Why Mermaids Sing: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

by C. S. Harris

  The little housemaid opened her eyes wide and scuttled off.

  Captain Bellamy proved to be a tall man, well over six feet and robust, despite his sixty-plus years. A life at sea had given him a weathered, deeply grooved face and left his flaxen hair liberally streaked with white. His stunned grief at the death of his son could be read in every feature.

  He received Sebastian in a spacious sitting room overlooking the gardens and the river beyond. With him sat a small, olive-skinned woman with dark hair and liquid brown eyes, her pretty, unlined face streaked with tears. Looking at her, Sebastian at first assumed her to be the murdered man’s sister, but Bellamy introduced her as his own wife.

  “My apologies for intruding on you at such a time,” said Sebastian, bowing low over her hand.

  “Plees, sit down,” she said in Portuguese-accented English.

  “Brandy?” offered the Captain in a gruff voice, going to lift the stopper from a crystal decanter on a nearby table.

  Sebastian took a seat on a graceful settee covered with green-and-cream-striped silk. “Thank you, but no.” He let his gaze drift around the room. It was elegantly furnished with heavy mahogany tables and glass-fronted cases filled with everything from Chinese jade carvings and delicate ivory statues to Murano glass from Venice. Captain Bellamy had obviously prospered in his voyages.

  “The constable who was here this morning said someone would be calling later,” said Bellamy, splashing a hefty measure of brandy into a glass for himself. “But I must admit I hadn’t expected to see you so soon.”

  “Bow Street is most anxious to come to a better understanding of this dreadful series of killings.”

  Bellamy paused with his glass raised halfway to his lips. “Series of killings? What other killings are you referring to?”

  “The recent murders of Barclay Carmichael and Dominic Stanton.”

  Bellamy took a long, slow swallow of his drink. What little color he’d had seemed to drain from his face. “What makes you think my son’s death is in any way related to the deaths of those other young men? My son was stabbed on the docks. What happened to young Carmichael and Stanton was an abomination.”

  “Whoever killed your son left a mandrake root in his mouth. Mr. Stanton was found with the severed hoof of a goat in his mouth, while Mr. Carmichael was found with a page torn from a ship’s log. There’s also another young man, a student of divinity at Cambridge named Nicholas Thornton, who was found with a papier-mâché star in his mouth. We believe all four killings are related in some way.”

  Bellamy downed the rest of his brandy in one swallow and turned to pour another drink with a hand that was not quite steady. “I heard what happened to Carmichael and Stanton, but not Thornton. When was that?”

  “Last April.”

  “And he was butchered? Like the others?”

  “Not exactly. Certain of his internal organs were removed.”

  “Mãe de Deus,” whispered Mrs. Bellamy, bringing a black-edged handkerchief to her lips.

  Sebastian turned to her. “I beg your pardon, madam. But I must speak of these things.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, her fist tightening around her handkerchief. “What does it all mean?”

  “We believe the objects refer to a poem by John Donne. ‘Go and Catch a Falling Star.’ Do you know it?”

  “I know it,” said Bellamy. He went to stand at the window overlooking the green sweep of the front garden and the river beyond. “But I don’t understand what any of this has to do with my son.”

  “Are you in any way acquainted with Sir Humphrey Carmichael or Alfred, Lord Stanton?”

  “No.”

  “What about the Reverend William Thornton?”

  A muscle jumped along the Captain’s tight jaw. “Who is he?”

  “A clergyman at Avery, Kent. The father of the first murdered man.”

  Bellamy shook his head. “No. I don’t see how Adrian could have known any of them, either. He was just a lad when he first went to sea. He was a midshipman on the Victory, you know.” A father’s pride shone through the heavy grief. “Saw action with Nelson at Trafalgar.”

  “I understand his ship docked in London just this week?”

  “That’s right. Monday.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Right after he docked. He gave me a tour of the Cornwall. They took on some damage when they captured an American merchantman trying to run the blockade last month. It’s the reason they put into port.”

  “Did you send a note last night, asking your son to come to Greenwich?”

  The Captain’s face went slack. “No. Of course not. Why? Did he receive such a note?”

  “So we understand. Although the note itself has not been found.”

  Sebastian watched Captain Bellamy move to pour himself another drink. He walked with the careful deliberation of a man who holds his liquor well, yet has been drinking heavily for some time.

  “You’re from Greenwich, Captain Bellamy?”

  Bellamy shook his head and replaced the stopper on the carafe. “Gravesend. My father was a sea captain in his time. And his father before him.”

  “What made you settle in Greenwich?”

  “My first wife was from Greenwich.”

  “She was Adrian’s mother?”

  “Yes. She died fourteen years ago now.”

  That must have been shortly before young James joined the Navy, Sebastian thought. He looked at the sultry Portuguese beauty now sitting quietly, her gaze on her husband, and wondered if the Captain’s remarriage had precipitated his son’s entry into the Navy.

  “You have other children?”

  “A daughter,” said Mrs. Bellamy softly. Sebastian realized that she, too, was watching her husband’s brandy consumption. A frown line had appeared between her brows. “Francesca. She is twelve.”

  “You’re from Brazil,” he said, giving her a smile.

  She returned his smile shyly. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I spent some time there when I was in the Army.” He glanced back at Bellamy. “You sailed to South America and the West Indies, I gather.”

  “Frequently. And to China and the East Indies, Africa and the Mediterranean. There are few places with a port I haven’t been.”

  “Spend much time in India?” Sebastian asked casually.

  Bellamy’s eyes narrowed, and he took a sip of his drink before answering. “Been there many times. Why do you ask?”

  “His last voyage was to India,” said his wife.

  Sebastian turned toward her. “When was that?”

  The woman faltered, aware of her husband’s intense gaze upon her. “Five years ago,” she said in a small voice.

  “This has all been most distressing for my wife.” Bellamy came to stand behind her and rest a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps we could continue the discussion some other time, Mr. Taylor?”

  Sebastian met the Captain’s steely gaze. “Yes, of course.” Sebastian pushed to his feet. “Someone from Bow Street will be contacting you again.” And no doubt asking some very different questions, thought Sebastian as he turned to leave. “Mrs. Bellamy.”

  Shown to the front door by the nervous little housemaid, Sebastian was letting himself out the garden gate when he became conscious of being watched. Tilting back his head, he looked up into a pair of big brown eyes framed by dark ringlets. A half-grown girl perched on the stout branch of the spreading oak that grew near the gate, her brown scratched legs dangling from beneath the torn hem of what had once been a neat muslin gown.

  “You must be Francesca,” he said, tipping his head back farther. “How do you do?”

  She regarded him intently for a moment without smiling. “Gilly says you’re from Bow Street.”

  Gilly, Sebastian assumed, must have been the towheaded housemaid who’d opened the door to him. “Yes, I am.” He executed a flourishing bow. “Mr. Simon Taylor at your service, Miss Bellamy.”

  She frowned. “How do you kno
w I’m Miss Bellamy?”

  “I’m a detective. It’s my job to know these things.”

  “Where’s your baton?”

  “I carry my baton only when I’m chasing criminals.”

  She considered this explanation for a moment and didn’t seem to find it wanting. “Something’s happened to Adrian, hasn’t it?”

  Sebastian felt an ache pull across his chest. They hadn’t told her yet. How could they not tell her?

  “I’m afraid that’s a question you’ll have to ask your papa,” he said.

  “I know it’s true. His ship’s in, but he hasn’t come home.”

  “Does Adrian usually come home when his ship is in port?”

  She nodded. “He brings me presents.” She fished a silver chain from beneath the ruffled neck of her dress, a chain from which dangled a filigreed representation of a hand. The hand of Fatima. “He brought me this from North Africa once.”

  “But he didn’t bring you anything this time?”

  “I don’t know. Papa wouldn’t let me go with him when he went to see Adrian.”

  “Did your papa say why Adrian wasn’t coming home?”

  “He said Adrian had to stay on his ship.”

  “Did he say why?”

  She shook her head, her curls bouncing around her face. “Only that it would be better.”

  She slid from the tree in a rush to stand before him, all skinny arms and legs and big brown eyes. “I saw Mrs. Clinton making a black wreath. He’s dead, isn’t he? Adrian is dead.”

  “You ran out here and hid when you saw the wreath, did you?”

  She nodded. “Mama thinks I’m in my room.”

  “I think you need to go talk to your mama.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, one escaping to run down her cheek. Sebastian watched, helpless, as another tear brimmed over to slide down her face, then another.

  “Are you really a Bow Street Runner?” she asked in a small, broken voice.

  “No.”

  “But you’ll find out who killed Adrian, won’t you?”

  “How do you know someone killed him?”

  “I know,” she said, and Sebastian had no doubt that, somehow, she did.

  Chapter 29

  Sebastian noticed the man right away.

  He stood with one shoulder propped against the trunk of a chestnut tree near the banks of the river, his head half turned away so that Sebastian could see only his profile. Young and of medium height and build, the man wore a double-breasted olive coat with wide-flaring lapels, full sleeves, and a long-tailed skirt. Once the coat must have come from a Bond Street tailor. But Sebastian suspected the coat, like the man’s wide-brimmed hat and shiny leather breeches, had passed through one or two used-clothing dealers before reaching its present owner.

  Sebastian had seen the man before, amongst the handful of fellow passengers on the hoy down from London. At the time Sebastian had paid him little heed. Now, without looking at the man again, Sebastian closed Bellamy’s gate behind him and turned toward the cluster of elegant eighteenth-century buildings that formed the heart of Greenwich. The olive-coated man lingered for a time looking out over the wide expanse of the river. Then he pushed away from the tree to follow at a distance.

  The day was cool and overcast with high white clouds. Sebastian crossed into the park, his gaze scanning the tree-shaded hillside for his tiger. He finally found the boy in a crowd of laughing children gathered before a Punch and Judy show. Tom threw one last look at the puppets, then came on the run, one elbow crooked skyward as he clapped his tiger’s hat to his head.

  “Walk with me toward the top of the hill,” said Sebastian as Tom came up to him. “There’s a man following us—no, don’t look back,” he added hastily when Tom’s head jerked to do just that.

  “Who is ’e?”

  “I don’t know. He followed us from London.”

  At the top of the hill, they paused to look back toward the river. From here, they could see the white jewel known as the Queen’s House and, beyond that, the stately bulk of Wren’s Naval College on the banks of the river. London was a vast, crowded sprawl to the west, bristling with spires and towers. “See him now?” asked Sebastian, his gaze on the distant city.

  “Aye.”

  “Did you notice him earlier, when you were asking questions around town?”

  Tom shook his head. “No.”

  “Learn anything interesting about Captain and Mrs. Bellamy during the course of your perambulations?”

  “Of my what?”

  “Perambulations. Travels or inspections by foot.”

  “Oh. Well, I ’eared this Mrs. Bellamy ain’t the dead Lieutenant’s mum. She’s Captain Bellamy’s second wife. The Captain’s first wife died of consumption back in ninety-seven. It’s ’er ’ouse they’re living in now. Belonged to ’er da.”

  “And the neighbors are suspicious of the new Mrs. Bellamy because she’s a foreigner.”

  Tom looked up in surprise. “How’d ye know?”

  “Lucky guess. What else do they say about her?”

  “Not much, ’cept that the Captain is ’eld to ’ave married beneath ’im.”

  “Because she’s from Brazil?”

  “Because she can’t read or write.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “They’ve got a little girl. Name o’ Francesca. Seems the Lieutenant fair doted on ’er, even if she is ’alf foreign.”

  “What do they say of the Lieutenant himself?”

  “Sounds to ’ave been a likable sort of lad when ’e were younger. Folks ain’t seen ’im much since ’e joined the Navy.”

  “And the Captain?”

  “I’m thinkin’ there’s somethin’ queer about ’im, although no one would come right out and say it. ’E’s been retired these last five years or so, ever since ’e lost ’is last ship.”

  Sebastian brought his full attention back to the tiger. “Really? What happened?”

  “Come to grief in a storm. It were an East Indiaman, name o’ the Harmony.” Tom shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, his gaze drifting from the olive-coated man now watching the Punch and Judy show to the twin turrets of Flamsteed House. “What we gonna do about that cove?”

  “Let him follow us to the Observatory, if he likes.”

  Tom’s eyes shone with excitement.

  They turned together to descend the hill toward the neat seventeenth-century house designed by Wren himself. Sebastian’s gaze narrowed as he studied the thunderheads building to the west. “According to Adrian Bellamy’s little sister, the Lieutenant always came to see her whenever he was in port. Yet he didn’t come this time. Instead Captain Bellamy went to see him as soon as his ship docked. I’m wondering if Captain Bellamy didn’t perhaps warn his son not to leave the ship—that his life was at risk.”

  “But the Lieutenant did leave ’is ship.”

  “Someone sent him a note saying he was needed at home.”

  Tom did a little skip. “Maybe the killer’s getting tired of ’aving to follow these young gentlemen all over the place.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sebastian. “Or perhaps he feels he’s running out of time.”

  The wind was stiffening when they boarded the hoy for the return journey up the Thames, the clouds hanging low and ominous. The river had turned into a dancing cauldron of choppy waves that filled the air with spray and set the small, eighty-foot-long boat to rocking and pitching against its moorings.

  Tom lurched up the gangplank, laughing as the deck rose up to meet him, then fell away sharply. While the boy darted across the deck, talking nonstop to the skipper and his mate and setting the boat’s dog to barking with excitement, Sebastian went to stand near the forward hatchway, his face turned toward the wind.

  The man in the olive coat was one of the last passengers to board. He went to lounge at the stern, his collar turned up against the mist-filled wind as the mate cast off and the hoy pulled away from the wharf. The wind filled the bro
wn canvas, setting the sails to snapping against the gray sky. Olive Coat braced his legs wide against the steep pitch and fall of the deck, like a man who’d spent his share of time at sea.

  It was some ten minutes later that Sebastian noticed Tom had grown increasingly quiet. His mouth hung slack, and his skin had taken on a greenish hue. Sebastian hauled the boy up from behind the crate where he’d sought shelter and half steered, half carried him to the bow.

  “You need air. Lots of air. No, don’t watch the deck. Keep your eyes on the horizon. Pick a point in the distance and concentrate on it. It’s no different from riding in a well-sprung carriage.”

  “I never wanted to empty my breadbasket in no carriage,” said Tom, wiping his sleeve across his mouth.

  Sebastian cast a glance back at the stern. Olive Coat was still there, his attention seemingly focused on the stately East Indiaman just off their port side, making its way downstream.

  “How much longer?” said Tom in a small, reedy voice.

  Sebastian put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed. “A while. The hoy’s leeboards allow for a fairly effective windward performance, but she’s sitting low in the water. Her cargo’s heavy.”

  Tom groaned.

  The boy lost it a few times over the side, but he stayed at the rail, grim-faced and plucky until the hoy bumped up against its London wharf. The air filled with the whine of lines being uncoiled, the salt-cracked voice of the skipper shouting his orders, the scrape of the gangplank being slid out at midship.

  “Can I get off now?” asked Tom.

  Sebastian glanced down at the boy’s ashen cheeks. “You go ahead. I’ll stay behind and keep an eye on our olive-coated friend. Just be careful on the gangplank. The spray will have made it slippery.”

  Tom nodded, his step unsteady as he lurched to midship.

  Sebastian hung back, letting most of the other passengers push past him. He was aware of his olive-coated shadow doing the same, falling behind him as Sebastian moved toward the gangplank. Sebastian had taken one step, two, out onto the gangplank when he felt a rough hand clap on his shoulder.