Who Slays the Wicked (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery Book 14)

by C. S. Harris

  A constable could be heard near the entrance barking, “Make way! Make way there!” as the coroner tried to push into the overcrowded public room.

  Sebastian said, “I don’t think they suspect her, exactly. But you must see that they feel the need to investigate every angle, no matter how delicate.”

  “I suppose, yes. But it’s hard on the poor girl. She has enough to bear without Bow Street Runners throwing her abigail into hysterics.”

  “When were they there?”

  “This morning, right before I left to come here. Something about a bundle of clothes some wherryman fished from the Thames.”

  * * *

  Sebastian had expected the inquest to also cover the death of Edward Digby. But the coroner—a wispy, white-haired former reverend named Lamar Liddell—had declined to save the purses of the parish ratepayers by doubling up. It wasn’t often a coroner was given the opportunity to preside over the murder of a viscount, and Sebastian suspected Liddell didn’t want some mere valet distracting from the importance of the event.

  But apart from the silent, inescapable presence of Ashworth’s mutilated, bloody corpse, the inquest was something of a disappointment for those who’d crowded into the public room to enjoy it. The coroner’s voice was so breathy and soft that he was difficult for many to hear. The most potentially interesting testimony came from Lovejoy, but the Bow Street magistrate did his best to deliver his evidence in dry, unsensational periods. His lordship’s butler, Fullerton, could only explain apologetically that he’d slept through both the murder and the discovery of the body, and was quickly dismissed. Alice, the housemaid who’d first walked in on the blood-splashed murder scene, was weeping so hysterically that her testimony was virtually incoherent. And the second housemaid, Jenny Crutcher, wasn’t there at all, since no one had been able to locate her in order to serve her with a summons.

  “Havey-cavey thing to do,” muttered the coroner when told of the woman’s absence. “Going off like that right after a murder.”

  Sebastian glanced over at Lovejoy, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Lovejoy had assigned two of his Runners to track down the housemaid as soon as they discovered she’d bolted. At first, they’d been inclined to ascribe her hasty departure to nerves. But the discovery of Edward Digby’s naked, bloody corpse raised the ominous possibility that Jenny Crutcher might somehow have been involved in Ashworth’s death, or that she at least knew something.

  Something that had put her life in danger.

  * * *

  The coroner’s jury returned a verdict of bloody murder by person or persons unknown. Afterward, Sebastian sat with Lovejoy in a coffeehouse off Piccadilly. The day was wretchedly gloomy, with a heavy cover of thick gray clouds and endless, drizzling rain.

  “The palace is not going to be happy,” said Lovejoy, sipping cautiously at his hot chocolate. “They want someone arrested and remanded for trial. Quickly.”

  Sebastian wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “Any luck finding a modista able to identify the bloodstained clothes recovered from the Thames?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Lovejoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “One of my lads, Constable Gowdy, took the clothes ’round to Lindley House this morning and asked Lady Ashworth’s abigail if she could identify them. Pushed the girl rather hard, from what I understand. You’ll be relieved to hear she denied they belonged to her mistress.”

  “But?” said Sebastian, watching his friend’s face.

  “Constable Gowdy says he doesn’t believe her. He’s convinced the abigail was lying.” Lovejoy paused, then continued, his voice low. “I hesitate to even suggest it, but might Her Ladyship be capable of doing such a thing, do you think?”

  Sebastian took a moment to answer. It was a question he’d been asking himself for three days now. He chose his words carefully. “Ashworth was an ugly, dangerous human being. I suspect someone like that could drive almost anyone to murder, particularly if they feared for their life. But stabbing a man in the back, the way Edward Digby was killed? That’s something else entirely. I can’t see Stephanie doing that.” Although she could have had an accomplice, Sebastian thought. Someone like Firth who loved her enough to try to clean up behind her. But he kept that possibility to himself.

  Lovejoy looked relieved. “Yes, that’s my reading of the situation as well.”

  “Where are the clothes now?”

  “With Constable Gowdy.”

  “Have him send them to Brook Street, why don’t you? I’d like to take a look at them myself.”

  “Of course.” Lovejoy took another sip of his hot chocolate. “We’ve also had no luck yet in finding a hackney driver, although we’re still looking.”

  Sebastian leaned back in his seat. “I’ve had two different people tell me Ashworth sometimes picked up streetwalkers and brought them home to play his ‘games.’ It might be worth looking into that too.”

  “You think that’s what we could be dealing with here? A woman off the streets who didn’t know what she was letting herself in for, took fright, and killed him?”

  “Either took fright, or took revenge, depending on the sequence of events and the character of the woman.”

  “And Digby?”

  “Perhaps he ran after her and tried to stop her. So she killed him too.”

  “Except that Digby was stabbed in the back.”

  “True. But I can envision several scenarios that would explain that. Although how he then ended up naked in that alley is a bit more problematic.”

  Lovejoy looked troubled. “If this woman does exist, it’s not going to be easy finding her. Unlike hackney drivers, London does not license its whores.”

  “No.” Sebastian paused. “Of course, there is another possibility.”

  Lovejoy shook his head. “What?”

  “That Ashworth was with a whore that night, but she’s not the murderer. She’s a witness. And . . .”

  “And?”

  Sebastian pushed his coffee aside. “And by now she might well be another victim.”

  Chapter 24

  Sebastian went next to Bond Street, where he intended to pay a visit to Vincent’s and ask the jeweler about Giselle Blanchette. Except he found the shutters up and the bell off the shop door.

  “Where’s Mr. Vincent?” he asked a passing delivery boy.

  “He’s dead,” said the boy, a lad of perhaps fifteen or sixteen with wide, staring eyes and a small chin.

  “Since when?”

  The boy shrugged. “A few weeks, meybe.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Somebody bashed in his skull as he was closin’ up fer the night.”

  “It was a robbery?”

  The boy shook his head. “There weren’t nothin’ taken. But whoever it was sure enough killed him. Killed him dead.”

  * * *

  More troubled than ever, Sebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find a paper-wrapped bundle awaiting him. He stared at it a moment, but before opening it, sent for Calhoun.

  “Do you know anything about the murder of a jeweler in Bond Street a few weeks ago?” he asked the valet. “A man by the name of Vincent.”

  Jules Calhoun shook his head. “I know it happened, but nothing beyond that. I can ask around if you like, my lord.”

  “Please. Also, it’s possible that Ashworth hired a prostitute the night he was killed. She could be anything from a highflier to a common streetwalker, but if she exists, I need to find her. Think that’s possible?”

  Calhoun grinned. “I’ll try, my lord.”

  After the valet left, Sebastian untied the paper-wrapped bundle from Bow Street and spread its contents across the library floor. Then he stood with his legs set widely apart, his arms crossed at his chest as he stared down at the dark blue, fine woolen cloak, fashionable muslin gown, linen petticoat, chemise, a
nd lightweight, short corset.

  The gown’s scooped bodice and puff sleeves, combined with the delicate embroidery around the neckline and flounced hem, suggested it had belonged to a young woman. The quality of the materials and workmanship told him she was either wealthy or on good terms with someone who ran a high-end secondhand clothing shop.

  The bloodstains were . . . curious.

  From the pattern of the stains, he suspected the woman—whoever she was—must have been wearing the cloak when she somehow or other ended up covered in blood. Only the central front of the gown was stained, as if its sides had been protected by the open cloak. The blood on the gown was heavy enough that it had soaked through to the petticoat, chemise, and short corset beneath. There were some faint traces of blood around the hem of both the gown and the petticoat, but most of the stains were higher up, mainly on the bodice and midriff sections.

  It was entirely possible the clothing had absolutely nothing to do with Ashworth’s death. Nothing at all. And yet . . .

  The sound of a child’s laughter drew his attention to the doorway. He heard Simon squeal with delight and shout, “Mm-ga-ga-gee.” Then a long-haired black cat with a magnificent long, thick tail streaked into the room and went to ground beneath one of the chairs by the fire.

  “You’d better hide,” Sebastian told the cat, smiling.

  “Mm-ga-ga-gee?” said Simon, drawing up perplexed at the entrance to the room.

  Sebastian said, “I think perhaps Mr. Darcy wants to take a nap.”

  Hero appeared behind the boy, laughing as she swung him up into her arms. “I know someone else who needs a nap.”

  “Mm-ga-ga-gee,” said Simon, one arm reaching out toward the chair where Mr. Darcy’s magnificent tail was just visible.

  “You can play with Mr. Darcy after you and he have a nap,” said the boy’s nurse, coming to take him from Hero. “Off we go.”

  “I thought you were planning to do another interview this afternoon,” said Sebastian as the nurse carried the boy off.

  “I am.” Hero came to stand beside him, her gaze on the bloody clothes spread across the floor. “What’s all this, then?”

  “The contents of the bundle pulled from the Thames. The gown and underthings were wrapped in the cloak, which fortunately kept them quite dry.”

  She hunkered down beside the clothes, a faint frown drawing two parallel lines between her eyes. “This is a lovely cloak. And the gown is of the first stare—‘all the crack,’ as they say.”

  “Yet Lovejoy’s constable took it to every fashionable modista in town, and none identified it as her own work. That could be because the maker feared betraying a valued customer, or . . .”

  She looked up at him. “Or because the gown was made on the Continent.”

  “I’ll admit that was my first thought.”

  “There are other explanations.”

  “There are?”

  She pushed to her feet.

  “The gown could have been made by a provincial modista. They may have a reputation for dowdiness, but the truth is that there are some very talented women working in places such as Brighton and Bath—or even Edinburgh.”

  Sebastian pursed his lips and blew out a harsh breath. “Which means that unless someone remembers actually seeing a woman wearing this dress, it’s a dead end . . . apart from the possibility it might not have anything to do with Ashworth’s death anyway.”

  “I don’t know about that. The fact that the clothes were thrown into the Thames in the middle of the night is rather suggestive. I mean, if all were innocent, why not simply have the clothes washed? That would only be out of the question if the young owner had something to hide, because even with the cooperation of her abigail, it would be virtually impossible to keep the other servants from seeing and asking awkward questions about all that blood. Much simpler in that case to drop the clothes off a bridge in the dark—particularly if she could afford to do so.”

  “I’d say it’s a safe bet that whoever owned this cloak and gown has wardrobes full of other clothes.” He watched as Hero bit her lip in thought. “What is it?”

  “No shoes or stockings?”

  “No. I checked with Bow Street, and they confirmed there weren’t any with the bundle. But then, there was a woman’s stocking under Ashworth’s bed, remember?”

  “Any blood on it?”

  “No.”

  “So, assuming this is the killer’s clothing, she had her shoes and stockings off, but not her dress and cloak? That’s odd.”

  “It is, indeed.” He nodded to the embroidered muslin. “What does the gown tell you about the woman who wore it?”

  “That she’s quite young—or is trying to appear to be, at least.”

  “Well, that would exclude Madame Blanchette—apart from the fact that she dresses like an elegant ghost from the eighteenth century anyway. What else?”

  “Wealthy, obviously. Either that, or she makes her own clothes, has access to fine materials, and is extraordinarily handy with her needle.”

  “I suppose Julie McCay could be hiding superb sewing skills. But I’d be surprised.”

  “How was she dressed when you saw her?”

  He had to think about it for a moment. “In no way remarkable.”

  Hero reached to pick up the gown and held it against her own body. “Whoever owned this dress is quite slender. And taller than average, although not excessively so.”

  “That would also eliminate Julie McCay and Madame Blanchette. But not a certain Russian princess.”

  He didn’t say, Or Stephanie. But then, he didn’t need to.

  Hero fingered the delicate stitching around the gown’s neckline. “If the killer is some unknown woman Ashworth was ‘entertaining’ the night he was killed, then these clothes suggest you’re looking for a lady rather than a woman he picked up off the streets.”

  “Which narrows things down to—oh, I don’t know; how many young, wealthy, tallish ladies would you say there are in London? Five hundred? More? Less?”

  Hero looked vaguely troubled. “If she killed him because of what he did to her that night, it seems wrong to expose her and make her suffer for it. She’s suffered enough already.”

  “You’re forgetting about what was done to Edward Digby.”

  “Yes. But he was complicit, was he not?”

  “I suppose he was.” Sebastian stared down at the woolen cloak. The bloodstains on the gown and undergarments had been well preserved by being wrapped in the cloak. But the cloak itself had been heavily saturated with water, making the pattern of the stains on the dark wool difficult to read.

  “What?” asked Hero, watching him.

  “I just wish I had an idea what the bloodstains on the cloak looked like before it was soaked.” He reached for the large sheet of brown paper in which the clothes had been delivered from Bow Street.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, watching him bundle the clothes up again and tie the string.

  “Show these to Stephanie and decide for myself whether she’s lying.”

  * * *

  Stephanie was curled up on a window seat in the music room of Lindley House, a book lying open but forgotten on her knee, when Sebastian was shown up to her.

  “Uncle,” she said, the book tumbling to the floor as she rose to her feet. She wore a simple muslin gown dyed black and stripped of all adornment, and she looked so young and vulnerable that it broke his heart. “You’re quite grim today.” Her gaze fell to the bulky paper-wrapped bundle he held tucked under one arm. “What’s this?”

  He set it on the tea table between them. “Open it.”

  She hesitated a moment, then came to untie the string and pull open the brown paper. The blood-soaked gown was folded on top, and she gasped at the sight of it, one hand coming up to press against her chest as she took a quick step back.
“Dear God. Why did you bring these to me? Someone from Bow Street was already here this morning, badgering my abigail about them. She told him they’re not mine.”

  “I know,” said Sebastian, conscious of a yawning sense of concern. He had come here hoping to prove to himself that his suspicions were all wrong, that Stephanie had had nothing to do with the bloody carnage someone had wrought in Ashworth’s bedchamber. Instead, he found himself studying her pale, strained face. “What I’m wondering, Steph, is how you knew these were the same clothes.”

  He saw a flare of panic in her eyes as if she realized her mistake. But she had always been quick-witted. Her chin jerked up, her hand curling into a fist as it dropped to her side. “It’s a logical assumption, is it not? Surely there aren’t two sets of bloody women’s clothing floating around London at the moment?”

  He walked away to stand by the fire, his gaze on the blaze crackling on the hearth. “Russell Firth came to see me yesterday,” he said. “He swears you’ve never been lovers, although he made no real attempt to deny that he’s in love with you.” He looked over at her. “You lied to me, Steph.”

  She spun away, her hands clenched together against her midriff, her back held painfully straight.

  Sebastian said quietly, “Ashworth found out about Firth, didn’t he, Stephanie?”

  “No.” She swung to face him again. “No. But it wouldn’t have mattered to him even if he had found out. He never loved me. Why would he have cared if he found out I loved someone else?”

  “He might have cared if he suspected his newborn sons were not his.”

  Her head snapped back as if he had slapped her. “You’re wrong,” she said fiercely, color riding high in her cheeks. “Do you hear me? You’re wrong.”

  “Am I, Steph? I keep trying to come up with another reason you might have married him, but I can’t. Last September, I thought you were infatuated with him, that you’d fallen under the spell of his charm and the allure of his wealth and title. But that wasn’t true; you were in love with another man. And yes, Firth was married to his cousin. But you knew she wasn’t well. Why in the hell would you marry Ashworth?”