“I expect Himself will be waitin’ upstairs,” Bohannan speculated, and Julia could not help noticing that, although Flynn agreed that this was very likely, neither man appeared to be particularly eager to climb the curving staircase in search of him.
If there was one thing marriage to the late Lord Fieldhurst had taught her, it was how to present a brave face to the world even when her own world was crumbling around her. It was to this long-ago lesson that she now sought recourse. “By ‘Himself,’ I assume you mean Mr. Hetherington,” she said briskly, taking a perverse sort of pleasure in betraying less fear than either of her abductors. But then, she supposed she had less to lose than they. Whatever she said or did, the end result for her would very likely be the same; they, on the other hand, had to deal with humoring the whims of a madman. “If he is expecting us, I suggest we not keep him waiting.”
She strode across the hall to the foot of the steps and placed one hand on the banister. “Ugh!” With her best imitation of her mother’s manner, she released the railing and regarded her dirty hand with distaste. “Needs dusting,” she pronounced, then picked up her skirts and climbed the stairs.
“Flynn?” a voice bellowed as she reached the floor above. “Bohannan? Is that you?”
“No,” she called. “It’s Mrs. Pickett. I daresay your lackeys will be along directly.”
She had followed the sound of the familiar voice down the hall as she spoke, and now stood in the doorway of the room whence that voice had come. Here her carefully feigned confidence suffered a check. The man sitting in a faded wing chair before the fire was the same man with whom she had dined in the Lake District, but he appeared to have aged ten years in the few weeks since she had last seen him. His hair was whiter than she remembered, and unkempt wisps flew out from his head at all angles. His face seemed to sag, as if it had been fashioned from wax and left too close to the fire.
“Mr. Hetherington,” she said, being careful not to allow any hint of repugnance to show in her voice. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
It was a lie, of course; she would have been quite happy to go the rest of her life without seeing him again. In fact, she would have very much preferred it, for her husband’s sake as well as her own. But here he was, and here she was—albeit against her will—so there was nothing for it but to try to placate the man for as long as possible.
“It’s a pleasure to see you as well, my dear,” he said, beckoning for her to enter. “Although, as charming as your company is, I must admit that my enjoyment of it pales in comparison to the eagerness with which I await your husband’s arrival.”
“Does it indeed?” Julia seated herself on the sofa he indicated, trying not to sneeze as a cloud of dust arose from its cushions. “Then it pains me to have to tell you that he will not be joining us.”
“ ‘Not’ you say?” He regarded her in some distress, and for a moment she wondered if she was making a tactical error in provoking him.
“I’m afraid not. He is on an investigation, you see.” She paused for effect, then added, “In Dunbury.”
“Ah!” His brow cleared at once. “Then he is chasing after mares’ nests. It was I who sent him to Dunbury, you see.”
Yes, definitely a chess match, she thought, recalling the squares of black and white marble on the hall floor below. But it was her move now, and so she made it. “That is what Mr. Flynn said, although I confess I fail to understand why, if you wanted him here, you would send him on a fool’s errand fully three hundred miles in the opposite direction.”
“I needed you unprotected,” he explained. He glanced past her in the direction of the door through which she had entered, and she knew without looking that Flynn and Bohannan had joined them. “My lackeys, as you call them, have been all that is obliging, but I fear even their best efforts would be no match for a determined bridegroom—and one, moreover, with all the authority of Bow Street at his back. But speaking of Mssrs. Flynn and Bohannan, I trust they treated you well? I shall be very displeased if they did not.” This last was said in a more threatening tone, and directed toward some point over her shoulder.
The suggestion that one might be abducted in a manner one found acceptable was outrageous enough to provoke Julia into responding more tartly than was perhaps wise. “If I overlook the fact that they coshed me over the head and removed me forcibly from my home—a feat which is quite beyond my capabilities at the moment—then I can have no cause for complaint.”
“Did they indeed?” Robert Hetherington scowled fiercely at the men behind her. “Which one committed this atrocious act?”
“It was Mr. Flynn,” she said, feeling oddly like a talebearer for doing so. “And yet, I suspect his treatment of me pales next to your own plans.”
“Well, yes,” confessed Hetherington, unrepentant. “But my orders were that they were to do nothing to you that might cause young Mr. Pickett to turn from you in revulsion—no ‘fate worse than death,’ if I may be permitted to speak so crudely. Nor must your husband be allowed the consolation of believing you to have been released from any earthly suffering. No, he is to endure all the agonies of seeing a beloved wife slain before his eyes.”
He spoke as if this were the most reasonable course of action in the world, and she found his rational demeanor more terrifying than any amount of insane ranting would have been.
“Why do you hate him so?” Her own voice was little more than a whisper.
“Why?” He seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “Because he did no less to me.”
“Mr. Hetherington, I am truly sorry for the loss of your wife. I liked her very much, and wish I might have known her better. But surely you know her death was an accident.”
“If that is so—a supposition which I beg leave to doubt—then it was an accident for which he was responsible.”
She realized nothing she might say would budge him from this stance, so she tried another approach. “But is it fair to make an innocent person suffer for actions in which he or she played no part?”
“No, of course not.” Hetherington readily conceded the point. “And yet my wife, only a child at the time, endured unspeakable cruelty in retaliation for the actions of her father. A woman may choose her husband, but no child can choose its father. You chose your husband, Mrs. Pickett, so your fate is linked with his.”
She was mistaken; this was no chess match, but a game of whist—and her only chance at taking the trick lay in playing her trump card. She took a deep, steadying breath and placed it, figuratively speaking, on the table. “I did indeed choose Mr. Pickett, and I would do so again. I don’t know if your wife told you or not, but Mr. Pickett and I are expecting our first child in December.” She gave him a moment to ponder the significance of this statement, then added gently, “As you said yourself, no child may choose its father.”
For a long moment, he stared at her in stunned silence. Then his ravaged face split in a wide grin. “Why, no, Brigid didn’t tell me. But this—this is wonderful!”
“Yes, it is wonderful,” Julia said with all the sincerity at her command. In fact, she had never dreamed it would be so easy. “Thank you, sir. I knew you could not—”
“Now he will be left to mourn not only his wife, but his child as well!”
The delight in his voice at the prospect caused the blood to run cold in her veins. “But—”
“Four times”—he tucked his thumb down and waved the remaining four fingers in her face—“four times my Brigid miscarried a child, thanks to internal injuries she suffered at the hands of Englishmen like your husband! I only regret that I can kill but one of his!”
“Mr. Hetherington, no woman should have to experience what your wife endured, but my husband was not even born at the time! Surely you must see that!”
Even as she said the words, she knew they were futile; he was beyond reason, beyond rational thought. Unexpectedly, help came from the last place she would have looked for it.
“Here now, I’ll not be a p
arty to this.” Julia turned and identified the speaker as Bohannan, the carriage driver whom she had heard speak only once during the long journey from London. “I know you promised to help us, Mr. H., and don’t be thinkin’ I’m not grateful for it. But it seems to me that if Ireland has to resort to murderin’ pregnant women in order to win our freedom, then maybe we’re not deservin’ to be free.”
Julia held her breath as Hetherington’s attention shifted from her to the man at her back. “You were singing a different tune when you approached me in Carlisle Prison,” he said. “Still, I wouldn’t want to force you into anything you find morally objectionable. If you wish to leave, you may do so at any time.”
“Don’t be thinkin’ I won’t,” Bohannan replied, then turned and started for the door.
He had scarcely taken two steps when Hetherington pulled out a pistol and shot him squarely in the back. Julia could only stare in horror, first at the man seated next to her with the gun, still smoking, in his hand, then at the pile of skin and blood and bone that only moments before had been a living human being.
One thing was certain. Robert Hetherington had lost whatever grip on sanity he had once retained, and although she might understand the reason for his descent into madness, she could not afford to make the mistake of pitying him.
Not if she hoped to survive.
15
Which Finds John Pickett
Making Inquiries in Dublin
Pickett stood at the corner of Mountjoy Square with his companions, surveying the incomplete quadrangle on which construction had begun almost twenty years earlier. Eventually, he supposed, the square would be fully enclosed by the handsome brick residences sprouting up along its perimeter, each with four stories and a broad fan-shaped window over its door; for now, at least, its unfinished state would mean fewer places in which to search for Mr. James Sullivan.
“Let’s each take a side,” he said. “I’ll take the south.” It had been the first one begun, and so was the nearest to completion.
The north and west sides went to Carson and Jamie, respectively; his brother-in-law had no experience in investigation, but Jamie was nobody’s fool, and Pickett trusted him to know what to do without lengthy explanations. That left Thomas to make inquiries along the eastern side of the square, where only a few houses had as yet been built.
“Me?” his valet asked, brightening at being given an active part of the investigation. “I’m to have a street all to myself?”
“It’ll save time that way,” Pickett explained. “Four streets; four men. The houses are still under construction, and some of them may be vacant. If anyone answers the door, ask them if they know where you might find a Mr. James Sullivan. Don’t let on that he might be implicated in any crime. In fact, don’t even hint that anything untoward is going on.”
“I spent four years in service to his late lordship,” Thomas replied with some dignity. “He used to have me deliver messages to the Foreign Office. I know how to be discreet, sir.”
Pickett clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man!”
“Look here,” Carson protested, “wouldn’t it be better to tell them at once what’s in the wind? It seems to me that time is of the essence, and who knows what might be—”
“You don’t have to remind me of that, Harry,” Pickett interrupted. “Believe me, I’m well aware of it. But we’re going to be asking about their neighbor, perhaps even their friend. At best, they might clamp their lips shut and refuse to talk to us at all; at worst, they could deliberately put us off the scent with false information.”
“Yes, but with a potential reward for giving evidence—”
Pickett sighed. He supposed he might have made the same assumption at one time, during his years on the Foot Patrol, but not any longer. “Look about you,” he told Carson, making a sweeping motion with his arm that took in the broad square and the stately residences dotting its perimeter. “Does it look as if any of these people are likely to be in need of funds?”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Carson, reluctantly conceding the point.
“What do I say if he lives there, or if they tell me which house is his?” Thomas asked, all eagerness to play at being a Bow Street runner, at least for a little while.
“In that case, beg to be excused while you fetch your companions,” Pickett told him. “We’ll meet at the sundial, shall we?” He gestured toward a granite structure in the center of the square.
The four men agreed, then broke up to pursue their individual assignments. Pickett strode across the square to the first house on the end of the block, then stepped up onto the portico and knocked. It was opened a moment later by a butler as starchy as any who might be found in Mayfair.
“Sullivan residence?” Pickett asked. “Mr. James Sullivan?”
He had not really expected to be so fortunate on his first attempt, and so was not disappointed when the butler informed him that no one of that name resided there.
“I understand. Can you tell me in which of these houses”—he raised one arm in a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire square—“I might find him?”
“No, sir, I fear I cannot. If you would care to wait, however, I might inquire of Mr. Walsh.”
“Thank you,” Pickett said, sincerely grateful for a courtesy he had not anticipated. “I would be obliged to you.”
The butler allowed him to enter—another consideration he had not expected—and Pickett waited in the foyer while the man went in search of his master. He returned a minute later, bearing disappointing news.
“Mr. Walsh sends his regrets, but says he can think of no such person, and certainly no resident of this square by that name. However, there is a Mr. James Donovan in Mountjoy West, if perhaps you might be mistaken in the name?”
Pickett shook his head. “No, I’m afraid there can be no mistake. I thank you for taking the trouble though, and please convey my thanks to Mr. Walsh.”
Alas, it was only the first of many such disappointments. By the time he reached the end of Mountjoy Square South—nineteen houses in all—he had not found one person who had ever heard of Mr. James Sullivan, much less who knew which house might be his. In fact, a nagging suspicion was beginning to form in Pickett’s brain—a suspicion which appeared to be confirmed when the little group met at the sundial on the green.
“No luck, sir,” Thomas reported. As there were fewer houses on his street, he had been the first to finish his assigned task, and had been awaiting the other three with mingled hope that they might have better luck, and disappointment that he was not to be the one to divulge the desired information. “Not only does Mr. Sullivan not live in any of the houses on the east side, but no one seems to have even heard of him.”
“Same here,” put in Carson, while Jamie nodded.
Pickett sighed in resignation. “An assumed name, then. I feared as much.”
Was Julia held captive somewhere behind one of these elegant brick façades, or had she been taken somewhere else entirely? And if so, where? As matters stood now, he had no idea where to go or what to do next. He recalled again the letter he had removed from the pocket of a dying man, the folded and sealed paper bearing the name and direction of the man for whom they now sought—a man who, it now seemed, did not exist, and had very likely never existed at all. If he could only remember the house number, he would pound on the door and demand answers of whoever opened it, regardless of the name they gave. But in the absence of even this rough-and-ready plan of action, then what? Once again, the feeling of utter helplessness assailed him.
“If anyone has any ideas,” he addressed his three companions, “I would love to hear them.”
The silence that followed this invitation told its own tale.
At last, Carson spoke. “I keep thinking about that finger.”
Pickett closed his eyes as if to block out the image. “I’m trying not to.”
“No, but listen. If somebody dug up a dead body and mutilated it, wouldn’t you think som
eone would know about it? I mean, even if they contrived to bury the body again by morning, anyone could have seen that the dirt had been disturbed.”
“Very likely,” Pickett agreed with exaggerated patience. “But the thing was quite possibly, even probably, done somewhere other than Wales.”
“Yes, but don’t you see?” Carson insisted. “If someone was going about desecrating graves—even only the one grave—wouldn’t it be important enough to be talked about—mentioned in a newspaper, say?”
Pickett opened his eyes and regarded his colleague with dawning respect. “Harry, I think you just might be on to something.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” retorted Carson, stung. “You’re not the only one who knows anything about investigating, you know.”
CITIZENS OF DUBLIN who wished to stay abreast of events in the wider world had several publications—more than thirty, in fact—to which they might turn for information. John Pickett, who had more reason than most to desire enlightenment as to recent events, was resolved to examine them all, if that was what it took to find what he sought. The Freeman’s Journal, as its name implied, took a particular interest in the cause of Irish independence; if a single instance of grave-robbing should happen to be connected, however loosely, to the promotion of that objective, it was likely that the event would be given very little attention, perhaps even be ignored altogether rather than run the risk of casting the proponents of the cause in a negative light. On the other hand, the Dublin Gazette was the local iteration of the English London Gazette, and would certainly reflect the views of its English counterpart. One smaller, weekly publication was devoted to the interests of Catholics, and another to Protestants; either of these might be sufficiently offended by the desecration of a grave and the dismemberment of a corpse that they would report such a violation, no matter where it might have occurred or who might be responsible. Finally, a number of broadsheets addressed the particular concerns of commerce, manufacturing, or agriculture. These, Pickett decided, could be ignored unless and until all other avenues had been explored in vain.
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