by C. S. Harris
“He’s got a knife!” screamed Tom from the wharf.
Sebastian dropped to one knee and spun around, his hands coming up to close on the man’s outstretched arm and jerk him sideways. Caught off balance, the man staggered, his feet sliding on the wet wood, the knife clattering as it fell.
Sebastian let go and ducked back. For one unforgettable moment, their gazes locked. The young man’s gray eyes widened with quick comprehension and terror, his arms windmilling as he sought to catch his balance. Sebastian surged up, reaching for him, but it was too late. The man pitched sideways off the gangplank to splash into the narrow triangle of water between the wharf and the hoy’s hull.
The air filled with the snap of canvas, the creak of timbers as the wind caught the hoy and swung it toward the wharf. The man’s head surged up to break water, his eyes wild, his arms flailing as he sought to kick out of the way. The hoy’s black hull loomed over him, smashing him against the wooden embankment with a grinding, sickening thwump that shook the wharf and ended the man’s scream.
“Bloody hell,” whispered Tom.
Chapter 30
“Your inquiries are obviously making someone nervous,” said Paul Gibson, leaning back in his chair. They were in a coffee shop near the Mall. The morning’s fog had returned to settle over the city like a cold, wet blanket that spoke of the coming end to summer’s balmy days and soft sunshine.
“Obviously,” said Sebastian with a wry smile. “The question is, who?”
The surgeon stared down at the hot steam rising from his coffee. “Are you so certain this latest killing near the river is related to the other three? The docks are a dangerous place.”
“What sort of dockside killer takes the time to stuff a mandrake root in his victim’s mouth but doesn’t bother to relieve him of his purse and watch?”
“You do have a point. But the method of killing is entirely different. And there was no draining of the blood, no butchery of the corpse.”
Sebastian leaned forward. “You talked to the surgeon who performed Bellamy’s postmortem?”
A slow smile touched Gibson’s eyes. “I thought you might be interested.”
“And?”
“The consulting surgeon found nothing beyond the stab wound. And the mandrake root, of course.”
Sebastian frowned. “Perhaps the killer was interrupted. The other young men—Thornton, Carmichael, and Stanton—all seem to have been waylaid and taken elsewhere to be killed. If Bellamy tried to resist his attacker, the murderer might have been forced to kill him on the spot. He wouldn’t have been able to butcher the body in such a public place, so he simply left the mandrake root and fled.”
The tramp of marching feet brought Sebastian’s head around. Through the paned glass of the coffee shop’s front window, he could see a troop of pressed men marching down the street on their way to the docks and a life of service in His Majesty’s Navy. Hemmed in close by their press-gang, the men looked to range in age from fifteen to fifty, their faces haggard with fear, their wrists manacled like criminals.
“Poor bastards,” murmured Gibson, following Sebastian’s gaze. “I never see the unlucky sods without thinking of that line from ‘Rule, Britannia.’ You know the one…‘Britons never, never, never shall be slaves’?”
Sebastian choked on his coffee, while Gibson leaned forward suddenly, his face intent. “That poem you were telling me about, the one by Donne. It suggests a life spent in travel. Perhaps this Lieutenant Adrian Bellamy is the key to it all.”
Sebastian shook his head. “The man was at sea for half his life, since he was a lad. What kind of contact could he have had with the other three? No, I think the answer lies with the murdered men’s fathers—or their mothers.”
“An unfaithful woman?”
“Or unfaithful women.”
Gibson ran a finger thoughtfully up and down the side of his cup. “You say Reverend Thornton, Sir Humphrey Carmichael, and Captain Edward Bellamy have all visited India. What about Lord Stanton?”
“I don’t know yet. But they’re all obviously hiding something. And at least one of them seems willing to kill me in order to conceal it.”
“What kind of man continues to hide a secret that puts his own children at risk?”
“All manner of men, or so it would seem.”
Gibson stared out at the street, empty now in the flat light of the dying afternoon. “It must be a terrible secret,” he said, draining his cup to the dregs. “A terrible secret indeed.”
Sebastian was walking up the Mall, headed for the public office in Queen Square, when he became aware of an elegant town carriage slowing beside him. Glancing sideways, Sebastian recognized the crest of Charles, Lord Jarvis emblazoned on the carriage door. He kept walking.
“My lord.” A footman descended to hurry after him. “Lord Devlin! Lord Jarvis would like a word with you.”
Sebastian kept walking. “Tell his lordship I’m not interested.”
He turned the corner. He was aware of the carriage turning with him, then heard the sound of a window being let down. Lord Jarvis’s voice was pitched low, but Sebastian had no difficulty hearing his words over the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of passing carriage wheels. “I know of your visit to Greenwich. I know Sir Henry Lovejoy asked for your assistance in solving this rather lurid series of murders, and I know that while Sir Henry has been removed from the investigation, you are obviously still determined to catch this killer.”
Sebastian swung to face him. “And?”
Jarvis gave a grim smile. “And I know something that can help you.”
Chapter 31
They faced each other across the elegant expanse of the library in Lord Jarvis’s massive Berkeley Square town house.
“Why?” Sebastian demanded. “What is your interest in any of this?”
Jarvis drew a gold enameled snuffbox from his pocket. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you. What is your interest in this?” Sebastian demanded again.
Jarvis flicked open the snuffbox with one deft finger. “I’ve brought you here because I’m concerned for the safety of my daughter, Hero.”
“Miss Jarvis?” The answer caught Sebastian by surprise. “What has she to do with any of this?”
Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. “I had a son once, David. David was a year younger than Hero.” Jarvis tucked his snuffbox away and dusted his fingers. “He was a strange child. Very…dreamy. At the age of eight he announced he wanted to be a poet, but by the time he was ten, he’d decided he preferred to be an artist.”
Sebastian studied the big man’s curling lip and narrowed eyes, but said nothing. Sebastian knew only too well what it was like for a son to disappoint his father, to never quite measure up to expectations.
“He spent several years at Oxford,” Jarvis was saying, “but found nothing to hold his interest. Six years ago, I sent David to my wife’s younger brother, Sidney Spencer. Spencer’s regiment was in India, and I thought the experience would do the boy good. Toughen him up a bit.”
Sebastian sat forward, his attention now well caught. “And?”
“The climate didn’t agree with David. He was always sickly as a child, although it was my opinion that his mother and grandmother coddled him.” Jarvis’s jaw tightened. “After eight months, Spencer decided to send him home.”
Sebastian thought he knew where this was going. “Let me guess. The ship was the Harmony, captained by Edward Bellamy.”
“That’s right. All went well at first. But three days out of Cape Town, the ship was struck by a fierce storm that lasted days. Her sails were ripped asunder, her masts lost, her timbers strained and leaking badly. It seemed obvious to all aboard that the ship was sinking. Captain Bellamy prepared to abandon ship. But most of the ship’s boats had been lost in the storm. Recognizing that there was not enough space for all those left alive, the ship’s crew mutinied.”
“And took the remaining boat?”
&nb
sp; Jarvis nodded. “Along with most of the food and water. The Captain, his officers, and the passengers were left to die.”
“So what happened?”
Jarvis went to stand beside the empty hearth, one arm resting along the mantel. “The ship didn’t sink. The Captain and his officers managed to rig up a makeshift mast and sails, but it was useless. They were becalmed.”
“How long did it take the food and water to run out?”
“Not long. They were a day or two from death when they were rescued by a naval frigate that happened to come upon them. The HMS Sovereign.”
“And your son?”
Jarvis turned his head away to stare down at the empty hearth. “David was injured in the mutiny. He died within hours of their rescue.”
Sebastian studied the big man’s half-averted profile. His grief appeared genuine enough. Yet things were rarely as they seemed with this man. “I understand the connection to Adrian Bellamy. But what does any of this have to do with the murders of Dominic Stanton, Barclay Carmichael, and Nicholas Thornton?”
Jarvis’s head came up. “I don’t know about Thornton, but Lord Stanton and Sir Humphrey Carmichael were both passengers on the Harmony.”
Sebastian frowned. When he’d asked Captain Bellamy if he’d known either Stanton or Carmichael, the Captain had answered no. “You’re certain?”
“Of course I’m certain. Both men testified at the mutineers’ trial.”
“The crew was caught?”
“Caught and hanged. Four years ago. The trial caused something of a sensation.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. Four years ago he had been in the Army on the Continent. “What makes you think Miss Jarvis is in danger? You weren’t on that ship; her brother was.”
“And it’s not Captain Bellamy, Sir Humphrey, or Lord Stanton who have died, but their sons. David had no son, but Hero is his sister.”
From the street outside came a hawker’s cry: “Chairs to mend! Old chairs to mend!”
“How did you know I’d taken an interest in the murders?”
“I know,” Jarvis said simply.
Sebastian turned toward the door. “Then I suggest you take some of your spies off the streets and set them to guarding your daughter. Good day, my lord.”
He expected Jarvis to stop him. He did not. But then it occurred to Sebastian that the big man had probably said all he’d intended to say: it was up to Sebastian to use the information or not, as he chose.
He was crossing the hall when he encountered Miss Jarvis herself. She was a tall woman with plain brown hair, a direct gray gaze, and her father’s aquiline nose. If ever there was a woman who could take care of herself, Sebastian had always thought, it was Jarvis’s formidable daughter.
“Good heavens,” she said, pausing at the sight of him, “what are you doing here?” She tilted her head, making a show of studying him. “And not a gun or a knife in sight.”
The first time he’d encountered her here, in her father’s house, he’d held a gun to her head and kidnapped her. He held up his empty hands and gave her a smile that showed his teeth. “Not in sight.”
The smile was not returned. The fiercely intelligent eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“I suggest you ask your father.”
“I believe I shall.” She headed toward the library door, pausing only to say over her shoulder, “Oh. Do kindly refrain from kidnapping any of the maidservants on your way out, if you please?”
Chapter 32
For several years now, Sir Henry Lovejoy had made his home in a neat row house on Russell Square. The district was genteel but far from fashionable, which suited Henry just fine. Once Henry had been a moderately successful merchant. But the deaths of his wife and only daughter had wrought changes in his life. Henry had undergone a spiritual revelation that turned him toward the Reformist church, and he had decided to devote the remainder of his life to public service.
He sat now in his favorite chair beside the sitting room fireplace, a rug tucked around his lap to help ward off the cold as he read. The fire was not lit; Henry never allowed a fire to be laid in his house before October first or after March 31, no matter what the weather. But he felt the cold terribly and was about to get up and ring for a nice pot of hot tea when he heard a knock at the door below, followed by the sound of voices in the hall.
Mrs. McCoy, his housekeeper, appeared at the sitting room door. “There’s a Lord Devlin to see you, Sir Henry.”
“Good heavens.” Henry thrust aside the rug. “Show him up immediately, Mrs. McCoy. And bring us some tea, please.”
Lord Devlin appeared in the sitting room doorway, his lean frame elegantly clad in the buckskin breeches and exquisitely tailored silk waistcoat and dark blue coat of a gentleman.
“Well,” said Henry, “I see you’ve put off your Bow Street raiment.”
Amusement gleamed in the Viscount’s strange yellow eyes. “You’ve heard from Sir James, I take it?”
“And Sir William. Please have a seat, my lord.”
“Do they still doubt the relevance of Donne’s poem?” Devlin asked, settling himself in a nearby chair.
“At the moment, I think Bow Street would investigate the Archbishop of Canterbury himself if someone were to suggest it might be relevant to these murders. It seems Lord Jarvis has taken an interest in the case. An intense interest.”
“Ah. I’ve just had a rather remarkable conversation with the man myself.”
“Lord Jarvis?”
Sebastian nodded. “It seems his son was a passenger on a ship that sailed from India some five years ago. A merchantman named the Harmony, captained by Edward Bellamy. Among the other passengers were Sir Humphrey Carmichael and Lord Stanton.”
“Merciful heavens.” Henry sat up straighter. “I remember the Harmony. It was in all the papers.”
His lordship hesitated as Mrs. McCoy appeared in the doorway bearing a serviceable tray piled with a teapot and teacups and a plate of small cake slices. Lord Devlin waited until she had poured the tea and withdrawn; then he gave a terse recitation of his conversation with Jarvis.
“I wasn’t in England five years ago,” he finished. “But you say you recall the incident?”
“Oh, yes. It was quite the sensation.” Henry set aside his tea untasted and arose to pace thoughtfully up and down the small room. A lurid explanation was taking form in his imagination. He kept trying to push the idea from his mind, but the tie between the murders and the Harmony’s harrowing experience raised a grisly possibility he could not seem to banish. At last he said, “You know what this suggests, don’t you?” He turned to the Viscount. “The butchering of the bodies…the draining of the blood…” His voice trailed away.
Devlin met his gaze and held it. “Englishmen have resorted to cannibalism before when faced with starvation and death.”
Henry drew a handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into its snowy folds. “I don’t believe there was any suggestion that while they were becalmed the officers and passengers of the Harmony…”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” said Devlin, when Henry left the rest of his sentence unsaid. “It’s an unwritten rule of the sea that the prohibition against cannibalism may be suspended in the case of shipwreck survivors or men becalmed. Think of the Peggy, or the raft of the Medusa. Sometimes the survivors admit to what they’ve done. At other times there is only a suspicion that lingers over them.”
“Usually they eat the bodies of their companions who are the first to die—is that not true?”
“Usually. But lacking that option, lots can be drawn and the loser sacrificed for the good of his companions. Only somehow I can’t see Sir Humphrey Carmichael or Lord Stanton putting their names in a hat for the chance to become their companions’ dinner.”
“No,” agreed Henry.
“Which leads to the suspicion that the victim, if there was one, was selected more arbitrarily. We need to know the names of any other passengers aboard the
Harmony on that voyage, as well as the owners of the ship and its cargo.”
“The records of the inquiry should be on file at the Board of Trade,” said Henry.
Devlin set aside his cup and rose to his feet. “Good. Let me know what you discover.”
“You forget, my lord. Bow Street has taken over the case.”
Devlin smiled and turned toward the door, then hesitated. “One more thing. There’s a captain in the Horse Guards named Peter Quail. When he was with my regiment on the Continent, he took a fiendish delight in torturing and mutilating prisoners. I know of no link between him and the Harmony, but you might set one of your constables to discovering his whereabouts on the nights of the murders. Good evening, Sir Henry.”
Henry thought about that morning’s terse conversation with the magistrates of Bow Street and sighed.
Later that night, Kat sat before the mirror in her dressing room at the theater. In the flickering candlelight, her reflection looked pale, strained. The scent of oranges, greasepaint, and ale still hung heavy in the air, but the theater stretched out quiet around her. The farce had long since ended.
Aiden O’Connell had not come.
With a hand that was not quite steady, she locked away the rest of her costume and stood. Two more days. She had two more days, and she was, if anything, farther from finding a way out of her dilemma than she had been before.
That night, Sebastian dreamed of broken bodies and torn flesh, recent images of young men with butchered limbs blending with older memories of endless bloody carnage on the killing fields of Europe. Waking, he reached for Kat, not remembering until his hand slid across the cool empty sheet beside him that he slept in his own bed, alone.
He sat up, his heart pounding uncomfortably, the need to hold her in his arms strong. Slipping from his bed, he went to jerk open the drapes.
The waning moon cast grotesque patterns of light and shadow across the street below. It had been his intention to meet Kat at the theater after her performance, but she’d told him no, she wasn’t feeling well. She certainly didn’t look well, her cheeks pale, her eyes heavy lidded. But he knew from the way she failed to meet his searching gaze that she was lying. Another man might have been suspicious, jealous. Sebastian knew only a deep and powerful sense that something was terribly wrong.