Who Slays the Wicked

by C. S. Harris

  Victoria frowned, her pretty eyes dark and thoughtful. “No, actually. Now that you mention it, I’d say rather that the visit was quite serious.”

  She paused, then added, “Deadly serious.”

  Chapter 41

  “Ah, Lady Devlin,” said Madame Marie-Claire Blanchette, personally answering Hero’s knock at the door of the cartomancer’s Golden Square rooms. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Indeed,” said Hero, stepping into a strange, incense-scented space crowded with dark, exotic furniture and an array of crystal spheres, obelisks, and pyramids, some clear, others in a glorious spectrum of colorful hues. The Frenchwoman was as finely made as a child and wore an old-fashioned brocade gown with a stomacher that made her look like a vision from a painting of the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.

  “I never saw King Louis,” said the cartomancer, quietly closing the door. “Although I did catch a glimpse of Marie Antoinette in the cart on her way to the guillotine. Whatever one thinks of the regime of which the Queen was a part, one can’t help but admire the woman’s composure and courage in the face of death.”

  Her words so closely echoed Hero’s thoughts as to be uncanny. Hero brought her gaze from a massive chunk of some shiny, faceted metallic ore to the Frenchwoman’s face. “That’s quite a trick.”

  Madame Blanchette’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Party tricks are my stock-in-trade, remember?” She extended a hand toward an adjacent small chamber draped in red cloth and empty except for a collection of stuffed bats hanging from the ceiling, an articulated skeleton, a live owl on its perch in one corner, and a round inlaid table with two low stools. “Won’t you come in and sit down?”

  “I’m not here for a card reading.”

  The Frenchwoman kept her hand extended. “I know.”

  Hero hesitated another moment, then went to sit.

  Limping badly, Madame Blanchette took the opposite stool. A deck of thick cards rested on the table before her, and she began to shuffle them, her gaze never leaving Hero’s face.

  Hero said, “Why didn’t you tell Devlin that one of Ashworth’s friends came for a reading shortly before Ashworth’s death?”

  “Not only Ashworth’s friend, but Ashworth himself came that day. But they were not here for readings.” The Frenchwoman neatened the edges of her cards in her hands. “Ashworth came to threaten me.”

  “And did he?”

  “Oh, yes. He said that if I didn’t shut up about Giselle, I would die.”

  “I suppose that explains why you didn’t tell Devlin about the encounter.”

  “You think it gives me an added incentive to have killed him? Kill him before he could kill me?” Her lips thinned into a hard line. “Believe me, I needed no added incentive. No one could have wished for Ashworth’s death more than I. But I wanted him to suffer first. I had only just begun to torment him.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t foresee his murder?”

  The Frenchwoman set the deck of cards on the table in front of Hero and said, “Coupé.”

  Hero hesitated a moment, then cut the deck.

  Madame Blanchette turned over the revealed card and laid it faceup between them. In place of the crude image Hero was expecting, this was an exquisite painting of a moon rising over a star-spangled sea.

  “Encore.”

  Again and again, Hero cut the deck, until a pattern of beautifully painted cards lay spread across the table. Madame Blanchette folded her hands together in her lap and leaned forward to study them. She stared at them so long that Hero grew impatient and said, “Well?”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s all you have to say? ‘Interesting’?”

  The Frenchwoman waved one hand over the layout. “You don’t believe in this. So why would you want to hear?”

  “Curiosity.”

  A corner of the woman’s mouth quirked up with a hint of amusement. “D’accord.”

  She tapped the third card in the first row, an image of a craggy mountain backed by dark swirling clouds. “This tells me you may have a powerful enemy—an enemy who is near to you. You must be wary of those who envy you.”

  In spite of herself, Hero felt a faint chill run up her spine. “Such as?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “Of course.”

  The Frenchwoman’s hand skimmed over the cards to an image of a scythe in the bony hand of a cloaked skeleton. “The Viscount had this card in a similar position. It is a warning that you are in serious danger. You must be prudent in the places you go, the things you do, and the people you meet.”

  “Well, that narrows it down.” Hero waited a moment, but when the cartomancer remained silent, said, “That’s it? Out of all these cards, all you can tell me is that I am in danger and that I should be wary of someone near to me?”

  The Frenchwoman gave a very Gallic twitch of one shoulder. “Most of the rest you know already—or it is not for me to tell you.”

  Hero leaned back on her stool, her hands resting on her knees. “You never answered my last question about Ashworth. Would you have me think you didn’t foresee his death?”

  “I don’t know who killed him.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  Again that faint suggestion of amusement crinkled the older woman’s eyes. “All is never revealed, no matter how ‘talented’ the one who asks. Nor should it be.”

  “Whoever is responsible for these murders should and must be revealed. Revealed and stopped. One could argue that Ashworth and his valet earned their deaths. But a desperate fifteen-year-old orphan by the name of Sissy Jordan was also a victim of this killer. And she may not be the last innocent to die.”

  A strange, pinched look came into the Frenchwoman’s face. “The death of any innocent is always a tragedy.”

  Hero found her gaze falling, again, to the beautiful, disturbing images spread across the table before her. “You say Ashworth came here not for a reading but to threaten you. Does that mean you didn’t read his cards?”

  “No. I read them.”

  “What did you see?”

  Madame Blanchette began to pick up the spread cards. “Normally I keep such things private, but under the circumstances, I believe an exception can be made. He also drew the mountain, and in a similar position to yours. I told him he was threatened by someone close to him—in Ashworth’s case by someone who also saw Ashworth as a threat.”

  “So are we talking about a man or a woman?”

  “Ashworth had many enemies, both male and female.”

  “Yet you say he was threatened by someone close to him, not an enemy.”

  Madame set the cards aside and folded one hand over the other to rest them flat on the table before her. “Some of our worst enemies are those near to us. But remember, just because someone close to Ashworth was a threat does not mean that person killed him.”

  Hero studied the Frenchwoman’s calm, blank face, the features kept deliberately free of any betraying emotion. “You’re not telling me everything you told Ashworth was in his cards.”

  “Perhaps. But then, you don’t believe in the cards, do you?”

  “I believe you know more than what you have revealed to me—however you came to know it.”

  The Frenchwoman reached out to tap the top of the tarot deck with one curled finger. “If you believe that, then believe my warning. The danger to you is real.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Madame Blanchette looked vaguely surprised. “From me? No. You asked what the other cards reveal. They show the possibility of a happy life filled with much joy, love, and accomplishment. But what I see is always a potential only, which means the danger is as real as anything else. Heed me and the good the cards foretell will be more likely to come to be. But . . .” Her voice trailed off as a fey, flaxen-haired little girl a
ppeared in the doorway to escort Hero out.

  “But?” prompted Hero, rising to her feet.

  The Frenchwoman rose with her, the old-fashioned brocade skirts swirling around her. “Vraiment, c’est simple. Ignore me at your peril.”

  Chapter 42

  Later that evening, Hero was positioning an uncharacteristically plain bonnet on her head when Devlin came to stand in the doorway and watch her.

  “I take it you’re still planning to interview that night-soil man?” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” She kept her gaze on her reflection in the mirror as she reached for a hat pin. “Surely not because of the cartomancer’s warnings? Please tell me you don’t believe that nonsense.”

  “Not exactly.”

  She glanced over at him. “Then what?”

  He pushed away from the door and came up beside her. “No matter how she acquires her knowledge, there is no denying Madame Blanchette has formidable sources of information.”

  “About Ashworth, perhaps. She obviously made it her business to find out everything she could about him. But about me? I think not.”

  His brows twitched into a frown. But all he said was “You think she was simply trying to rattle you?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I think she’s an astute judge of character, which suggests she should have been able to tell that you don’t rattle easily.”

  “Perhaps she thought it worth a try. What I’m wondering is why Paige originally pretended not to know Madame Blanchette’s name. Surely he couldn’t have gone to Golden Square with Ashworth without knowing something of what happened to her daughter.”

  “Oh, he knew,” said Devlin. “It’s one of the reasons he told me about seeing Cousin Victoria—because she was bound to tell us where she saw him.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “That’s the part I can’t figure out—although I certainly intend to press him for an explanation.” His gaze drifted toward the window, where the waning daylight was already taking on the golden hues of approaching evening. He pressed his lips into a tight line, but he didn’t say anything.

  Laughing, she reached out to touch his cheek. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry. I’m taking two footmen as well as the coachman, and I promise I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  * * *

  Sir Felix Paige was not at home.

  His servants helpfully suggested Sebastian try Cribb’s Parlor, Limmer’s, or the Castle. But Sebastian searched first one Corinthian haunt, then the next without success. He kept trying to make sense of everything he’d learned in the past twenty-four hours, but it seemed to be pointing him in two entirely different directions.

  Frustrated, he decided to pay another visit to Park Lane.

  * * *

  “Good God, Devlin, not now,” exclaimed the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne when Sebastian bullied and cajoled her butler into allowing him upstairs. He found Her Grace clad in a splendid Chinese silk dressing gown embroidered over with red dragons and colorful butterflies. She was trying to decide between two gowns being presented by her abigail—one of lavender silk, the other of puce satin trimmed with blond lace.

  “Answer my questions quickly and I’ll be gone.”

  She raised her quizzing glass to one eye and stared at him through it. “What have you done to your face now?”

  He touched his fingertips to the sticking plaster on his forehead. “It’s nothing.”

  “Huh. You can’t seriously think that if I knew anything more about Ashworth, I wouldn’t have told you.”

  “You may know more than you realize.”

  She glared at him a moment longer, then shooed her woman out of the room and said, “From what Hendon has been telling me today, I sincerely hope not. Black leather whips and red silk bonds? Merciful heavens.”

  “You hadn’t heard that part before?”

  “No. Thankfully, they seem to have kept those lurid details out of the papers. Now, tell me what you want and go away.”

  “What do you know about Sir Felix Paige?”

  “Paige?”

  “Yes.”

  She drew her chin back against her neck and flattened her lips. “Bad ton, that one. But then, it stands to reason, does it not? Who else would be friends with a bounder like Ashworth?”

  “Is he capable of killing, do you think?”

  “You can’t imagine I know the man, do you? All I know is that his father was a bounder, if ever there was one.”

  “He was?”

  “He was. Now, go away and let me dress.”

  “One more thing. Were you by chance at Lady Cowper’s ball last June?”

  Henrietta shook her head. “Lady Cowper didn’t give a ball last June.”

  “You’re quite certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain. Emily Cowper gives her annual ball in April.”

  “April? Every year?”

  The Dowager raised her eyebrows. “That is generally the definition of ‘annual,’ is it not? Now, will you go away? My guests will be here before I’m even dressed.”

  Chapter 43

  “We work in teams o’ four,” said the night-soil collector, a stout, middle-aged fellow with a whiskered face and bloodshot eyes who said his name was William Bell. He wore a battered slouch hat with a ragged, muck-smeared coat, waistcoat, and knee breeches of indeterminate color. The reek wafting from his person was stomach churning.

  “And why is that?” asked Hero, who had positioned herself strategically upwind.

  It wasn’t helping.

  “Need four,” said Bell, taking a swig from what Hero realized was a gin bottle. He had agreed to meet with her near Dorchester House in Park Lane, which he’d explained was at the beginning of the route he planned to work that evening. “Need a ropeman, a holeman, and two tubmen. At first ye can jist scoop out the sh—” He broke off, looked flummoxed for a moment, then changed what he’d been about to say to “stuff.”

  Hero hid a smile as she glanced up from the notes she was rapidly scribbling. “What do you use to scoop it with?”

  “Buckets, at first. Thing is, ye see, we can only do that fer so long. Then we gotta put a ladder down in there.”

  “You put a ladder right down into the cesspit or privy hole?”

  “Aye. The holeman, he’s the one who climbs down in there and shovels the sh—stuff into the bucket. Then the ropeman, he hauls up the bucket and empties it into the tub. When that’s full, the tubmen carry it out t’ the street and dump it into the cart.”

  “Why two tubmen?”

  “’Cause them tubs is heavy. Ye have’ta carry ’em on a pole between two men. Most houses ’round here, there’s ways to get to the back without goin’ through the house. But it can be right messy if the cesspit’s in the basement, or if there ain’t no other way to empty the privy ’cept by carryin’ the tubs right through the house. They do drip, ye see.”

  “Good Lord,” said Hero, staring at him.

  “Now, some privies and cesspools are what we call a ‘dry pit.’ They ain’t too bad, ’cause the liquid most all drains away pretty quicklike. But when it don’t, it can be godawful.”

  “Why does it drain away sometimes but not others?”

  William Bell gave a shrug. “Depends on the way the cesspit is built—that and the water table, I reckon. I’ve seen some overflowin’ so bad, they’re draining into the cellar of the house next door. Folks get irate when that happens. The worst is them cesspits what’s hooked up to them newfangled water-flushing contraptions.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause a cesspit, it ain’t designed t’ take all that water, that’s why. So them things is always overflowin’. If ye ask me, what they oughta do is let them nobs who wants them danged patented washdown pedestals connect ’em to the sewer system.”

 
London had long possessed an elaborate sewer system, but the sewers were intended only for stormwater and underground rivers. It was illegal to use them for the disposal of waste. Hero said, “The sewers empty into the Thames.”

  “Aye.”

  “We get our water from the Thames.”

  William Bell laughed, showing a mouthful of surprisingly even, healthy teeth. “Aye. So?”

  Hero consulted the list of questions she’d prepared. “What do you do once your cart is full?”

  “We drive t’ the nightman’s yard and empty it. They mix the sh—stuff with other rubbish like ashes and dung and rotting vegetables, and sell it t’ farmers t’ manure their fields.”

  “Lovely,” said Hero under her breath. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Since I was a lad. Used to help me da, I did. In them days I was the holeman. Now I’m the ropeman.”

  “Did you ever think about doing something else?”

  “No. Why would I? I make three times as much as yer typical journeyman. Can’t beat that.”

  “You don’t find the work . . . unpleasant?”

  He laughed again. “Ye gets used t’ it—as long as ye drink enough gin first. And it ain’t too dangerous, although ye gotta be careful. I’ve known fellers suffocated from the gasses when a cesspool was too deep.”

  Hero thought about the possible danger posed by animalcules—tiny creatures invisible to the naked eye that some suspected could spread terrible maladies. But all she said was “How often are most cesspits and privies emptied?”

  “In the poorer parts of town, they never empty ’em till they’re overflowin’. But around here, folks have us in meybe two or three times a year—unless they’ve got one of them danged washdown pedestals. Then we gots to get in there every week or so.”

  “Do many people have them?”

  “Too many, if’n ye ask me. The Pulteney Hotel’s got eight of the danged things. We’re always havin’ to go there.”