Why Mermaids Sing: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

by C. S. Harris

  “I could come with you,” Tom said. He had to trot to keep up as Sebastian crossed the gardens toward the stables, jerking on his leather riding gloves as he went. “You could send Giles with the message and—”

  “No. This man is a killer. I want you well away from him. You deliver the message to Sir Henry, and then you await me here. That’s an order.” Sebastian gathered the black’s reins, but paused to give the boy a hard look. “Do you understand me?”

  Tom’s shoulders slumped. “Aye, gov’nor.”

  Sebastian settled into his saddle and felt the mare tremble beneath him, as if she could sense his urgency and was eager to be off. But he held her in check long enough to lean down and say to Tom, “Disobey me in this, and I swear to God, I’ll take it out of your hide.” Then he tightened his knees to send the Arab thundering down the mews.

  The rain began in earnest just after Sebastian clattered across the bridge into Blackfriars Road. This was a mean part of London, the streets narrow and unpaved and filled with clutches of ragged, hollow-eyed children and crippled beggars who forced Sebastian to hold the Arab in until he was well past Greenwich Road. By the time he reached Blackheath, the rain had become a steady, wind-driven torrent that stung his cheeks and ran down the back of his neck and rapidly turned the pike into a dangerous quagmire.

  How many hours had passed since Anthony Atkinson’s abduction? he wondered, pushing on. Four? Five? A part of him acknowledged that the boy might already be dead. But he clung to the hope that Anthony might yet live. It couldn’t be easy for a man dedicated to saving lives to steel himself to the brutal murder of a child.

  It struck Sebastian as ironic, how a single, easily overlooked piece of information could provide a solution if one simply shifted his perspective and considered it from a different angle. He’d wondered how the killer had learned the details of the Harmony’s ordeal, yet he’d given little thought to Reverend Thornton’s wife, who must have faced her coming death last Christmas weighed down by the onerous guilt upon her soul. From where could she have sought absolution for the sins of murder and cannibalism? Not from the rector her husband, whose guilt was as great as her own. And so she must have chosen to unburden herself to her dear family friend and physician, Dr. Aaron Newman, never imagining that the man to whom she’d confided her terrible secret was actually the dead boy’s natural father.

  Yet even armed with the truth of what had happened to Gideon Forbes and David Jarvis, Newman must have known himself to be at point non plus. It had been impossible for him to move against the Harmony’s survivors in a court of law; even if the ship’s passengers hadn’t included some of the most powerful men in the Kingdom, Newman had no proof of what had occurred on that ship beyond a dying woman’s testimony given without other witnesses. And so he had decided to wreak his own terrible form of revenge, killing not his son’s murderers, but their sons.

  Thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning. And if an ox have gored a son or have gored a daughter, according to this judgment shall it be done onto him… How much suffering and death had been wrought upon the world, Sebastian wondered, by a literal interpretation of that ancient biblical passage? Wrapping the folds of his cloak around him, he kneed the mare on ever faster through the pounding rain.

  He noticed the two horsemen at the first toll. They rode up, hats pulled low, collars turned against the wind and rain just as Sebastian was passing through the gate. One of them, a tall man with a broken nose, reached down to hand their toll to the gatekeeper. He glanced up, his gaze catching Sebastian’s eye just as Sebastian set his spurs to the mare’s flanks.

  After that, he was aware of them behind him, two rough-coated men riding as hard as he. Any men out on such a day would be riding hard. But when Sebastian deliberately slowed his pace at a small hamlet, the men dropped back.

  Bloody hell. He suppressed the urge to whirl and confront them. He didn’t have time for this.

  He drove the mare on faster. He could feel her dainty hooves slipping in the soupy churned mud of the road. Rain slid in cold rivulets down his cheeks, ran into his eyes. He was shaking his head, trying to clear them, when the mare stumbled.

  She pitched forward with a frightened squeal. He just managed to kick his feet free of the stirrups before she went down and rolled. His back slammed against the ground hard enough to drive the wind from his body, leaving him gasping in agony.

  He was aware of the sounds of the mare scrambling to her feet, but he couldn’t move. Rain beat against his face, ran into his open mouth as he fought to draw the breath back into his aching chest. Floundering in the mud, he managed to prop himself up on one elbow. He opened his eyes just in time to see the muddy sole of a man’s boot driving toward his face. Then all was black.

  Chapter 60

  He awoke to pain and the mists of confusion. The confusion lifted slowly. He remembered the mare stumbling, the sound of boots in the mud, an explosion of pain in his face. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel more blood mingling with mud and rain. Then he realized the pain in his jaw came not only from that kick, but also from the gag that pried his lips apart, making it difficult to swallow.

  Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He lay on his back, his hands twisted awkwardly beneath him and tied at the wrist. His ankles were tied, too, and suspended oddly in the air. Squinting against the rain, he saw that someone had taken one end of the rope that bound his ankles and looped it over an oak branch that stretched above him. He remembered the way Barclay Carmichael had been found butchered and hanging upside down from a mulberry tree in St. James’s Park, and knew a rush of raw fear.

  His hat and cloak were both gone, along with the reassuring weight of the pistol he’d slipped into his coat pocket. He’d obviously been dragged away from the road, for he was now in a clearing of what looked like a thick stand of oaks. The smell of wet grass, dirt, and leaves was strong. He could hear the rain still pounding on the leaves overhead, but the canopy sheltered him from the worst of the downpour.

  Shifting his head slowly so as not to attract attention, he scanned the small clearing. He could see only one man; a small, thin man with overlong blond hair who leaned against the trunk of a tree some twenty-five feet away. Beyond him, Sebastian could see his own black Arab and one other horse, a big bay.

  There had been two men following him, Sebastian remembered. The second man must have ridden away, either for reinforcements or to notify whoever had hired them. The man leaning against the tree had the air of someone waiting.

  Sebastian studied his guard more closely. He stood with one knee bent, the sole of his boot propped against the trunk behind him, his hat pulled low on his forehead against the rain. He looked young, very young, his clothes rough. Rougher than those of the killer who had attacked Sebastian on the hoy, more like those of the men who had broken into Kat’s house Friday night.

  A sudden wave of nausea roiled Sebastian’s stomach, so that he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. But he knew he needed to make his move now, before anyone else returned. His breath coming shallow and quick, Sebastian opened his eyes and squinted up at his feet.

  They might have found his pistol, but it had evidently never occurred to the men who had bound and gagged and tethered him by his ankles to a tree that a nobleman might be carrying a knife in his boot; he could still feel the subtle pressure of that small, deadly blade against his calf. The hard part would be getting the knife out without attracting his guard’s attention.

  Moving slowly, Sebastian straightened his legs as much as possible and locked his knees while shifting his weight subtly to the right. The sheath was well oiled, and he was hoping gravity alone might be enough to loosen the knife.

  It wasn’t.

  He threw a quick glance at the man leaning against the tree. He hadn’t moved. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian gave a series of short, sharp kicks upward with his right heel. The knife slipped out of its sheath to land with a soft t
hump in the wet leaf litter beside his hip.

  By lifting his hips in the air, Sebastian was able to shift his bound arms over far enough to close his fingers around the handle of the knife. He reversed the blade, angling it carefully toward the rope that bound his wrists. The point nicked the pad of his palm and he swore silently to himself. Then he felt the blade bite into the rope.

  It wasn’t easy, holding his hips in the air, balancing his weight on his shoulders while sawing blindly. Rain pattered on his face, ran into his eyes. Twice the knife slipped, slicing into his wrists. He could feel the blood slippery on his hands, on the knife.

  He became aware of a vibration in the wet earth beneath him: horses’ hooves coming fast from somewhere off to the left where the road must lie. He willed them to keep going. They slowed.

  The man beside the tree hunched his shoulders against the rain, his head still bowed as if he were oblivious to the sounds of approach. Sebastian felt the last of the rope give way beneath his blade just as a man’s shout cut through the dripping woods. The hireling beside the tree lifted his head and glanced back at Sebastian. Sebastian lay perfectly still, his hands twisted out of sight beneath him, the knife clutched in one blood-slicked fist.

  Lord Stanton rode into the clearing, mounted on a fine gray and flanked by two coarsely dressed men. “Is he alive?” Stanton demanded.

  The blond-headed hireling pushed away from the tree and went to hold the Baron’s horse. “Last I looked.”

  Stanton grunted and swung down from the saddle. Sebastian looked beyond him to the other two men. One—the tall, thin-framed man with a broken nose—he recognized from the tollgate. The man helping the blond youth with the horses was the survivor from Friday night’s assault on Harwich Street.

  His boots crunching a litter of twigs and wet leaves, Stanton halted in the center of the clearing, his gaze on Sebastian’s face. “So. You’re still alive.”

  Sebastian blinked, his mouth held rigid by the gag.

  The Baron swiped one forearm across his wet face. “You have no one but yourself to blame for this situation. Indeed, I went out of my way to discourage your involvement. I feared all along it would come to this.”

  Sebastian stared up into the Baron’s pale, fleshy face and marveled at the man’s capacity for self-deception. If Sebastian had been less agile or his hearing less acute, it would have come to this in the dead of the night on Harwich Street, or before, on the hoy on the Thames.

  “Have you succeeded, then?” Stanton asked. “Do you know who killed my son?”

  His eyes wide, his grip on the knife handle behind his back tightening, Sebastian nodded.

  Stanton motioned to the tall, thin-framed man with the broken nose. “Take the gag out of his mouth so he can talk.”

  Sebastian waited, tense and ready, while the man came to crouch down beside him.

  “Lift yer ’ead so’s I can get at the knot,” he ordered.

  Sebastian obligingly raised his head. He waited until the man was fully occupied picking at the knot; then Sebastian moved.

  Tilting his hips up so that his shoulders took all his weight, Sebastian grabbed a fistful of the man’s coat with one hand, holding him steady while he drove the knife deep into the man’s chest.

  The man convulsed, pale eyes widening with shock. But Sebastian was already jerking the dagger out of the man’s chest. Holding the hireling’s body like a shield, Sebastian jackknifed up and hacked desperately at the rope binding his ankles.

  “What is he doing?” he heard Stanton bellow. “Don’t just stand there, you fools. Stop him.”

  The young yellow-haired man reached Sebastian just as the knife freed his ankles. “Oye! What the—”

  Sebastian twisted so that his falling feet came down against the side of the man’s head with a solid thwunk. The man staggered to his knees.

  Sebastian hit the sodden ground in a roll and came up onto his feet at a run. With Stanton and the third hireling between Sebastian and the horses, he had no choice but to plunge downhill, away from them. He felt a stinging slice across his upper arm the instant before he heard the boom of a pistol reverberate through the forest.

  Bloody hell. The smooth leather soles of his riding boots slipping and skidding in the wet leaf mold, Sebastian zigzagged through gnarled old oak trees, one hand clamped against his bleeding arm.

  “You, Horn,” he heard Stanton shout, “stay with the horses in case he tries to circle back. Burke, come with me.”

  Wet branches slapped Sebastian in the face. His coat caught on a hawthorn and he breathed another quick oath, ripping it free. Given enough time, he had no doubt he could outrun Stanton and his men, but time was the one thing Sebastian didn’t have.

  He scanned the trees ahead, swerving toward an ancient oak with stout branches arching low to the ground. Slipping his knife back into its sheath, he was reaching for the lowest branch when his gaze fell on the tumble of stones lying half hidden in the leaf litter at the tree’s roots. He hesitated, then swooped to select a particularly lethal-looking chunk with jagged edges. He hefted it for a moment, testing its weight. Then he scrambled into the tree.

  Chapter 61

  Sebastian found his left arm unexpectedly weak, so he made more noise than he would have liked climbing into the ancient oak. Crouching on the lowest branch, he rested his back against the rough trunk, his breath coming hard and fast.

  From some distance to his right came Stanton’s voice. “Devlin? You might as well give yourself up and stop this foolishness. You don’t have a chance. There are still three of us.”

  Sebastian could see them now, Stanton and his man Burke. They were keeping close together, and they were going the wrong way, cutting along the side of the hill. For a moment Sebastian considered simply staying where he was. Except he knew that if they gave up and left, they would take his horse with them.

  Casting a critical eye over the oak’s nearest boughs, he found a small, half-dead branch and leaned his weight against it until it broke off in his hand with a crack that echoed through the forest.

  Stanton drew up, his gaze darting first one way, then the other. “It’s him.” He held the flintlock close, one finger curled around the trigger. Sebastian doubted Stanton had taken the time to reload, but it was a double-barreled pistol, which meant he still had one shot left. “Where did that come from?”

  Sebastian knew a grim kind of amusement. The Baron’s combination of arrogance and incompetence might have been comical, except there was nothing funny about a man who could kill and eat a young boy, or whose attempt to cover up his ugly past had already caused the death of his own child.

  Balancing carefully on his limb, Sebastian opened his hand and let the branch fall. It hit the rocks below with a clatter.

  “There.” The man named Burke swung around. “He’s over there.”

  Like hounds following the scent of a fox, the two men swept across the hillside, their gazes hard on the undergrowth of hawthorn and holly. They never thought to look up.

  “I don’t see him.” Burke paused almost directly beneath Sebastian, his gaze searching the rainy hillside. “Where is he?”

  “My shot clipped him.” Stanton crouched down to touch the leaf litter beneath the tree with one splayed hand. “Look. There’s blood. He must be—”

  Slipping the handle of his knife between his clenched teeth, Sebastian gripped the rock with both hands and dropped straight down on the henchman, his full weight smashing the rock onto the man’s head.

  The man collapsed beneath him, then lay utterly still.

  Stanton backed away, the pistol clutched in a two-handed grip, his mouth going slack with shock. “My God. You smashed his head in.”

  Wordlessly, Sebastian slipped the knife from his teeth and held it loosely in his right hand.

  Stanton extended the pistol, his elbows locked. But he was shaking so badly the gun barrel waved wildly. “Stay back. I’ll shoot. You know I will.”

  Sebastian’s lips pulled into
a tight smile. “You have only one shot left. What if you miss?”

  The Baron’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. The finger on the trigger twitched. Sebastian flipped the knife so that he held the blade between his thumb and forefinger, his gaze on the other man’s eyes.

  He thought for a moment Stanton meant to put the pistol up. Then a wild kind of determination flared in the man’s eyes. Sebastian sent the knife whistling through the air just as Stanton squeezed the trigger.

  The shot went wide, but Sebastian’s blade caught the big man in the throat. Blood spurted from the wound, spilled from both corners of his open mouth in dark rivulets. His legs buckled beneath him, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Sebastian surged to his feet. He could feel the sleeve of his coat wet and heavy against his arm and realized suddenly it wasn’t just wet from the rain. He was losing more blood than he’d first realized.

  Staggering slightly, he walked to where Stanton lay. Blood still pulsed from the man’s throat, but it was slowing. Reaching down, Sebastian loosed the Baron’s grip on the pistol and thrust it into the waistband of his own breeches. The gun was empty now, and a thorough search of Stanton’s coat failed to turn up the powder and shot required to reload. But there were times when even an empty pistol had its uses. He searched both men for his own small flintlock, as well, but did not find it. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian retrieved his knife. He might need it again.

  Leaning against the tree trunk, he yanked off his cravat and used it to bind up his arm as best he could. He stayed for a moment, trying to calm his roiling stomach and clear his head. Then he headed up the hill toward his black mare and the young blond man Stanton had called Horn.