by C. S. Harris
Sebastian kept the pressure on the cord. “Where were you early Monday morning? At, say, half past one?”
“I was here. In bed asleep.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, for once. Why?”
“Because that’s when Benji Thatcher’s killers were interrupted trying to bury the boy’s body in a field outside Clerkenwell.”
Kneebone clawed uselessly at the silken bond around his neck. “I tell you, I don’t know anything about some boy or girl named Thatcher, and I don’t kill children. I’ve never killed anyone!”
“So who would?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Who do you know who might do something like that?”
“I don’t know!”
“No? You must know others who share your interests.”
“No one who would kill.”
“No?”
“No!”
Sebastian released his grip on the silken cord and took a step back.
Kneebone whirled to face him. “Why, you—” The actor broke off, his eyes widening at the sight of the double-barreled pistol that had appeared in Sebastian’s hand. “Good God. You’re Devlin.”
“Yes. And I should probably have warned you that I can become very cranky when I’ve discovered people lied to me. Particularly when the subject is murder.”
“I haven’t lied about anything!”
“Let’s hope so. Because if I discover you have, I’ll be back.”
• • •
A restless wind was tossing the clouds overhead when Sebastian left Kneebone’s rooms and turned toward where he’d left his carriage on Bridges Street, near Drury Lane.
The crowds in the district had started to thin, but there were still enough people on the streets that he might not have paid attention to the man in the bottle green coat and round hat if Sebastian hadn’t noticed him before.
The man was quite ordinary, in his twenties, small and slim, with light brown hair and a thin face. But he looked enough like a long-dead corporal Sebastian had once known that he’d been struck by the resemblance when he’d passed the man earlier reading a playbill outside Covent Garden Theater.
Now walking at a moderate pace, Sebastian turned off Bedford Street into the lane that housed the bank of Miss Jane Austen’s brother, Henry.
The green-coated man fell in behind him.
Chapter 15
Sebastian continued up the lane, his footfalls echoing in the narrow space, the wind cool against his face. A gentleman’s carriage flashed past, its swaying lanterns throwing arcs of light across the looming facades of the surrounding buildings.
He was aware of the green-coated man staying some paces behind him. A young woman lingering in a nearby darkened doorway sidled up to pluck at Sebastian’s sleeve. She was flaxen haired and winsome and looked as if she had only recently arrived in London from the countryside. In her eyes lurked a shadow of desperation that was painful to see.
“Lookin’ fer fun, gov’nor?” she whined. “I’m willin’. Anythin’ ye wants. Anythin’.”
Sebastian shook his head and kept walking. He noticed she took one step toward the man who followed him and then backed away.
The lane emptied out into the southwestern corner of the vast open square that was home to Covent Garden Market. At this hour, the market stalls were shuttered and deserted except for the homeless children who sheltered here at night, their faces pale in the dim lamplight, eyes wide beneath matted hair as they watched Sebastian stride past. He picked up his pace.
His shadow did the same.
Sebastian slipped one hand into his pocket and found the smooth wooden grip of the flintlock. He’d almost reached the arched entrance to Tavistock Court when he swung about abruptly. “Who the devil are you and why have you been following me?” he demanded.
Startled, the green-coated man drew up so fast his feet slipped in the muck left from that morning’s market. For one moment his light brown eyes met Sebastian’s. Then he turned and ran.
Sebastian pelted after him.
They raced down Tavistock Row and skidded around the corner into Southampton Street. The man was nimble and fleet-footed, leaping over a stack of bricks and dodging a donkey cart as he darted across the street. A girl of no more than twelve dressed in a tawdry cut-down gown melted from a darkened doorway to croon, “Gov’nor . . .”
Green Coat grasped her by the shoulders and spun her around to fling her into Sebastian.
“Oye, what ye doin’ to me?” she wailed, then let out a frightened cry as she smacked into Sebastian. He lost precious seconds, first in steadying her, then in retrieving his purse from her quick, opportunistic fingers. He disentangled himself barely in time to see Green Coat disappear down Maiden Lane.
Bloody hell.
Sebastian tore around the corner after him and then drew up at the sight of the street stretching empty before him. He could see a dog nosing a pile of offal near the corner and a pig doing the same farther down the block. The rising wind banged a loose shutter overhead and flapped the tattered laundry left hanging on a line stretched from one window to the next. Sebastian stood very still, listening for the sound of running feet, his gaze drifting over the rows of dilapidated old houses rising from the footpaths on either side.
Nothing.
Once long ago, Maiden Lane had been a simple path running along the southern edge of the ancient convent garden that once stood here. In their prime, the houses built here after the Dissolution had been respectable. But now they were falling down, their once graceful gardens vanished beneath a warren of ramshackle hovels infilled behind them a century or more ago.
Pistol in hand, Sebastian’s gaze shifted to the black mouth of a noisome, rubbish-strewn passage that opened up to his left. Beyond it stretched a labyrinth of foul courts and wretched alleys that twisted between here and the Strand. A rat-infested refuge for whores and beggars, pickpockets and cutthroats, it had been known to simply swallow constables unwise enough to venture in after fleeing suspects.
A year ago Sebastian would have charged in there without hesitation. He even took one step, two, toward the beckoning shadows before drawing up short.
Then he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, turned, and went home to his wife and infant son.
• • •
“Who would set someone to follow you?” asked Hero.
Sebastian had arrived at Brook Street to find her walking back and forth across the nursery floor, a fussy, drooling, miserable Simon in her arms. The babe’s nursemaid, a Frenchwoman named Claire, was grabbing a few hours’ rest in anticipation of what was expected to be a long night.
Sebastian stood with his shoulders pressed against one wall, his gaze on his son’s chapped, tearstained face. “If I had to guess, I’d say the lovely Bligh sisters from Number Three.”
Hero glanced over at him. “Why would they want to follow you? To kill you?”
“It seems a somewhat radical response, but it’s certainly possible.” He watched Simon scrunch up his face and howl. “Are you certain there’s not something else wrong with him? Surely babies don’t always fret like this when they get their first teeth?”
“My mother tells me her two did. And Claire says the same.” Hero caught the rubber teething ring as it tumbled from Simon’s grasp and tried to interest him in it again. “You think Benji was lured to Number Three and murdered there?”
“Frankly, I wouldn’t put anything past that lot. Then again, the ‘gentleman’ in the cart could easily have been Kneebone. He claims he was home alone in his bed that night, but from the sounds of things that’s unusual for him.”
“And Ashworth?”
“Ashworth says he was with Amanda and Stephanie until two o’clock that morning, which is about as solid an alibi as he could have.”
“If it’s true.”
“If it’s true. I can find out easily enough tomorrow when I see Amanda.” He walked over to stand at the nursery window and stare out over the darkened rooftops and chimneys of the city. After a moment, he said, “I feel as if I’m floundering—flailing blindly. Normally I look for clues to a murder in the events of the victim’s life and in the lives of the people he knew. But what if Benji was simply snatched off the street at random? The killers could be anyone out there—anyone at all. And when I think about what is in all likelihood being done to Benji’s little sister right now, I want to put my fist through this window. I feel as if I ought to be out there doing something to find her—to save her. But I don’t even know where to begin.”
Hero came to stand beside him, Simon clasped in her arms. “You think these killers could have taken other street children in the past?”
“Jem Jones seems to think so.” He reached out to lift Simon from her and hold the fussing child close. “But how would we ever know?”
“What a troublesome thought.” She straightened the drooling bib around Simon’s neck and then shifted her gaze to stare as Sebastian had done at the wind-tossed streets below. “I’m considering writing my next article on the children who are left to fend for themselves when their mothers are transported to Botany Bay. I wonder if this Reverend Filby you mentioned would be willing to speak to me.”
“I should think so. You could also talk to Tom. Given the nature of this murder, I’m half-tempted to use Giles for the next few days, rather than the boy.”
“Tom wouldn’t like that.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Simon started crying again, and Sebastian bounced the babe up and down in his arms. “Poor little man,” he said softly. Then without looking up he said, “I went to see Kat tonight, to ask her about Kneebone.”
“You say that as if you fear it might upset me.”
He met her gaze then, and she smiled. “It doesn’t, you know. She’s Hendon’s natural daughter. Even if he can’t acknowledge her, she’ll always be a part of our family and a part of our lives. And I have no doubts about the depth of your love for me.”
He shifted Simon’s weight so he could reach out one hand and cup her cheek. “I can’t imagine my life without you and Simon in it.”
“I know,” she said—
Just as Simon spit up down the front of Sebastian’s white silk waistcoat, and they both laughed.
• • •
Some hours later, Hero came to stand at the entrance to the darkened library. The faint reddish glow of the dying fire showed her the sleeping cat curled up on the sofa and the man who stood nearby staring thoughtfully at something he held in his hands.
She said, “Is there a reason you’re lurking here in the dark? With a hat?”
Devlin balanced the hat on one finger and sent it into a spin. “Tell me: What do you see?”
Hero wrinkled her nose. “A very dirty and doubtless lice-ridden piece of headgear.”
“Not something a gentleman would wear, is it?”
“Not unless he has a habit of buying disguises at the secondhand clothing stalls of Rosemary Lane.”
“Huh. That’s one possibility I hadn’t considered. But given that the man Rory Inchbald saw driving the cart made no similar attempts at disguise, I’m willing to bet the youth digging Benji’s grave was simply wearing his own clothes.”
“In other words, he was no gentleman.” She came to sit beside the black cat, who looked at her through slitted green eyes and then pretended to go back to sleep. “Of course, just because Rory thought the man in the cart was a gentleman doesn’t mean he actually is one.”
“True. Except that according to Jem Jones, Benji and Sybil aren’t the first children to disappear in Clerkenwell, and word on the streets says ‘a gentleman’ is responsible.”
“Word on the streets is often wrong.”
“Yes. Although given that it reinforces Rory’s claim, I’m inclined to believe it’s true.”
The cat began to quietly purr, and she reached out to pet him. “So exactly what are you saying?”
Devlin tossed the hat aside. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been working on the disturbing assumption I’m looking for two killers: the man driving the cart plus his more youthful companion. But I think that’s wrong. I think there’s only one killer—the ‘gentleman’ Rory saw waiting in the cart. I think the boy digging the grave is simply his servant.”
“A servant? But . . . who trusts a servant enough to involve him in murder? And then drives off and abandons him? If the boy had been caught—”
“If the boy had been caught and then named someone such as Hector Kneebone or Lord Ashworth, who do you think would have believed him?”
“No one,” she conceded. The cat lifted his head, and she obliged by shifting to scratch beneath his chin. “It’s certainly less unsettling to think you’re looking for only one killer rather than two. And yet what sort of servant agrees to help bury his master’s murder victims?”
“Either one who is as depraved as his employer or . . .”
She looked up. “Or?”
“One who is very afraid.”
Chapter 16
“You obviously made too much noise,” said the gentleman, his eyes narrowed and dark beneath the brim of his fashionable top hat. “This is all your fault. You realize that, don’t you?”
The boy felt a spasm of panic that came dangerously close to loosening his bowels. “I didn’t know that one-legged cove was there!”
“You should have.”
When the boy remained silent, the gentleman said, “You’re certain nothing incriminating was left behind?”
“Incra—what?”
The gentleman expelled a harsh breath of exasperation. “Anything that might tell the authorities who you are.”
“Oh; no, sir. Nothing!” the boy said quickly. Too quickly. He had actually dropped both the shovel and his hat, but he had no intention of telling the gentleman that. Besides, it was just an ordinary shovel. And an old hat.
The gentleman said, “You’re certain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You went back to check?”
The boy hung his head.
“My God. I’m dealing with a fool.”
“I can go back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? And what would be the use of that? If you did leave any evidence, it’s been discovered already.”
The boy was crying now, sniveling like a small child. He scrubbed at his wet cheeks with a balled-up fist. “I didn’t leave nothing!”
His aristocratic features pinched with revulsion, the gentleman turned away. “Let us hope.”
Chapter 17
Shortly before midnight, with the house in Berkeley Square quiet around him, Jarvis received Major Edward Burnside’s report on Sinclair Pugh.
After the major had gone, Jarvis remained seated at his desk in the library, the fingers of one hand tapping on the intricately enameled cover of his snuffbox, his thoughts turning over all he had been told.
He was still faintly smiling when the door opened and his wife’s young cousin, Mrs. Victoria Hart-Davis, entered the room. She carried a small volume bound in blue leather in one hand and drew up in surprise at the sight of him.
“Oh, my lord; I do beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I only came to exchange my book for another.”
She would have turned away, but he pushed up to come around from behind his desk, saying, “Please; don’t go. I’m delighted to know you’ve been making use of my library. What have you been reading?”
“The first volume of Euripides’s plays. I thought I might begin the second.”
Jarvis was aware of a flicker of interest. The edition she had selected was not a translation. He said, “You read ancient Greek?”
She had a way of smili
ng with her eyes that made a man think of clear blue skies and bluebells blooming beside a mountain stream. “Not as well as I’d like, but I can stumble through it. My father taught me.” She hesitated, then said, “Have you received new dispatches from Spain?”
“What? Oh, no. Merely a report on a very foolish man who thinks he can stand in the way of history.”
“Sounds like someone who needs to be removed.”
“I’m working on it,” said Jarvis, and was delighted to see a leap of understanding mingled with amusement in the depths of those deceptively soft blue eyes.
Chapter 18
Wednesday, 15 September
The following morning, Sebastian sent word to the stables to have Giles bring around his curricle. But when he walked out of the house some minutes later, it was to find Tom waiting with the curricle and pair at the kerb.
“I was under the impression I had asked that Giles be the one to bring the curricle around today,” said Sebastian, leaping up into the high seat.
“Did ye? I reckon we didn’t know that.” Tom swallowed hard and stared straight ahead. “Is yer lordship peeved at me fer somethin’?”
“No. It’s just—” Sebastian broke off as he thought about trying to explain his reasons to the boy. “Never mind.”
He was gathering the reins when a gentlewoman’s barouche and team of blood bays swept around the corner and drew up facing them.
“That looks like Lady Wilcox’s rig,” said Tom, eying the crest emblazoned on the barouche’s panel.
“And so it is.” Sebastian handed the reins to Tom and hopped down again. “I suspect I shan’t be long.”
Her ladyship’s liveried footman was still scrambling to let down the steps when Sebastian walked up to the carriage. “Dear Amanda,” he said as his tall, golden-haired sister appeared in the open doorway.
Amanda, Lady Wilcox, was Hendon’s firstborn child, twelve years Sebastian’s senior and a widow now for two and a half years. She had inherited their errant mother’s slim build and graceful carriage, along with Hendon’s somewhat heavy facial features. Her nasty disposition was all her own.