by C. S. Harris
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Sebastian asked, extending his hand to help her alight.
She acknowledged neither his hand nor his greeting, but simply swept past him and up the short flight of steps to where Morey was already opening the front door with a bow.
She managed to contain her fury while Sebastian followed her into the library, but he was still closing the paneled door when she exploded. “Are you doing this out of spite? Or have you finally gone absolutely stark raving mad?”
The big, long-haired black cat that had been sleeping on the hearth sat up with a startled yowl.
“You’ve frightened Mr. Darcy,” said Sebastian.
“Whom?”
“The cat.”
Amanda frowned at the hearth. “I hate cats.”
“Of course you do.” He finished closing the door and turned to face her. “As to your question, I’ve recently come to the conclusion all of us are at least slightly mad, each in our own way. But why do you ask?”
“Don’t play the fool with me. As if it weren’t embarrassing enough, the way you’ve been skulking about London for the better part of three years now, investigating murders like some common, grubby little Bow Street Runner. But this time! This time, you’ve gone too far.”
He studied her tight, angry face. “May I offer you some tea? Or would you prefer something stronger? It is a little early for brandy, but perhaps a glass of—”
“I am not here to drink tea.” She yanked off first one glove, then the other. “What could you possibly be thinking? For the love of God! To accuse Viscount Ashworth of all people—the son and heir of the Marquis of Lindley—of murder? Murder!”
“Don’t forget I also accused him of torture and sodomy. Or did he leave that part out?”
Two ugly white lines appeared to bracket her thinned lips. “No, he did not.”
Sebastian went to lean his hips against his desk, his arms crossed at his chest. “How can you be so certain Ashworth isn’t guilty?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He was with Stephanie and me last Sunday night until well past two—as he told you.”
“So he did.” Sebastian let his hands fall to his sides again. “Ashworth may be innocent of this, Amanda, but he will not make Stephanie a good husband. I’ve seen him drop ten thousand pounds in one night at the gaming tables and beat a man who looked at him wrong half to death with his walking stick. But what disturbs me more than anything is the discovery that he likes to frequent a nasty little establishment in Pickering Place where wealthy, dissolute men can pay to whip and otherwise abuse young girls and boys—some no more than children.”
Amanda stood with her gloves clenched in one fist, her spine painfully straight and her head thrown back. “I don’t believe you.”
He pushed away from the desk. “Believe it, Amanda. You can’t let Stephanie marry him.”
“Why are you doing this? Are you driven by envy? Is that it? Does the thought that my grandson will someday outrank you fester your soul and curdle your blood?”
He couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing out loud. “Oh, Amanda; not everyone is like you.”
Her face had turned blotchy now, cold white patches mixing with splotches of purple rage. “I could destroy you,” she said, her jaw held so tight she was practically spitting out the words. “I may not be able to prevent you from becoming the Earl of Hendon, but I could make certain the entire world knows that exalted position will not be yours by right.”
Sebastian found he’d lost all desire to laugh. “Tread carefully, Sister; truth is a dangerous weapon that more than one can wield. Or have you forgotten why Bayard and Stephanie’s father died?”
She drew in her breath with a hiss. “You would do that?”
“No. But Hendon would. And we both know it.”
For one glacial moment, half brother and sister stared at each other.
Then Sebastian said, “Speaking of Bayard, where was my decidedly troubled nephew last Monday morning at, say, half past one? Do you know?”
She strode past him to the library door. “I will not stay and listen to this nonsense.”
“Where was he, Amanda?”
She jerked open the door, then paused to look back at him, her chest heaving with the agitation of her breathing. “As it happens, Bayard is visiting the Highlands with friends—and has been these past two weeks and more. You may ask Hendon if you don’t believe me.”
“That must be a relief for you. Now you need only worry about your future son-in-law.”
“I hope you burn in hell for all eternity.”
And with that she whisked herself from the room and slammed the door behind her.
Sebastian glanced over at the black cat that now sat regarding him with unblinking green eyes. “Somehow, I suspect that’s not precisely the effect Hendon had in mind when he asked me to speak to Amanda,” he told the cat. “Perhaps I should have tried a different approach. What do you think?”
But the cat simply yawned, arched into a stretch, and lay down again.
• • •
“What we doin’ back ’ere?” asked Tom as Sebastian reined in beside the broken wall that surrounded the shot factory.
Sebastian handed the boy the reins. “I want to take another look around—and perhaps talk to that one-legged soldier again while I’m at it.”
Tom sniffed. “Oh.”
Hiding a smile, Sebastian dropped lightly to the ground.
The smile faded as his gaze drifted over the ruined, ivy-draped buildings and nettle-choked wasteland that had come close to being Benji Thatcher’s final resting place. And he found himself thinking, Why here? Why out of all the shadowy copses and deserted fields on the outskirts of London had Benji’s killer chosen to bury him here?
Conscious of a trio of silent crows watching him from atop the shot tower, Sebastian picked his way across the uneven ground. The day was becoming increasingly overcast, with a brisk wind out of the northeast that swayed the high weeds and flapped a loose shutter somewhere in the distance.
He found the place where the young servant of Benji’s killer had dug his grave, but in the last twenty-four hours someone had filled it in again and carried away the shovel. All that remained was a suggestive rectangle of mounded bare earth that would soon flatten and disappear beneath a tangle of knotweed and thistle.
Sebastian kept walking, toward the tumbledown brick warehouse where he’d first seen Rory Inchbald. He’d almost reached the gaping doorway when a skinny, ragged boy who looked maybe thirteen or fourteen appeared in the opening. At the sight of Sebastian, the lad faltered for an instant, face slack with surprise. Then he took off running.
Chapter 19
Sebastian snagged the boy’s elbow as he passed, spinning him around to grasp him by both arms.
“Let me go!” The boy twisted this way and that, yanking against Sebastian’s hold and kicking out with badly shod feet.
“Ouch. Bloody hell,” said Sebastian when one kick caught his shin. “Stop that. I have no intention of letting you go even if it means I must sit on you. But I warn you, Calhoun will not be happy if you force me to get grass stains on my breeches.”
That startled the boy enough that he quit struggling, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he stared blankly at Sebastian. “Calhoun? Who’s Calhoun?”
“My valet.”
The boy shook his head, not understanding. “Who are you? And what do you want with me?”
“My name is Devlin, and I simply want to ask you some questions. Why were you running from me?”
“How’m I to know you just want to talk? Maybe you want to do to me what was done to Benji.”
“Rest assured, I do not. What’s your name?”
“Toby.” The boy drew in a quick gasp of air. “Toby Dancing.”
“The one they call the Dancer?
”
Toby the Dancer nodded, eyes wide with apprehension.
On closer inspection, the boy appeared older, probably more like fifteen or sixteen. He was a good-looking lad, with rich, tawny hair, well-formed features, and large, luminous green eyes alight with a wily kind of intelligence. Sebastian said, “If I let you go, do you promise not to run?”
The boy nodded again. Sebastian let him go, although he was ready to catch the lad again if he tried to bolt. He did not.
“What are you doing here?” Sebastian asked.
Toby swiped the sleeve of one arm across his sweaty forehead. “I heard this is where they found Benji. So I’ve been looking around, thinking maybe I might come across something to tell me what happened to Sybil.”
“And did you find anything?”
The boy shook his head.
Sebastian said, “I understand you were with Benji last Friday evening, down in Hockley-in-the-Hole.”
“Wh—who told you that?”
“I don’t recall precisely,” lied Sebastian. “Is it true?”
Toby started to shake his head again, then changed his mind and gave a quick, frightened nod.
Sebastian said, “What time was this?”
The boy tugged at the kerchief knotted around his neck as if it suddenly felt too tight. “Musta been about five, maybe? We were gonna go out to Sadler’s Wells, to try and sneak in and watch the show. You ever seen it?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“You should. It’s ever so grand, with boats and horses and whatnot. But the thing is, you see, Benji, he says he’s got this job he’s gotta do first, so he lopes off, saying he’s gonna meet me out there. Only, he never shows up.”
“What time was he supposed to meet you?” asked Sebastian, his voice so sharp the boy took a step back in alarm.
“When it got dark.”
“What did he tell you about this ‘job’ he had to do?”
“He didn’t tell me nothing.”
Sebastian studied the boy’s even features. “When you saw Benji in Hockley-in-the-Hole, was his sister with him?”
“Sybil? No, sir. Why?”
“She’s still missing, isn’t she?”
“Why else you think I’m looking for her?”
“Would she have gone with Benji to this job?”
“Maybe. I dunno.”
“And what sort of ‘job’ is it likely we’re talking about?”
“Could’ve been most anything, I guess.”
“Did he tell you anything about the person who was hiring him?”
“No, sir.” A new spasm of panic flared in the boy’s eyes. “You won’t say nothing to anybody about what I told you, will you?”
“Why? What are you afraid of?”
“What if whoever killed Benji thinks I know who he is and comes after me?”
“Do you know who he is?”
“No!”
Sebastian wasn’t convinced the boy was being entirely truthful, but he let it go. “Who do you think killed Benji?”
The boy started to sidle away. “I don’t know! How would I know?”
Sebastian put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Do you know any other street children who have disappeared from around here in the past?”
Toby stared at him. “Lads come and go hereabouts all the time. But I ain’t never heard of nothing like what happened to Benji.”
“What about a boy named Mick Swallow? I’m told he disappeared last year.”
“I didn’t know Mick real good.”
Sebastian glanced at the silent warehouse beside them. “There’s a one-legged soldier who typically sleeps here. Have you seen him?”
“Today? No, sir. He’s probably out begging.”
“Do you know if Benji was acquainted with a gentleman?”
The shift in topic appeared to take the boy by surprise. “A gentleman?”
“That’s right.”
“Well . . . he did hang ’round the Reverend Filby more’n most, and he’s a gentleman, ain’t he?”
“He is indeed. Anyone else?”
The Dancer screwed up his face in thought. “I suppose the Professor was a gentleman, once. But he ain’t no more.”
“The Professor?”
“His real handle’s Icarus Cantrell, but everybody calls him the Professor, on account of the shop he keeps over by St. John’s Gate.”
“What sort of shop are we talking about?”
“It’s called the Professor’s Attic. He sells all sorts of stuff in there. You know—pocket watches and handkerchiefs and such.”
“In other words, he was Benji’s fence.”
Toby sucked in another of those quick, frightened breaths. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, you didn’t. What about Mick Swallow? Was Icarus Cantrell his fence too?
Rather than answer, the Dancer yanked his arm from Sebastian’s grasp and took off running across the rubbish-strewn field.
This time, Sebastian let him go.
• • •
The secondhand shop known as the Professor’s Attic occupied the ground floor of an old, two-story sandstone house built up against an ancient stone gateway. Once the gateway had led to the vanished community of the Knights Hospitaller of St. John of Jerusalem, but most of that vast, sprawling monastery had disappeared long ago.
An aged, bandy-legged fellow sat perched on a stool just inside the shop’s open front door, knitting what looked like a woolen scarf by the fitful sunlight streaming in. He wore a suit of maroon velvet that must have been the height of fashion when it was made sometime in the previous century. A cascade of Brussels lace of the same vintage tumbled down the front of his shirt, more lace frothed at his cuffs, and he had a powdered wig perched like a nightcap atop his head.
He looked up when Sebastian stepped into the crowded, low-ceilinged shop, but his clicking needles never missed a beat. “Lost your way, have you?”
Sebastian let his gaze drift over the shop’s strange medley of merchandise, everything from massive pieces of dark Tudor furniture to delicate Sevres plates and a clutch of dusty old peacock feathers. “I don’t believe so. Are you Icarus Cantrell?”
The old man peered at him over the tops of gold-rimmed spectacles he wore perched on the end of his nose. “And what would the likes of you be wanting with the likes of me?” In age, he could have been anywhere between fifty-five and seventy-five. His face was weathered dark by obviously prolonged exposure to a hot sun, but his diction was as clear and precise as that of any Oxford don.
Sebastian said, “I understand you were Benji Thatcher’s fence.”
“His fence?” The old man gave a pained sigh. “I fear it’s one of the hazards of running an establishment of this nature: People always assume you come by your merchandise illegally. As it happens, I do not.”
Sebastian removed a card from his pocket and laid it atop the beautifully carved Renaissance chest at the man’s elbow. “To be clear, I’m not concerned with the legality of your merchandise. I’m here because I intend to find whoever killed Benji Thatcher and probably his sister, too. I give you my word as a gentleman that anything you tell me will go no farther.”
Cantrell glanced at the card and kept knitting. “Huh. Didn’t think you had much the look of a Bow Street Runner.”
“Thank you.”
The man’s lips quirked into a smile that quickly faded. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what happened to Benji, so I’m afraid you’re wasting your time with me.”
Sebastian wandered the overstuffed shop, taking in the piles of rusting firedogs, the glass case jammed with snuffboxes, watches, delicate bracelets, and old-fashioned brooches. Through a low door at the rear he could see another room that looked like a small kitchen, with a narrow, steep staircase that led up to the floor above. �
�But you did know him.”
“It would be folly for me to claim I did not, given that he has no doubt been seen coming in and out the premises on more than one occasion.”
“Selling things he stole?”
“Selling things he found.”
“Or so he claimed.”
The old man shrugged and kept knitting. “I always ask. And I keep meticulous records and pay a fair price for what I buy. That’s all the law requires.”
Sebastian said, “When was the last time you saw Benji?”
The Professor looked thoughtful. “Couldn’t say precisely. Must have been last week sometime—Wednesday or Thursday, perhaps? He brought me a lovely silk handkerchief he chanced to find lying in St. James’s churchyard.”
Sebastian paused beside a display of neatly laundered silk handkerchiefs in a variety of sizes and colors, each with any identifying marks carefully removed. “You have quite a collection for sale.”
“Yes; we do a brisk trade in them. Seems people are always dropping their pocket handkerchiefs.”
Sebastian continued his perambulations of the shop. “Who do you think killed Benji?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea.”
“No? Did you know that whoever killed the boy held him for more than two days before strangling him? And that during that time, Benji was tortured with a whip and small knife as well as repeatedly raped?” Sebastian turned to look back at the old man. “Who do you think would do something like that?”
The Professor’s needles had stilled. “You don’t want to know who I suspect did it.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”
He folded his knitting with hands that were no longer steady and set it aside. “What if I told you the man you seek is a cousin of the King? Would you still want to know his name?”
Sebastian met the old man’s dark, intense gaze. “Yes.”
“You think so? And if I told you he’s likewise cousin to Lord Jarvis—and by extension to your lady wife? Still interested?”
Sebastian kept his gaze on the old man’s face. “Whom are we talking about?”
“Sir Francis Rowe.”