What Remains of Heaven

by C. S. Harris

  “From 1781? At least that narrows the date of death some.” Sebastian studied the cadaver’s dark, leathery face. “Any wounds besides the knife in his back?”

  “Take a look for yourself.” Heaving the corpse onto its side, Gibson pointed to a slit just below the left shoulder blade. “This is where I found the blade. But he was also stabbed here.” He indicated another tear, toward the left. “And here.”

  “Three times. All in the back.”

  “The first two wounds were not particularly deep.” Gibson eased the shriveled corpse onto its back again. “There may be more that I missed, given the condition of the body.”

  “No clue as to who might have killed him, or why?”

  “Sorry.”

  Sebastian cast a quick look around the small, dank room. “Where’s the Bishop?”

  “Lying in state at London House.”

  “Ah. When’s the funeral?”

  “Next week sometime.”

  “Next week?”

  Gibson shrugged. “The church needs to allow time for everyone to assemble the proper mourning clothes.”

  “At least the grave robbers won’t have much interest in him by then.”

  An amused crease appeared in the Irish doctor’s cheek. “Not in this weather.”

  Sebastian brought his attention back to the time-blackened corpse before them. “Anything that might connect the two murders?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Gibson rested his hips against the bench, his arms crossed at his chest. “It could simply be a coincidence, you know—the two bodies being found in the same place. The Bishop hurries out to Tanfield Hill to investigate the discovery of the original murder victim, and either surprises someone in the act of robbing the crypt, or is followed by some enemy who decides to take advantage of the darkness and bash our good bishop over the head.”

  Sebastian rubbed one bent knuckle against the side of his nose. “I don’t like coincidences.”

  “Yet they happen.”

  “They do.” Hunkering down, he studied the cadaver’s distorted, sunken face, with its gaping mouth and shriveled nostrils and empty eye sockets. After a moment, he said, “Think anyone who knew this man thirty years ago would recognize him if they saw him today?”

  “In a word? No.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Sebastian pushed to his feet. “You say you sent his clothes over to Bow Street?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “It occurs to me that even if someone couldn’t recognize our friend’s face, they might remember his clothes. Or at least his watch and fob.”

  “After all this time?”

  “If someone you loved disappeared into thin air, you don’t think you’d remember what he was wearing—even after thirty or forty years?”

  Gibson thought about it a moment. “You might have a point.”

  Sebastian walked around the slab, studying the withered cadaver from every angle. But from any angle, none of it made any sense.

  Gibson said, “It seems to me that when you come right down to it, there are basically two possibilities. Either our eighteenth-century gentleman was killed by someone who had nothing to do with the Bishop’s death, or they were both killed by the same man.”

  Sebastian looked up. “Why would a murderer wait thirty years or more to go after his second victim?”

  “I don’t know; you’re the expert on murderers. I just read their victims’ bodies.”

  “There is one other alternative,” said Sebastian slowly.

  Gibson frowned. “What?”

  “That the Bishop killed our eighteenth-century gentleman. And then someone else killed the Bishop. In revenge.”

  When the information from London House failed to arrive by one o’clock on Thursday afternoon, Hero set forth for St. James’s Square in her carriage, accompanied by her long-suffering maid.

  “My dear Miss Jarvis,” exclaimed the Bishop’s chaplain, all obsequious goodwill as he received her in his chambers. “I was just now preparing to send the details you requested around to Berkeley Square. I am most dreadfully sorry for the delay, but the diary secretary only this instant completed making the necessary copies.”

  “Thank you,” she said, slipping the packet he handed her into her reticule.

  “You have heard, of course, that Archbishop Moore has requested the help of Viscount Devlin in investigating the Bishop’s death?” He said the Viscount’s name in the tone churchmen typically reserved for words like “Jezebel,” and “heathen,” and “Satan.” Devlin had obviously not ingratiated himself with the Chaplain. Or perhaps his reputation for hard living had simply preceded him.

  “I had heard,” she said with a great show of sympathy. “How distressing for you.”

  He gave a soulful tut-tut. “It is, it is. But it is what the Archbishop wants, so we must, of course, do what we can to facilitate the arrangement.”

  “I suppose Devlin wanted to know all about the events of Tuesday night.”

  “Indeed he did. I told him everything, from the Reverend Earnshaw’s arrival to the Bishop’s own departure in his chaise.”

  “Everything?” said Miss Jarvis with a smile.

  The Chaplain gnawed thoughtfully on the inside of one cheek. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “Well,” he said, leaning forward as he dropped his voice to a whisper. “I did leave out one or two little details about Monday.”

  Hero listened to the Chaplain’s words with an outward show of calm interest. But inside, she was anything but calm.

  When he had finished, she said, “I’m convinced you were quite right to keep these, er, details to yourself. I can see no need for Devlin to know of them.”

  The Chaplain sat back and heaved a relieved sigh, although he still looked vaguely troubled. “I’m so glad to hear you agree.”

  Sebastian was eating a light nuncheon in his own dining room when he heard a distant, timid tap-tap at the front door. A moment later, his dour-faced majordomo, Morey, appeared to clear his throat apologetically and say, “A gentleman to see you, my lord. A clerical gentleman, in a high state of nervous agitation. He says his name is Mr. Earnshaw, from St. Margaret’s in Tanfield Hill.”

  Sebastian pushed back his chair. “Show him into the drawing room. I’ll be with him in a moment.”

  He found the reverend of St. Margaret’s hovering before the empty hearth. A small, softly fleshy man with slightly protruding eyes and a receding chin, he held his black hat gripped in both hands before him like a shield.

  “Mr. Earnshaw. An unexpected pleasure. May I offer you a glass of sherry? Or do you prefer port?”

  A quiver of want passed over the man’s features, but he said primly, “Nothing, thank you.”

  Sebastian indicated the cane chairs near the room’s front bow window. “Please have a seat.”

  The Reverend shook his head back and forth in short, sharp jerks. “No, thank you. I’ve come to apologize for not being in a fit state to receive you yesterday.”

  “It’s understandable,” said Sebastian, pouring himself a glass of port. “You’re certain you won’t have something?”

  Again, that quick, jerking shake of the head. “I’m told the Archbishop has requested your assistance in dealing with this . . . unpleasantness. I am therefore here to answer any questions you might have.”

  The Archbishop had obviously expressed his displeasure at his underling’s thoughtlessness in drugging himself into a twenty-four-hour stupor. One did not displease the Archbishop of Canterbury, even if that archbishop was old and dying.

  “I think I’ve been able to piece together most of what happened that night,” said Sebastian. “I gather that after the discovery of the body in the crypt, you traveled up to London to acquaint the Bishop with the situation?”

  “That’s right. Unfortunately, the Bishop had an important appointment scheduled for six that evening. Rather than return with me immediately to St. Margaret’s, he arranged to drive out to Tanfield Hill afterward. It was my int
ention to meet him at the church, but . . .” The Reverend’s voice faded away.

  “But?” prompted Sebastian.

  “One of my parishioners. Mrs. Cummings. She was ill. By the time I returned, the Bishop had already arrived. And it was too late.”

  The small, protuberant eyes blinked rapidly several times in succession. “I just keep thinking that if only Bishop Prescott could have returned with me to St. Margaret’s right away, none of this would have happened!”

  Sebastian took a slow sip of his wine. “Did the Bishop happen to mention the nature of the appointment he had that evening?”

  “No. Only that he didn’t feel he could cancel it. Something about an old friend in need of counseling.”

  Sebastian’s fist tightened around his glass. “Really?” What had Miss Jarvis said? The Bishop asked for my assistance in preparing the speech he was to give before the House of Lords this Thursday.

  The Reverend nodded again, his head moving up and down in a way that reminded Sebastian of a pigeon pecking at seed.

  Sebastian took another sip of his wine. “It seems a strange thing to have done—rushing off to the Bishop simply because some workmen had stumbled upon an old crypt. I mean, why the Bishop?”

  “Because of the body, of course.”

  “You were concerned about . . . what? A scandal? Over a decades-old murder victim?”

  Mr. Earnshaw’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “Good heavens. Can it be that you do not know?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “About the ring!”

  “What ring?”

  “Sir Nigel’s ring! I recognized it.”

  Sebastian set aside his drink with a click. “You’re saying you recognized a ring on the body in the crypt?”

  “Yes, yes. An ancient Roman profile, carved in black onyx and mounted in a setting of filigreed silver. Sir Nigel wore it always on his right little finger.”

  “Who is Sir Nigel?”

  The Reverend stared at him. “Why, Sir Nigel Prescott. Bishop Prescott’s eldest brother!”

  Chapter 15

  “The imbecile never mentioned the ring to anyone,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy.

  They were in Hyde Park, walking along the banks of the Serpentine. The magistrate had brought a loaf of stale bread and was crumbling it up to feed the ducks. Sebastian said, “But you have heard of Sir Nigel?”

  “Oh, yes. We’ve had constables fanning out across the entire area, asking about men who disappeared thirty to forty years ago. His name came up right away.”

  Sebastian watched as a plump drake, its feathers iridescent in the sunlight, waddled out of the reeds toward them. “Sir Nigel was the Bishop’s eldest brother?”

  Lovejoy nodded. “By some thirteen years. He went missing in July of 1782. His horse was found wandering on Hounslow Heath, so it was generally believed he must have fallen victim to highwaymen. But his body was never found.”

  “How long was this before the crypt of St. Margaret’s was bricked up?”

  “Unfortunately, there was a fire in the sacristy some years ago that destroyed many of the church’s records. We’re still trying to ascertain the exact date of the closure.” Lovejoy threw a chunk of bread to the drake, who caught the morsel out of the air. “Sir Nigel’s widow, Lady Prescott, still lives at Prescott Grange. A son inherited the estate.”

  “Sir Peter Prescott,” said Sebastian.

  Lovejoy kept his gaze on the task at hand. “You know him?”

  “We were at Eton together.”

  The magistrate tossed the drake another handful of crumbs. “I understand he was a posthumous child, born some months after his father’s disappearance.”

  Sebastian nodded. “He suffered a fair amount of grief over it at school—you know what boys can be like. But he always took it well.” Sebastian watched the drake waddle away, tail feathers flashing in the sun. “I’m told there were originally five Prescott brothers. The middle three were all killed in the wars of the last century.”

  “Good heavens. I hadn’t heard that. A most unfortunate family, indeed.” Lovejoy emptied the rest of his bread on the grass. “If Bishop Prescott learned that his brother’s body had been discovered, it would certainly explain why those who saw him after Earnshaw’s visit described him as agitated.”

  “True. Except that William Franklin also described the Bishop as troubled. And he saw Prescott on Monday.”

  “It’s my intention to take the victim’s clothing, watch, and fob out to Lady Prescott this afternoon. Hopefully she’ll be able to make some sort of identification without actually viewing the remains.”

  “What I want to know is, what happened to the ring?”

  Lovejoy glanced over at him. “It wasn’t on the body?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Earnshaw says he brought the ring up to London, to show the Bishop.”

  Lovejoy’s lips flattened into a disapproving line. “Seems a ghoulish thing to have done—tugging a ring off a corpse’s finger.”

  “Given the state of the body, I imagine it came off easily enough.”

  Lovejoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well . . .”

  “According to the Reverend, he gave the ring to Bishop Prescott. But I checked with London House, and no such ring has been found in the Bishop’s chambers. Gibson says it wasn’t in the Bishop’s pockets, or in his hand, when the bodies were delivered to him.”

  “I suppose the Bishop may have dropped it in the crypt,” said Sir Henry, dusting the last crumbs of bread from his hands. “I’ll send some of the lads to give the place another going-over.”

  “There is one other possibility.”

  Lovejoy raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  Sebastian said, “The killer could have taken it.”

  Later that afternoon, after she’d coaxed her mother out on a visit to one of Lady Jarvis’s oldest friends, Hero settled on the window seat in her bedchamber and withdrew the Bishop’s schedule from her reticule.

  She ran through it quickly, relieved to see that there was nothing in the Bishop’s calendar—except, of course, for his frequent meetings with Hero herself—that might betray her to Devlin. Satisfied of that, she went back to the beginning.

  There, indeed, was the visit from Lord Quillian, just as she had suspected, on the afternoon of the Monday before the Bishop’s death. “Ha. You see?” she said aloud, as if Devlin himself were actually in the room with her. Then she frowned as she studied several other curious names on the schedule.

  She might be nine-tenths convinced of Quillian’s guilt in the Bishop’s murder, but Hero liked to consider herself an open-minded person, which meant she had to remain receptive to other possibilities.

  Pushing up from her window seat, she went in search of paper and pen. At the top of the page, she wrote, Lord Quillian, and below that, William Franklin. For a moment, she reconsidered and started to cross out his name, for the man was aged and infirm. But she reasoned that it did not require excessive strength or agility to hit someone over the head with an iron bar, so she left the American’s name in place.

  She glanced through the Bishop’s schedule again, but came up with only one other interesting item: Sir Peter Prescott. Why, she wondered, would Sir Peter make an appointment to see his own uncle? She wrote his name on the list, then circled it in frustration.

  One of the more tedious aspects of being an unmarried female was the extent to which it circumscribed her movements and activities. Having recently suffered a bereavement, Sir Peter was unlikely to attend any social functions. And try as she would, Hero could not come up with a sufficiently plausible excuse to visit him.

  Decorum could, at times, be exceedingly aggravating.

  That night, Sebastian made a rare appearance at his aunt Henrietta’s rout.

  One of London’s most sought-after hostesses, the Duchess of Claiborne never failed to send her nephew an invitation to each of her many functions. Recognizing the summonses for what they were—thinly veiled attempts to
introduce him to an endless line of suitable young debutantes—Sebastian invariably but politely refused.

  As a result, the sight of her disreputable but still highly eligible nephew actually appearing in her drawing rooms that evening was such a shock that Henrietta staggered slightly, one hand groping for the quizzing glass that hung from a riband around her neck. “Good heavens,” she said. “It is you, Devlin. Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to live up to the expectations of your house and look about you for a wife?”

  “No,” he said baldly, cupping her elbow to steer her toward a small withdrawing room. “I want to hear what you can tell me about the Prescotts.”

  “Ssshh,” she whispered, shutting the door behind them with a snap. “I don’t want Lady Christine to overhear.”

  “Who?”

  “The Earl of Lumley’s daughter. She really is lovely, Sebastian. But while I can assure you she is quite one of your admirers, it might be better if she didn’t hear that you’ve once again involved yourself in murder—”

  “I didn’t involve myself in this murder; you did.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m afraid her sensibilities are such that—”

  “Aunt,” he said sternly. “I am not here to be enchanted by your latest ingenue, however lovely she may be. I’m here because I want to know what you can tell me about Sir Nigel Prescott.”

  “Sir Nigel Prescott? Why on earth would you want to know—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Good heavens. Is he the decades-old body in the crypt?”

  “In all likelihood, yes.”

  She sat down on a nearby swan-shaped pink silk settee with an inelegant thump. “Good heavens,” she said again.

  “You knew him, I presume?”

  “Of course I knew him.” The Duchess of Claiborne not only knew everyone—she knew all their dirty little secrets, too. And she remembered them forever. “A most disagreeable man,” she said with a tut-tut. “Very bad ton. Nothing at all like his brother.”