by C. S. Harris
Was John Williams the Ratcliffe Highway killer? One of two killers, the second of which was still out there? Or was Williams the innocent victim of authorities rushing to quiet a hysterical populace? Sebastian had his suspicions, but he also knew those suspicions could be wrong. And what did it all mean when it came to understanding the new murders? Was today’s killer Williams’s surviving partner? A copyist?
Neither?
He blew out a long, frustrated breath and took a deep swallow of his brandy. He was going in too many directions at once and he knew it. The problem was, he couldn’t begin to decide where he should be focusing. And he felt a growing concern that his obsession with the past might be blinding him to something he should be seeing in the present.
A light step sounded on the stairs, a swish of silk, and Hero came to stand beside him. “Can’t sleep?” she said, slipping her arms around his waist.
He drew her close and buried his face in the warm tumble of her rich dark hair. “I keep trying to decide if the Ratcliffe Highway killings are the key to what’s happening today, or a dangerous distraction.”
“I don’t think you can call them a distraction,” she said. “If justice was not served three years ago, then I’d say the deaths of the seven men, women, and children killed that December are as worthy of investigation as the murders of the corrupt East End magistrates killed this week.”
He drew a deep breath. “If it weren’t for the threat to Katie Ingram and her children, I’d be tempted to say they are more so.”
She shifted her head so she could look at him. “The threat against Katie Ingram echoes what happened to the Marr family, but does it fit with the deaths of her father and Cockerwell?”
“It does if the motive behind the killings is revenge.”
“For their corruption, you mean? For the deaths of three years ago? Or both?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know, and I don’t know how to find out, and it’s driving me mad.”
“Sleep might help,” she said softly.
He met her gaze and smiled.
Chapter 32
Later that morning, Sebastian was drawing on his driving gloves as he came down his front steps when a familiar highbred team and black town coach swept around the corner from Bond Street to rein in behind Sebastian’s waiting curricle. The sky was overcast, the pavement wet from last night’s rain, the air cold and heavy with coal smoke. For a moment Sebastian’s gaze met Tom’s. Then Sebastian paused at the base of the steps while his father-in-law’s footman leapt to fling open the crested carriage door.
“I take it you heard about last night?” said Sebastian, walking up to the carriage.
“I have no intention of discussing this in the street,” hissed Jarvis. “Climb up.”
“You could come in and have a cup of tea. I’ve no doubt Hero—”
“Goddamn you. Climb up.”
Sebastian leapt up to settle on the facing seat and study his father-in-law across the icy distance that separated them. “I’ve no doubt you sympathize with Buxton-Collins’s attempt to have me quietly dispatched in some back alley, but surely you understand why I might object?”
“He says he had nothing to do with that.”
“Do you seriously expect me to believe he’d admit it?”
Jarvis’s nostrils flared. “You created a spectacle in front of virtually everyone of importance both in the City and in government.”
“Somehow I suspect most of Buxton-Collins’s guests already knew exactly what he’s like, and they don’t care. All they care about is making money and keeping the lower orders in their ‘place.’”
“Men such as Buxton-Collins are of vital importance to the security of the Kingdom.”
“Because his family of bankers lends the money for the King’s wars? Or because he and his mates on the Middlesex licensing committee help force East End publicans to spy on ordinary Englishmen?”
“What do you think kept us from going the way of France twenty-five years ago?”
Sebastian gave the King’s cousin a slow smile. “The Glorious Revolution of 1688.”
Jarvis swiped one big hand through the air between them. “Enough of this. You cause more harm than you know with this interference.”
“Oh? Care to explain?”
Jarvis drew an enameled snuffbox from his pocket and flipped it open. “The people don’t care who killed those Middlesex magistrates. They simply want to feel safe.”
“You think they’ll feel safe if the Crown hangs some hapless stooge and then the killings start all over again? Somehow, I doubt it.”
Jarvis raised a pinch between thumb and forefinger, and sniffed. “I wonder, have you looked into the vicar of St. George’s?”
Sebastian watched his father-in-law close his snuffbox and tuck it away. “The Reverend York? What about him?”
“I think you might find his career up at Cambridge most . . .” Jarvis paused as if deciding on the exact word, then settled on, “. . . instructive.”
Sebastian studied the brilliant gray eyes and arrogant aquiline nose that were so much like Hero’s. “Did you have John Williams killed three years ago?”
“I already told Hero that I did not.”
“So you did.” Sebastian pushed to his feet.
“I’m serious about Buxton-Collins,” said Jarvis.
Sebastian hopped down to the street, then paused to look back at him. “So am I.”
* * *
Sebastian spent the next several hours talking to men who’d been up at Cambridge twenty years before. He knew he was being manipulated by his Machiavellian father-in-law; he just couldn’t quite figure out to what end. By the time he pulled up before the soot-stained classical facade of St. George’s-in-the-East, dark clouds were pressing low on the city. But the rain still held off.
“I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble around here at this time of day,” said Sebastian, handing Tom the reins. “But if you see anyone you think looks suspicious, just walk the chestnuts up and down the street. And don’t hesitate to yell your head off if you must.”
“I won’t let ’em get me again, gov’nor,” said the tiger, his jaw set hard as he scrambled forward to the high seat.
The Reverend Marcus York was in the churchyard watching his sexton dig a long trench beside one of the brick walls when Sebastian walked up to him.
“Lord Devlin,” said the vicar, wiping his hands on his cassock. A pile of bones lay at his feet, and Sebastian realized that York was collecting the remains as they were flung up by the sexton’s shovel. “We’re just opening a new poor hole. They fill up quickly around here, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Sebastian as the sexton paused to pick up a brown-stained, grinning skull and add it to the pile. “Was the seaman who was murdered several weeks ago—Hugo Reeves—buried in your poor hole?”
“He was, yes,” said the reverend as they turned to walk away from the workman. “I try to say a few prayers over each of them, and I know we’re all equal in our good Lord’s eyes. But I can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for those condemned to such an anonymous end.”
“Well, at least they’re far from alone.”
“True, true,” said the reverend.
“Did any of Reeves’s family or friends attend his burial?”
“I believe there were two or three seamen came.”
“Anyone you recognized?”
“No. Sorry.”
Sebastian stared off across the churchyard. He was aware of the long grass between the tombs rippling with the wind and of the heavy smell of damp stone and earth hanging in the cold air as he chose his words carefully. “Someone suggested I look into your time at Cambridge.”
The reverend drew up short, his eyes glazing with the look of a man confronted with a past he had long tried to forget. “And did yo
u?”
“I did, yes.”
York turned his face into the wind, his rusty black cassock flapping around his legs. “That was a long time ago.”
“It was.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“No. But I gather it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“No,” said the reverend on a pained gust of air. “I was a hotheaded young man, quick to take offense, arrogant in my righteousness, and a slave to my angry impulses. But I’m not that way anymore; I’ve learned to fight with words, not my fists.” He looked over at Sebastian, the wind blowing the reverend’s long, lanky hair into his face. “I have not struck a man in anger in eighteen years. I swear.”
“Where were you on the nights Pym and Cockerwell were killed?”
“Visiting parishioners. I’m afraid there’s been much sickness in Wapping this autumn. The cold has come so early, and people don’t have enough to eat.”
“Were you with one family? Or visiting several each night?”
“Oh, several, I’m afraid. So I’ve no real alibi, if that’s what you’re asking.” The sound of a shovel scraping against bone carried across the churchyard, and he glanced toward the sexton, his strained features held tight. “I’m sorry, but I must get back.”
“I understand,” said Sebastian.
The reverend nodded and walked away quickly, his elbows bent, his hands thrust up into the sleeves of his cassock.
Sebastian didn’t want to believe this passionate, caring man of God was a brutal killer. If the victims had been anyone besides Pym and Cockerwell, he probably wouldn’t have believed it. But the targets of the much younger Marcus York’s righteous anger in Cambridge had all been wealthy, abusive, bullying men—the kind of men who forced themselves on housemaids and beat their horses half to death and cheated the poor because they knew they could get away with it.
Sebastian watched as the reverend took up his position at the side of the poor hole again and stooped to collect a long bone thrown up by the sexton’s shovel. Could a priest like that be driven to kill a couple of grasping, venal magistrates?
As he turned to leave, Sebastian wasn’t convinced the answer was no.
Chapter 33
It wasn’t until he was approaching the apse of the church that Sebastian realized someone was standing there, beside the distinctive tall gray stone monument he’d noticed before.
The man had his hat in his hands, his head bowed. He was a slim young man, probably somewhere in his twenties, his clothes those of a shopkeeper or a clerk. His windblown hair was light brown, his features even, his eyes squeezed shut as if he was in prayer. Then he must have heard Sebastian’s boots crunch on the gravel path, because he opened his eyes and whirled around.
“I beg your pardon,” said Sebastian. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The man swallowed hard and nodded, one hand coming up to swipe across his eyes.
“Did you know the Marrs?” asked Sebastian, his gaze going beyond the man to the tombstone inscribed Sacred to the memory of Mr. Timothy Marr . . .
The man nodded again. “He was my only brother.”
“I’m sorry.” Sebastian studied the younger man’s tensely held features. So this was the brother who was remanded into custody after Timothy Marr’s death, the man whose last words to his brother were hurled in anger. “You’re a linen draper, as well?”
He shook his head. “I keep our father’s haberdashery.” He sucked in a deep, ragged breath, his gaze returning to the tall monument. “I can’t believe it’s happening again.”
“The killings, you mean?”
“Yes. Oh, God!” The words sounded torn from a hurting place deep within him, and he pressed his lips together as if to hold back more.
“Do you think it was really John Williams who killed your brother and the others?”
“It’s what they said, right? And then the man killed himself and it never happened again, so I always figured it must be true. But now—” He broke off, his voice cracking.
“Was Timothy your older brother, or younger?”
“Older. But he ran off to sea. Our father never forgave him for it and left everything to me when he died. That’s what the lawsuit was for, you know. Tim was furious when he came home and found out.”
“Your brother sued you?”
The younger Marr gave a ragged laugh. “Over our father’s shop. It’s why they thought I might’ve killed him. As if I would.”
Sebastian’s image of Timothy Marr as a hardworking young linen draper and tender family man tilted slightly. “Did you know John Williams?”
“No, not at all.”
“Did your brother?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, no one ever said they knew each other. There was some talk that they’d sailed together once, but I don’t think that was true.”
“Before Williams hanged himself, who did you think killed your brother?”
Marr gazed off across the overgrown, rain-dampened churchyard. “I don’t know. Some of the seamen they were looking into at the time seemed more likely to me. Real scrubs and shag-bags, they were.”
“Such as?”
“Well, there was that big, mean-looking fellow. I can’t remember his name, but I saw him the other day with one of those magistrates who was killed.”
“You mean Billy Ablass?”
“That’s it. Long Billy, they call him.”
“Which magistrate did you see him with?”
The question came out sharper than Sebastian had intended, and he saw Marr’s eyes widen. “Sir Edwin Pym, it was. Down by the Sun Tavern rope walk. I remember it because it struck me as queer, seeing them together. They were arguing about something. I couldn’t tell you what, but it is odd, don’t you think? To see them together, talking like they knew each other? And then just a few days later, Pym ends up murdered the same way as Timothy and all the others.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No. Why?”
“Good,” said Sebastian, meeting the younger man’s gaze and holding it. “For your own sake, don’t.”
* * *
An unfamiliar lad was behind the bar at the Three Moons when Sebastian pushed open the door to the taproom. The lad was young, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen, tall, and slim, with long arms and legs he hadn’t quite grown into yet. His hair was lighter than that of the young woman Sebastian had seen here before, but he had the same ivory skin, straight nose, and mossy green eyes, and so great was the resemblance between them that Sebastian had little doubt they were siblings.
“He ain’t here,” said the boy, throwing a hostile glance over one shoulder at Sebastian. It was midafternoon now; the taproom rang with men calling for ale, and the boy was busy filling tankards.
“How do you know who I’m looking for?” asked Sebastian.
The boy let out his breath in a scornful huff. “Hannah told me ’bout you.”
“Hannah?”
“My sister.”
Sebastian had seen the names painted on the sign above the inn’s door: Hannah and Christopher bishop, proprietors. “You two own the place together?”
The boy gave an adolescent shrug. “Have since our mum died last year.”
“But you weren’t here three years ago at the time of the Ratcliffe Highway killings?”
“I was. Hannah wasn’t.”
Sebastian studied Christopher Bishop’s half-averted profile. “So was Billy Ablass living here at the time?”
The boy picked up two fistfuls of tankards. “No,” he said, and headed toward a table by the door.
Sebastian waited until he came back. “Do you know where Ablass is?”
“Right now? No.”
“Think your sister might?”
The boy stared at him, his thoughts impossible to read. “
Ask her yourself. She’s in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
Christopher Bishop grunted and turned away.
* * *
She was sitting on the floor in a corner of the bright, well-tended kitchen, a basket of fluffy gray-and-white kittens beside her, her head bowed over one she held in her lap. Her face was relaxed, a soft smile curling her lips. Then she looked up and saw him, and the smile faded to be replaced by something wary and closed.
“Lord Devlin,” she said. “Somehow I suspected we’d be seeing you again.”
He paused beside the window overlooking the inn’s small flagstone yard. “Because you suspect Billy Ablass?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So tell me this: Did you ever see Ablass with Sir Edwin Pym?”
“With Pym? Good heavens, no. Why?”
“They were seen arguing just a few days before Pym was killed.”
“They were?” A frown creased her forehead. “Well, if you’re looking to me to explain it, I can’t.”
Sebastian let his gaze wander around the tiled kitchen with its large new stove, its rows of gleaming copper pots, its well-scrubbed table. “This is a nice inn. A man like Ablass seems . . . out of place here.”
One of the kittens was struggling to escape from the basket, and she reached out a hand to capture it and put it back, her face thoughtful, as if she was trying to decide how to answer him. “This isn’t Mayfair, my lord. We try to appeal to a better sort of customer, but it’s a rough neighborhood and some of the men who come in can be trouble. Sometimes a man like Long Billy Ablass can be handy to have around.”
“I’d think Ablass himself could be trouble.”
“He knows to take it elsewhere.”
He studied her half-averted face. He had the feeling she wasn’t being entirely honest with him, but he couldn’t begin to guess why or how. He said, “Do you pay the Middlesex licensing committee a bribe every year?”
