Who Slays the Wicked

by C. S. Harris

  Sissy Jordan had been taken to the deadhouse tucked away in a corner of the St. Martin’s workhouse. Although situated on the institution’s ground floor, it was reached by climbing a flight of crumbling stone steps, for the workhouse had been built atop an overflowing churchyard that bulged a good four feet above the street. Dank, gloomy, and noisome, the place seemed to throb with all the horror and despair of the endless procession of forgotten dead that passed through it.

  “Yeah, we’ve got ’er,” said the slovenly attendant when Sebastian and Sir Henry Lovejoy inquired after the dead girl. “Over here.”

  “Merciful heavens,” said Lovejoy, one hand pressing his handkerchief to his nose and mouth as he took in the overflowing horror of the room: Every slab, every shelf, was piled with two or three bodies, and far too many of them were children.

  “A boy come into the workhouse a few weeks ago with the measles,” said the attendant, shuffling ahead of them toward the back of the foul room. “It’s taken off pret’ near ’alf the young ’uns, it has, and more’n a few of the older ones too. We can’t keep up with burying ’em.”

  Sissy lay on one of the slabs atop the emaciated cadaver of a middle-aged man in hideous rags. A flaxen-haired little boy of perhaps five or six lay on top of her. Seen in the dim light, both Sissy and the dead child she cradled might simply have been sleeping. She looked like a child herself, her features even and winsome, her light brown hair fine and softly curling. For a moment, Sebastian could only stare at her, his throat thick, a powerful rage pounding through him.

  “Why kill her, damn it?” he said at last, his voice tight. “She didn’t know anything. Not a bloody thing.”

  Above the white folds of his handkerchief, Lovejoy’s eyes were dark, painful smudges. “Someone was afraid she did.” He gave a heavy sigh. “He’s very ruthless, this killer. I hope if there’s anyone else out there he thinks can identify him, we get to them before this madman does.”

  Sebastian turned away to go stand in the open doorway and draw a breath of relatively fresh air into his lungs. “If that missing housemaid wasn’t actually involved in any of this, then Sissy was probably our last link to the killer. Unless the killer took a hackney that night, in which case we need to find that jarvey.”

  “I’ll tell my men to redouble their efforts in that direction.”

  Sebastian glanced back at the dead girl on the crowded slab. “If he exists, his life is in danger. And unlike Sissy, he probably doesn’t even know it.”

  Chapter 28

  That night, Sebastian dreamed of a winsome girl with delicate features and soft brown hair. She floated just beneath the surface of a quiet forest stream, her eyes closed, her hair billowing out around her. He reached for her in a hopeless attempt to save her, only to feel her slip wet and cold from his grasp. Then his vision expanded, and he realized the banks of the stream were crowded with children—scores and scores of ragged, painfully thin children, as far as he could see. They stared at him as if in silent reproach. But their faces were red with fever and their sunken eyes were dead.

  He awoke with a gasp, his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes scratchy and achy as he stared into the darkness.

  He felt Hero stir beside him, her hand sliding up his arm to touch his cheek. “Bad dream?”

  He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Sissy Jordan shouldn’t have died. The killer only just got to her. If I’d started looking for her sooner . . .”

  She brushed his lower lip with her fingers. “You told Giovanni Perosi not to blame himself. Yet you’re blaming yourself?”

  He smiled faintly against her hand. “I suppose I am. The problem is, I’m missing something—something that should be obvious.”

  “Such as?”

  He sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his hands coming up to rake his hair back from his forehead. “Thanks to Sissy, we now have a vaguely better idea of what happened in Curzon Street that night. We know Ashworth sent his valet to pick up a young girl from the Haymarket and then plied her with wine in his drawing room.”

  “You don’t find that odd?” said Hero, sitting up herself. “Obviously I’m not familiar with how these things are typically done, but I would have expected him to have the girl brought directly to his bedchamber.”

  “From what Giovanni said, I gather Ashworth often did it that way. I suspect it had something to do with deepening the girls’ ultimate pain and humiliation. He met them in his drawing room, awed them with its opulence and wealth, and offered them wine as if they were simply his guests. He was probably at his most charming, making them feel special, perhaps even hopeful that something wonderful was about to happen to them. Then he’d take them upstairs and . . . brutalize them.”

  Hero was silent a moment, her gray eyes a luminous silver in the night. “The man was mad. Horribly, dangerously mad.”

  “Was he? He was definitely cruel, arrogant, and stunningly selfish. But at what point do those characteristics shade over into madness?”

  She shifted to wrap her arms around him and lean against his back. “Who do you think came to the door that night? Whoever it was, Digby must have recognized them, since he let them in and went to inform Ashworth.”

  “Given the fact that Ashworth was found naked in his bed, one presumes the new arrival was a woman—or perhaps even two women. But I’m having a hard time envisioning a woman being responsible for what happened to Digby—and then later luring Sissy into an alley and stabbing her there—without an accomplice. An accomplice, or a hireling.”

  Hero propped her chin on his shoulder. “So Princess Ivanna Gagarin and her nasty colonel?”

  “Perhaps. Or Stephanie and Firth, God help me. Or even Julie McCay and her father, if that bloodstained dress from the Thames has nothing to do with any of this. Or the mystery woman could be someone we don’t even know about yet.” He rested his head against hers. “The thing that bothers me is, the only person who knew the identity of the girl Digby hired that night was Digby. And he’s dead.”

  “Ashworth knew.”

  “I doubt it. I’d be surprised if he even bothered to learn her first name. So, out of all the tens of thousands of prostitutes in this city, how did the killer know to go after Sissy? Digby must have told him—or her.”

  Hero was thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible the killer forced him to give up the girl’s name before he killed him.”

  “He could have. Or Digby could have provided the girl’s name quite willingly. I’m beginning to wonder if the valet might have played a more important role in Ashworth’s death than I’ve been giving him credit for—Digby, and perhaps the missing housemaid as well.”

  “Jenny Crutcher? Bow Street still hasn’t been able to trace her?”

  “Not last I heard. Which strikes me as rather ominous. It might be worth spending some time in Curzon Street tomorrow. Someone must know what happened to her.”

  “You could try talking to the crossing sweeps. They stand on their corners all day, watching everyone who comes and goes, yet no one pays them any more heed than they do the neighborhood cats.”

  He found himself smiling at her in the darkness, and she said, “What?”

  He speared his fingers through the heavy fall of her hair, drawing it back from her face. He felt the heat of her skin against his hands, breathed in the lavender-sweet scent that was all her own, watched her lips part. “God, I love you.”

  She gave a soft gurgle of laughter. “Because I consort with the likes of crossing sweeps and pure finders?”

  He laughed with her and lowered his lips to hers. “That too.”

  * * *

  Tuesday, 5 April

  Ashworth’s town house stood on the south side of Curzon Street, not far from the corner of Half Moon Street. Thanks to the proximity of both Shepherd’s Market and the residence in nearby Chesterfi
eld Street of Beau Brummell, this was a lucrative area for those pauper children who made their living as crossing sweeps. Every morning, a horde of wealthy aspirants to fashion—including frequently the Prince Regent himself—would trek to the dandy’s boudoir for the honor of watching the Beau make his toilette and tie his famous cravats.

  As a result, every corner up and down Curzon was manned by a pair of grubby, ragged children, one stationed on each side of the street, clutching their brooms and watching hopefully for largesse. In a sense it was a form of begging, although there was no doubt the children performed a service and worked hard at it.

  The morning had dawned cloudy and dry, with a cold wind that gusted up unpleasantly, which meant the crossing sweeps weren’t doing much business. But Sebastian was still surprised to find only one boy at the corner of Half Moon Street. At Sebastian’s approach, the lad came trotting over from the far corner, his broom in one hand, elbow cocked skyward as he held a battered hat to his head with the other. Sebastian took a shilling from his pocket and held it up. “This is yours—and another besides—if you answer my questions.”

  A wary look crept over the lad’s sharp, grime-streaked face. In age he could have been anywhere between eight and twelve; an appalling collection of rags hung on his thin frame, and his hair was matted into an indeterminate color somewhere between dung and mud.

  “Questions?” said the boy, who gave his name as Waldo Jones. “’Bout wot?”

  Sebastian nodded toward the dead man’s house. “You’re familiar with Lord Ashworth?”

  Waldo made a face and spit into the gutter. “The nob wot got hisself kilt? Course I am. ’E never give any of us nuthin’—unless it was t’ be mean.”

  “Mean? How?”

  “’E liked t’ drop a penny in a pile of fresh dung and then laugh when we’d pick it up.”

  “Charming,” said Sebastian.

  “They don’t come much nastier than that bugger.” The boy gave Sebastian a suspicious sideways glance. “Why ye askin’ ’bout ’im? ’E a friend o’ yers?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Huh. Ye ain’t no Bow Street Runner, that’s fer sure.”

  “No, but I am interested in finding a housemaid who used to work for his lordship—a woman by the name of Jenny Crutcher. Did you know her?”

  The boy’s expression betrayed not a hint of reaction. But a muscle beneath his right eye began to twitch. “Wot ye want wit ’er?”

  “She’s missing, and I’m worried about her. Did you know her?”

  “A bit,” admitted the boy guardedly. “She was always real nice t’ me and Ben.”

  “Ben?”

  “Ben King. ’E used t’ work the corner wit me.”

  “Oh? And where is Ben now?”

  The boy shrugged one skinny shoulder and fiddled with his broom handle. “’E moved on.”

  “Why? This must be a lucrative corner.”

  The boy’s eyebrows drew together at the unfamiliar word. “I don’t know ’bout that. But it’s a good stand, ain’t no denying that.”

  “Do you know where Jenny and Ben are now?”

  “Jenny cleared out the day after the nob got whacked. I don’t know where she went.”

  “And Ben?”

  Waldo fixed Sebastian with a hard, steady stare. “Ye ain’t never said why yer askin’ all these questions.”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed Ashworth. Not because I’m with Bow Street or because he was my friend,” Sebastian added hastily when the boy took a quick step back. “But because I’m afraid his killer may be a danger to other people. People like Jenny Crutcher. And others.”

  Waldo brought up one arm to wipe his runny nose on his sleeve. “I told ye, I don’t know where she went.”

  “What time did you leave your corner that night? The night his lordship was killed, I mean.”

  “I dunno. We usually quit when it’s gettin’ dark.”

  “So around nine?”

  “There ’bouts, I suppose. Why?”

  “Did you happen to see anyone go in or out of Ashworth’s house that evening?”

  “Not so’s I recall.”

  “Was your friend Ben here that day?”

  “Aye,” said the boy, wary again. “Why?”

  “Did he leave at the same time as you?”

  The wind gusted up harder, thrashing the limbs of the plane trees that stood around a large detached house halfway up the block. The boy jerked and glanced toward the sound, his eyes widening as if he were afraid.

  “Waldo?” said Sebastian.

  Again that twitch of the shoulder. “I dunno. Sometimes Ben hung around a bit later.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Waldo shook his head, stony faced, trying frantically to keep all his secrets and the roiling emotions they aroused within him tucked away out of sight.

  Sebastian said gently, “I’m not a threat to either you or your friend, Waldo. I want to help him.”

  The boy’s breath was coming fast enough now to jerk his thin chest, and for a moment Sebastian thought he might bolt. But the lure of that promised second shilling was too hard to resist. He licked his lower lip. “All I know is that Ben carried a message that night.”

  Sebastian felt a sick sense of dread settle low in his gut. Crossing sweeps often carried messages or parcels for people in the neighborhood they worked. Because the children were around day after day, often for years, residents grew to feel they could trust them. Householders and their servants too.

  “Who gave Ben the message?” asked Sebastian.

  “Digby.” The boy said the name on a painful expulsion of air. “Him they found dead in an alley up the street. ’E was always payin’ Ben t’ carry messages fer ’im.”

  “He never used you?”

  Waldo shook his head, and Sebastian thought it irked the lad a bit, that his friend had been entrusted with these lucrative commissions but he never had.

  Sebastian asked, “Do you know where Ben carried the messages?”

  “No. ’E never said. Always real secretive about it, ’e was.”

  Digby had obviously chosen his messenger well, Sebastian thought. He said, “I need to talk to Ben. I’m not a danger to him, but the killer might be. It all depends on where he took that message the night Lord Ashworth was killed.”

  “I told ye, I don’t know where ’e took it!”

  Sebastian studied the boy’s wide, frightened eyes and anxious face. “Is that why Ben’s not here, Waldo? Because he’s afraid, and he’s hiding? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The boy nodded slowly, his nose beginning to run again. “I ain’t seen ’im fer days. I even went and asked at the Mount Street dead’ouse, thinkin’ maybe somebody’d kilt ’im. But ’e weren’t there.” The boy’s voice broke as he visibly tightened the muscles in his face to hold back the threat of tears.

  Sebastian pressed two shillings into Waldo’s hand. “If you see Ben, try to convince him that he can trust me.”

  “I told ye, I don’t know where ’e is.”

  Sebastian nodded and started to turn away, but the boy stopped him, saying, “I did see that feller ’ere that night. Right before I left, it was.”

  Sebastian paused. “What ‘feller’?”

  “That tradesman wot’s been givin’ Ashworth ’ell fer weeks.”

  “You mean Lawrence McCay?”

  “I dunno ’is name. ’E’s an older cove, on the short side. ’E been comin’ ’round, standin’ in the middle o’ the street, and shoutin’ ’bout how Ashworth cheated ’im and owed ’im money. Bothered Ashworth somethin’ fierce, it did. Ben and me’d always whoop and cheer whenever ’e’d come and start up about it.”

  “When did you say he was here?”

  “I told ye—the night the bugger got hisself kilt. I noticed ’im just
as I was leavin’. Standing over there by the trees, ’e was.” Ben nodded with his chin toward the thick grove of rustling plane trees.

  “He was shouting?”

  “Not then, ’e weren’t. Weren’t sayin’ nothin’ at all. Just standin’ there in the shadows, ’e was, watchin’ Ashworth’s ’ouse. Ain’t never seen ’im do that before, which is why I remember it. Thought it was queer, I did.”

  * * *

  Sebastian spent the next hour working his way up and down the street, talking to various members of that largely invisible league of laborers who kept the lives of Mayfair’s wealthy residents running so smoothly: crossing sweeps from other corners, the barmaid at the White Hart on Clarges Street, a baker’s boy, and a butcher’s boy—anyone and everyone he could find. No one had anything of use to tell him. The barmaid didn’t know Digby and confided that Ashworth considered himself too grand to ever be seen in such a relatively unfashionable public house. No one seemed to be hiding anything. With the exception of Waldo Jones, all were eager to talk about Ashworth’s murder. But no one could remember having seen anything untoward the night of his death. Like Waldo, the other crossing sweeps said they also gave up and left at dusk. All knew Ben King had suddenly disappeared, but none would admit to knowing where he was.

  Frustrated, Sebastian walked back to where he’d left Tom with the curricle. Leaping up to the high seat, he gathered his reins, then paused to look back at his tiger.

  “What?” said Tom when Sebastian continued simply to stare at him.

  “I have a job for you.”

  Chapter 29

  Lawrence McCay was working his way through a plate of kippers in a tavern just off Long Acre when Sebastian came to slide into the opposite bench.

  “Good morning,” said Sebastian cheerfully, resting his forearms on the tabletop and leaning into them.