by C. S. Harris
“Oh, yes, I know. First Thornton. Then Carmichael and Stanton. And now Bellamy. Someone is killing their sons.”
Sebastian stared into the man’s tortured, mad eyes. “Do you know why?”
“Why? Not exactly, no. But when you think about the way those young men were butchered, it gives you some ideas, does it not?” He broke off to cast Sebastian a sideways glance. “Is that why you’re here? You think I’m responsible?”
“You’re in prison,” said Sebastian.
An eerie smile played around the other man’s lips. “Yes. But we’re sometimes allowed out, you know.”
“Only during the day,” noted Sebastian. “Carmichael, Stanton, and Bellamy were all killed at night, when you’re locked in.”
Oldfield’s smile slipped. “True.” Then he brightened. “I could have hired someone.”
“You’re bankrupt.”
“There is that.” Oldfield sighed. “And I’ve no motive.”
Sebastian glanced around the cold prison cell. “No?”
Oldfield tssked again and shook his head. “It was the crew who insisted my cargo be thrown overboard. They thought the ship was going to sink.”
Sebastian started to remind him that the ship actually had sunk in the end. Then he changed his mind.
“It’s the crew who ruined me,” Oldfield was saying. His nostrils quivered, his hatred twisting his lips cruelly with each word. “Dirty, ignorant scum. Panicking. Abandoning the ship the way they did. Taking all the food and water. Leaving the others to die. I would gladly butcher every last one of their God-rotted carcasses. But—” He broke off, his voice and features suddenly returning to normal. “They’re already dead.”
“They’re dead?”
“That’s right. Most of them were killed by natives when their boat landed on the west coast of Africa. The few who survived were picked up by His Majesty’s Navy and brought back to London to hang.”
“You attended their trial?”
Oldfield cast him a scornful look. “What do you think? Every minute of it. Their trial and their hangings. One of the crewmen—I think his name was Parker—he made a bad end of it. Struggling and shouting even after they had the rope around his neck. He kept swearing the men who testified at his trial were lying.”
Sebastian sat forward. “Lying? About what?”
Oldfield shrugged. “I don’t recall now. It had nothing to do with me.” He scratched thoughtfully at the skin behind one ear. “But I do remember the man had a brother, a docker. He was there at the trial and at the hanging. Swore he’d see that the buggers paid for his brother’s death.”
“See that who paid?”
“Why, those who testified at the trial, of course.”
“And who was that?”
Oldfield smiled. “Bellamy. Stanton. Carmichael.” The smile slipped. “But not Thornton.” He looked confused. “At least, I don’t think Thornton was there.”
“Who else?” asked Sebastian, even as Oldfield turned to glance out the window.
The man didn’t answer.
Sebastian raised his voice and tried again. “Who else was at the trial?”
Oldfield swung his head to stare directly at Sebastian. The watery blue eyes widened with confusion. “What trial?”
Sebastian found Tom outside the prison, walking the chestnuts up and down the lane.
“Learn anythin’?” Tom asked as Sebastian leapt up to the curricle’s seat.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’m afraid Mr. Oldfield’s misfortunes have addled his brain.” Sebastian took the reins. “I want you to find someone for me. A docker by the name of Parker. He had a brother hanged four years ago for the mutiny on the Harmony.”
Tom stepped back from the horses’ heads, one hand coming up to hold his hat in place. “You think he might be the cove what’s been doin’ the killin’?”
“He could be. Then again, he could also be a simple figment of Mr. Wesley Oldfield’s imagination.”
Sebastian gathered his reins. He knew a powerful urge to confront both Lord Stanton and Sir Humphrey Carmichael with what he had learned. Yet it would be a mistake, he knew, to approach either man now, before he’d learned the full story of the Harmony’s final voyage.
It was time, Sebastian realized, for another visit to the Reverend Thornton in Kent.
Chapter 36
Returning from her ride with Devlin, Kat tore up her half-written note to the Irishman Aiden O’Connell and burned the scraps.
It had occurred to her that sending any written communication—no matter how carefully composed—would be folly. The danger of such a note falling into the hands of Jarvis’s agents were simply too high.
She had just over twenty-four hours left. Closing her writing desk with a snap, she went to change into a walking dress of straw-colored lawn decorated with plaiting at the bodice and waist and set out to track down the Irishman herself.
The spymaster continued to be elusive. But as she mingled with a crowd of well-dressed onlookers cheering their favorite teams in the summer’s last regatta on the Thames, Kat found herself in the company of Russell Yates, ex-privateer and former owner of the ill-fated Harmony.
For a woman with Kat’s talents, it was easy enough to maneuver herself next to Yates and engage him in conversation. He was an imposing figure, tall and large boned, with broad shoulders and a solid physique he kept well honed at Jackson’s and Angelo’s. He wore the buff-colored breeches, striped silk waistcoat, and dark blue morning coat of a gentleman, but he still looked like a pirate, with his hawkish nose, sun-darkened skin, and dark hair he kept just a shade too long.
“I saw you at Covent Garden last night,” he said, the gold hoop in his left ear catching the light as he bowed over her hand. “I must say, you make a charming shrew. But then you also make a regal Cleopatra and an incomparable Juliet.”
Kat smiled. “We’re considering doing Othello next. I thought of you when I read the text. You owned a ship that was lost at sea, did you not? The Helpmate or the Handsome or some such thing.”
He lifted a glass of wine from the tray of a servant who hovered at his elbow and took a slow sip. “The Harmony. Singularly inappropriately christened ship, considering its fate.”
“You’ve heard the rumors, I suppose? That these grisly murders are somehow linked to the ship’s ordeal?”
“No. I hadn’t heard any talk. But I’m not surprised. Devilish business, that. Frankly, I’m glad the ship sank off Portugal. It would have been impossible to crew with that kind of history, and then what would I have done with it?”
A cool breeze from the river flapped Kat’s straw hat. She put up one hand to steady it. “The ship was insured, was it?”
Yates laughed. “Oh, yes. I believe in insurance—unlike Wesley Oldfield, poor sod.”
“Oldfield?”
“The Harmony carried a shipment of his tea. Lost it all. Third cargo in as many months. Turned his brain, I’m afraid—that and the accommodations in the Marshalsea, I suppose.”
A shout went up from among the crowd of spectators. Kat swung to look out over the water, to where the lead crew was fighting hard to maintain their advantage, the spray from their oars sparkling in the sunshine. “Was Oldfield a passenger on the Harmony?”
“Oldfield? No.”
She glanced back at the man beside her. “Were you?”
A slow smile spread across his pirate face. “You know, I’m getting the distinct impression you engaged me in conversation this afternoon for the sole purpose of learning everything you could about the Harmony.”
“Acute of you,” said Kat, returning his smile.
He laughed, then abruptly sobered. “It’s because of Devlin, I suppose. I’ve heard he’s looking into these murders. I must admit, I didn’t think about the possible connection to the Harmony when it was just Carmichael and Stanton. But now that they’ve found Captain Bellamy’s son dead, as well…”
Kat studied his handsome, sun-darkened face. “Do you have s
ons, Mr. Yates?”
“No. Thank God, considering the circumstances.” He brought one hand to his chest and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve never yet found a woman to steal my heart.”
She laughed politely, as she was meant to do, then said, “Who else died on that ship besides Lord Jarvis’s son, David?”
“Let me see…” Yates dropped his hand to his side and stared thoughtfully out over the river. “Two or three of the crew were killed in the storm, I believe; the rest either died under some African’s spear or at the end of a rope. But that’s it. The ship’s log was lost in the wreckage, so there’s no real record.”
“None of the other passengers died?”
He shook his head. “There were only some half a dozen besides Stanton and Carmichael. And no, I don’t recall their names,” he added when she opened her mouth to ask exactly that. “You know, if you ever tire of the stage, you ought to consider applying at Bow Street. You’re a natural.”
“It’s my understanding they don’t employ females.”
“More fool they. I’ve heard Aiden O’Connell say no one can ferret out information faster or more reliably than a female. I’m beginning to think he’s right.”
Kat brought her wandering attention back to his face. It seemed a strange thing for him to have said, and she wasn’t convinced it was as offhand as it sounded. “You’re acquainted with Aiden O’Connell?”
A light gleamed in his eyes, then was gone in an instant. “We’ve been known to do business together.”
Kat kept her voice casual and disinterested. “Has he left town? I haven’t seen him for a few days.”
“Not that I’m aware of. Do you intend to hound him about the Harmony as well? If I see him, I’ll warn him you were asking after him.”
Kat gave a soft laugh. “What has Aiden O’Connell to do with the Harmony?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
She stayed talking nonsense with him a few more minutes, then moved on. It was some quarter of an hour later, as she was preparing to leave the terrace, that Yates approached her again.
“It’s occurred to me that there was indeed another death on the Harmony,” he said, leaning in close so that his words would not be overheard. “Bellamy’s cabin boy. A spar fell on him during the storm, injuring him badly. He died several days before the Sovereign’s appearance.”
“The cabin boy? What was his name?” Kat asked, her voice coming out more sharp than she’d intended it to.
“That I can’t recall. But if it comes to mind, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Kat had almost reached the steps of her house in Harwich Street when she became aware of a tall, well-dressed gentleman walking toward her, his bootheels tapping ominously on the empty paving.
“Miss Boleyn,” said Colonel Bryce Epson-Smith, sweeping her a mocking bow. “How…fortuitous.”
Kat’s grip on the handle of her sunshade tightened, then relaxed. Inclining her head, she gave the man a faint, bored smile. “Colonel.”
“A gentle reminder about tomorrow night,” he told her, his gaze traveling over her in a way that made her skin crawl. “After the play, of course. We wouldn’t want to deprive London of one last glimpse of the divine Miss Kat Boleyn, in the event that you should elect to be…shall we say…stubborn?”
Chapter 37
It was midafternoon by the time Sebastian drove into the village of Avery in Kent. Having left Tom searching the docks of London for a man named Parker, Sebastian was forced to consign the chestnuts into the care of a lad at the livery stable and walk across the green to the rectory.
In the gentle sunshine, the redbrick walls of the rectory seemed more somber than ever, the heavy drapes closed tight at the windows. Sebastian plied the door’s brass knocker, then listened to the summons echo into stillness in the depths of the house.
He was about to knock again when he heard quick footsteps in the hall. The door was yanked open by the housekeeper, Mrs. Ross, who blanched at the sight of him and put up a hand to straighten her crooked cap.
“My lord,” she said with a gasp, “I do beg your pardon for leaving you standing here. I thought the housemaid, Bess, would get the door, but I suspect she’s not back yet from the apothecary’s. We’ve been at sixes and sevens here, ever since the Reverend took his turn for the worse.”
“Reverend Thornton is ill?” said Sebastian, unraveling this.
Mrs. Ross nodded her head vigorously. “He had a bad turn, just after you left. And look at me, leaving you standing on the doorstep.” She opened the door wider and stepped back. “Please, do come in, my lord.”
“May I see him?” Sebastian asked, stepping into the shadowy hall.
“If you wish, my lord. But I don’t think he’ll recognize you. He doesn’t even seem to know Dr. Newman, and they’ve been friends these twenty years or more.”
She led the way up the stairs to a darkened bedroom lit only by a solitary lamp turned down low. The figure in the vast tester bed seemed shrunken, the wispy gray hair on his scalp damp with sweat, his eyes open but staring blankly.
“Reverend Thornton?” said Sebastian.
No answering gleam of recognition lit the man’s half-open eyes. As Sebastian watched, a pool of spittle spilled over the edge of the clergyman’s mouth to dribble down his chin. He made no movement to wipe it away.
“It’s terrible to see him like this,” said Mrs. Ross. “Such a brilliant man he was, so good and God-fearing.” The front-door knocker sounded again and she jerked away with a quick apology.
Left alone, Sebastian stepped closer to the bed’s edge. The rector continued to stare dumbly into space.
“What happened on that ship?” said Sebastian softly. “Hmm, my friend? It was something terrible, was it not? Did you try to stop it, I wonder, good, God-fearing man that you are? Or were you a willing participant?”
He became aware of voices on the stairs: Mrs. Ross’s high-pitched, anxious notes answered by Aaron Newman’s soothing words. A moment later, the physician entered the room alone.
“Any glimmer of recognition?” he asked Sebastian.
Sebastian shook his head. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since shortly after you left.” The doctor came to stand beside his patient. Drawing a handkerchief from his own pocket, he gently wiped the spittle from his old friend’s chin. “Mrs. Ross found him collapsed on his study floor.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No. Nothing.” The doctor glanced up. “I’m sorry if you were hoping to ask him any more questions.”
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the room. It was an old-fashioned chamber, with solid oak furniture and a couple of gently worn, tapestry-covered chairs drawn up to the empty fireplace. Beside one of the chairs sat a woman’s sewing basket and embroidery frame, as if their owner had only just put them down. “Has he ever spoken to you of what happened aboard the Harmony?” Sebastian asked, bringing his gaze back to the physician’s face.
“You mean on his voyage home from India?” The doctor drew a straight-backed chair closer to the bed and sat. “Very little. Why?”
“I think the events on the ship are linked in some way to the deaths of Nicholas Thornton and the others. Sir Humphrey Carmichael and Lord Stanton were also passengers on that voyage.”
“Good God.” Then the inevitable conclusion must have occurred to him, because the doctor’s eyes opened wide. “Surely you’re not suggesting that—” He broke off, unable to put the thought into words.
“We have no way of knowing,” said Sebastian. “But what was done to the victims’ bodies does seem to suggest that the killer, at least, has reason to believe that the survivors of the Harmony resorted to cannibalism to stay alive.”
The doctor’s gaze fell to the shrunken, vacantly staring man in the bed. “No. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing. You didn’t know him. How could a man who dedicated his life to God, who could quote Cicero and Seneca at length, who
was working on a new translation of the Confessions of St. Augustine—how could that man do something that violates one of the most basic tenets of our civilization?”
“Some men will do anything to stay alive.”
“Not this one,” said the doctor, one fist closing tightly around his old friend’s slack hand. “I don’t believe it.”
“Did he ever happen to mention the names of any of his shipmates, besides Carmichael and Stanton?”
Newman pursed his lips. “I believe there was another man and his wife. I seem to recall Mary Thornton mentioning them once or twice. A couple from somewhere up north.” He paused, thoughtful. “There was a spinster of a certain age and a younger gentleman who was with the East India Company. There may have been others, but I’m sorry, I couldn’t put a name to any of them.”
“It’s a start,” said Sebastian, turning toward the door.
The doctor stayed where he was, his gaze on the silent man in the bed. “If it’s true,” said Newman after a moment, “if the Reverend did do what you’re suggesting…he would see it as his fault, what happened to Nicholas. How could any father live with that kind of guilt?”
“Obviously he could not,” said Sebastian, and left the doctor there at the bedside of his dying friend.
Chapter 38
“Take extra-special care of them,” Sebastian said when he turned the tired chestnuts over to Tom several hours later. “The lad at the livery stable down in Avery was a ham-fisted idiot. Don’t let me go near that place without you again.”
Tom grinned and took the reins. “I’ll baby ’em, fer sure.”
“Any luck with Parker?”
“Aye. ’Is name’s Matt. Matt Parker. ’E works at the East India Company docks. Spends ’is evenings at a local called the ’Are and ’Ound, on the Ratcliffe Highway.”
Sebastian regarded his tiger with awe. “How ever did you find that out?”