boned and dusky skinned and green eyed, with a heavy fall of dark hair and a wide, redlipped mouth. She had a way of moving that fascinated Hero— not just graceful but sinuous, each gesture one of fluid beauty. It occurred to Hero that she was utterly at ease in her own body in a way few Englishwomen were. Like a dancer, perhaps.
Or a courtesan.
“The clouds didn’t last long, did they?” said Hero, opening her parasol and positioning it carefully to shade her face from the sunlight.
Watching her, Yasmina leaned back against her cushions and gave a melodious laugh. “Believe me, Miss Jarvis, the English sun is not strong enough to require such vigorous measures to hold it at bay.”
Hero tugged at her skirts. There was obviously a talent to lolling gracefully on cushions, and she didn’t have it. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a tendency to freckle.”
“Ah. For that you must use ... crushed strawberries, is it not? I was reading something about it just the other day.” Her English was enviably fluent, with only a light, deliciously lilting accent. Hero had learned that in addition to Turkish and English, the woman also spoke Greek, Arabic, French, and what she called a “smattering” of Farsi.
Hero said, “I don’t think even a gallon of strawberries would help my freckles after a day in the sun.”
Laughing again softly, Yasmina reached out to idly run her fingers over the strings of an ude, a wooden instrument similar to a guitar that lay on a nearby cushion. “You are to be married soon, is this not so?”
The question took Hero by surprise.
Yasmina’s smile widened. “I saw the announcement in this morning’s papers.”
“Oh, yes; I’d quite forgotten the notice was to appear this morning.”
Casting Hero an enigmatic sideways glance, Yasmina picked up the ude and began to play it softly. “I have met your Lord Devlin. He is a wild one, yet clever, too. I understand he likes solving puzzles.”
“He enjoys mysteries,” said Hero, wondering when and how the Viscount had managed to meet the reclusive Turkish woman. “Murder mysteries.”
Yasmina’s fingers moved across the strings of the ude, the strange melody floating over the English garden, the soft smile on her lips never faltering. “He is involved in a murder investigation now, yes?”
Hero kept her gaze on the other woman’s delicate features. “He is. A gentleman who used to work with the Foreign Office named Alexander Ross. Did you know him?”
“Ross?” She shook her dusky hair. “No. But then, I meet few me
n. Our culture is not like yours. The sexes do not mix freely outside the family.”
To Hero’s knowledge, Yasmina was the first wife of a Turkish ambassador to ever accompany her husband to London. She had never appeared in society in the way of other ambassadors’ wives. But Hero had heard she did sometimes serve as hostess at the small, intimate dinners given by her husband. Hero said, “You have met some Englishmen, have you not?”
Yasmina threw her a sideways glance. “Some, yes.”
“What about the Swede, Carl Lindquist? Are you familiar with him?”
“I don’t believe so, no. He is with the Swedish Embassy?”
“Not officially. But he was affiliated with them in some way. Now he’s dead.”
“Murdered as well?”
“Yes.”
Yasmina tsked softly. “It is a dangerous place, London. I’d no notion.”
“More dangerous than Constantinople?”
Yasmina’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Perhaps not.” For a moment she seemed to give all her attention to her instrument. Then she said, “I hear that Englishwomen often fear their wedding nights; that they know not what to expect. Is this true?”
Hero felt herself grow hot with embarrassment. The last thing she wanted was to find herself discussing her looming wedding night with this exotic, sensual woman. Devlin had assured her that he was prepared for their marriage to be one of name only. The problem was, she herself wasn’t exactly certain that was what she wanted. She had discovered it was possible to be both leery of a man and physically attracted to him at the same time.
“It is true of some, I suppose,” Hero said slowly.
The Turkish woman’s intelligent green eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Hero wondered what she saw—and understood. “But not you,” said Yasmina. “That is good.”
The conversation shifted then to other topics, to the latest sleeves and the Eastern use of henna and the new China roses Yasmina was having planted in the residence’s gardens. It wasn’t until later, when Hero was leaving, that Yasmina said casually, “You didn’t tell me: Is Lord Devlin close, you think, to finding this killer he is looking for?”
“I think so, yes,” Hero lied.
“That is a relief.”
It was said with an intense, heartfelt sincerity that would have fooled most. But Hero was Jarvis’s daughter. He had taught her from an early age how to know when someone was telling the truth and when they weren’t.
And there was no doubt in her mind that Yasmina Ramadani was lying.
“That certainly answers the question of how you knew Ross had been murdered,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, his hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee.
Sebastian started to say something, but the magistrate held up one hand. “It might be better if I remain in official ignorance of the facts.”
“I thought so.”
They sat in a snug little coffeehouse on Mount Street. A fire crackled on the hearth, filling the room with a pleasant warmth and the smell of wet wool. Sir Henry said, “So we have two men killed in the same unusual manner on the same night, one a gentleman at the Foreign Office, the other a newly arrived American. What possible connection can there be between the two?”
“If there is a connection other than the Cox family, I have yet to find it.”
Sir Henry frowned. “Kincaid’s body was dumped in Bethnal Green at three in the morning. But he disappeared from Southwark much earlier, around eleven that night. You think Ross was killed before then?”
“I think Ross was dead by the time Colonel Chernishav knocked on his door at midnight.”
Sir Henry nodded. “So you’re suggesting—what? Ross was murdered, then stripped of his clothes and put in bed so he’d be found there by his manservant in the morning?”
“Unless Ross was naked when he was killed.”
Sir Henry looked confused. “But why would a man be naked—” His voice trailed off as understanding dawned. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ah, yes; the woman.” The magistrate shifted in his seat. “It would be highly unusual, although still possible, I suppose.”
“Alternatively, the killer could have taken clean linen from Ross’s cupboard, crumpled it, and dropped it on the floor for the valet to find. He would then have needed to carry the bloodstained items away with him, had them cleaned, and surreptitiously returned them to Ross’s rooms at a later date, since according to the valet, no items were missing.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s possible, as well. It shows an attention to detail, a thoroughness and calm clearheadedness that is disturbing.” Sir Henry shivered and fortified himself with another sip of his coffee. “You’ve suspects?”
Sebastian gave him a quick rundown of what he’d discovered, leaving out only the diplomatically sensitive information given him by Miss Jarvis.
Sir Henry said, “Any of these men have alibis for the evening in question?”
“Jasper Cox was at a dinner given by the Lord Mayor. Others claim to have been home. But if we’re dealing with a hired professional, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“No, I suppose not.” Lovejoy sipped his coffee in silence for a moment. Then he said, “We’re obviously missing something.”
Sebastian pushed to his feet. “I think this French émigré, de La Rocque, may have played a larger role than he’s admitting. I have some questions I’d like him to answer.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Let me know if you discover anything.” He hesitated, then said, “I understand congratulations are in order, my lord.”
Sebastian shook his head, not understanding. “I beg your pardon?”
“I read the notice of your coming nuptials in the paper this morning.”
“Oh, yes; of course. Thank you, Sir Henry.”
“A splendid young woman, Miss Jarvis. Splendid.”
Sebastian said, “The ceremony is this Thursday morning, at Lambeth Palace, at eleven. I would be honored if you could attend.”
The little magistrate turned pink and gave one of his peculiar little bows. “Why, thank you, my lord. I assure you the honor is mine.”
Chapter 38
A fter leaving the Turkish Ambassador’s residence, Hero made a brief stop in Bond Street to pick out a pair of pale blue satin slippers for the wedding. Then she directed her coachman to Great Russell Street.
“Monsieur de La Rocque?” she called, pushing open the heavy door to his establishment.
Her voice echoed through the empty cluster of interconnected rooms lined floor to ceiling with shelf after shelf of moldering books.
“Oh, Miss Jarvis,” whispered Marie, hovering close beside her, her face pale as she followed Hero from one overcrowded room to the next. “Should we even be here? I mean—”
“Don’t be absurd, Marie,” said Hero firmly. “There is nothing the least—” She broke off, her gaze fixed on the single, worn brown shoe poking out at an odd angle from beneath the curtain of a nearby archway.
“Stay here,” she ordered the maid and thrust aside the curtain.
The defrocked priest lay sprawled on his back, arms flung wide, his swollen tongue protruding from a discolored, puffy face, his bloodshot eyes wide and staring. A wire had been wrapped so tightly around his neck that it cut into the flesh.
She heard a soft sigh behind her and turned in time to see her abigail’s eyes roll back in her head as the woman collapsed in an insensate heap.
Ignoring her, Hero went to crouch beside the Frenchman’s body. Reaching out, she pressed her fingertips to one out-flung wrist. He was still faintly warm.
She heard the creak of a hinge and a light tread on the old floorboards at the front of the shop. Spinning around, she saw Devlin draw up in the curtained archway. His gaze traveled from her to de La Rocque and back again.
“Good God,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
She spread an expressive hand toward the corpse. “I came to speak to Monsieur de La Rocque. Unfortunately, as you can see, he is dead.”
&n
bsp; Devlin’s gaze shifted to the crumpled maid. “And your abigail?”
“Tiresome woman. She’s gone off in a faint.”
“Imagine that,” he said dryly, hunkering down beside the maid. “Have you a vinaigrette in your reticule?”
“No. I never faint.”
“Of course not,” he said, gently tapping the woman’s pale cheeks.
“If you wake her up, she’s liable to start screaming,” Hero warned.
“True. But it must be done.”
The abigail stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She drew in a shaky gasp and looked confused, her gaze focusing on Devlin’s face. Then she turned her head, saw de La Rocque’s awful purple countenance, and started screaming.
“Now, now; enough of that,” said Hero briskly, going to help Devlin coax the woman to her feet.
The screaming continued. Over the woman’s head, Devlin’s gaze met Hero’s. “There’s an inn several doors down. Perhaps you can entrust her to the care of the landlord’s wife?”
Hero nodded. “Come, Marie,” she said, grasping the maid’s arm in a firm grip and suppressing the impulse to box the silly creature’s ears as she steered her toward the door. “Hush, now; there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Devlin, scrounging around in a nearby desk for paper, a quill, and ink. He dashed off a quick note, folded it and affixed a wafer, then wrote, Sir Henry Lovejoy across the front. “Have the landlord send one of his lads with this to Bow Street.”
Leaving Devlin hunkered down beside the dead body, Hero hectored and bullied the now hysterical abigail to the nearby inn, where she consigned her to the gentle ministrations of the clucking landlady. On her return, she found Devlin systematically going through drawers and cupboards in a rear office. “Discover anything?” she asked.
He moved on to one of the towering bookcases. “Not yet.”
“Like some help?”
He looked over at her in surprise. “Please.”
She started on the lower shelf. “What precisely are we looking for?”
“You’ll know when you find it.”