Why Mermaids Sing sscm-3

by C. S. Harris

  The doctor nodded. “The torso had been slit open and the heart, lungs, and liver removed. Rather inexpertly, I might add.”

  “Hacked in anger?” Sebastian asked.

  Newman looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t have said so, no. There were no extraneous wounds to the body. Just the slice across the throat, the opening of the body cavity, and the removal of the organs.”

  Lovejoy pressed a cleanly folded handkerchief against his tightly held lips.

  “Had the blood been drained from the body?” Sebastian asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?”

  “From the condition of the two most recent victims found in London.”

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  “There would seem to be, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But…Do you have any idea who’s doing this? Any idea at all?”

  “We’re working on it,” said Lovejoy, tucking his handkerchief away. “Had the Thornton boy been bound and gagged before he was killed?”

  “I’m a physician, Sir Henry, not a surgeon. I’m afraid I have never made such things a study.” It was said with gentle pride, for in the hierarchy of medicine, physicians were gentlemen. Educated at Oxford and Cambridge, they could discourse at length in Latin on the medical texts of the ancients. They used their learning—and their observations of their patients’ pulse and urine—to prescribe drugs, or physics. They did not involve themselves in such vulgar practices as physical examinations; nor did they deal with broken bones. They certainly did not perform surgeries or carve up cadavers in an attempt to learn the secrets of life. Because of the rarified nature of their husbands’ activities, the wives of physicians, like the wives of barristers, could be presented at court; the wives of solicitors and surgeons such as Paul Gibson could not.

  The doctor drew a pocket watch from his waistcoat and smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid you gentlemen must excuse me, but I’ve an elderly patient I promised to see before two o’clock. I’ll ask my housekeeper to bring you some tea, shall I?”

  “Thank you, but no.” Lovejoy pushed to his feet. “If you think of anything else that might be considered relevant, you will contact Queen Square?”

  “Yes, of course.” Rather than ringing for the housekeeper, Dr. Newman walked with them to the front door himself. As they passed the stairs, an old beagle stretched to its feet and padded over to the physician’s side.

  “By the way,” said Sebastian as he prepared to follow Lovejoy into the bright sunshine, “did Nicholas Thornton have anything in his mouth when he was found?”

  “Actually, yes.” Newman bent to pull absently at the dog’s ears, his face troubled. “I can’t imagine how I could have forgotten to mention it. It…it looked like a star. A silver papier-mâché star.”

  Chapter 23

  There was a peace to be found in graveyards. Sebastian had always felt it as a gentle acceptance of the passage of time and the cycles of life. A peace tinged with sorrow, perhaps, but rarely with violence.

  Standing beneath an ancient elm tree near the south transept of the ancient Norman bulk of St. Andrews, Sebastian looked out over a churchyard of neatly scythed grass dotted with moss-covered headstones and crumbling gray tombs. Bees buzzed a nearby scarlet rosebush that was scattering spent petals across the grass. Yet there was no peace to be found here, Sebastian thought; the very air seemed charged with expectation and unassuaged anger.

  Sir Henry cleared his throat. “This one, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sebastian turned to find the magistrate peering at a low tomb that lay just off the worn path leading from the rectory to the ancient iron-banded door of the south transept. Sebastian walked over to stare down at the simple stone monument formed of gray stone sides some eighteen inches high surmounted by a cracked flat slab. Its inscription was so weathered and encrusted with lichen as to be virtually unreadable.

  “Probably.” He glanced up. From here he could see the High Street and the village green, and beyond that, the stone bridge that arched over the stream. “A rather public spot for a killing, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sir Henry nodded. “According to the Reverend, the boy disappeared in the afternoon while fishing. They searched the woods and fields behind the rectory to no avail. It wasn’t until early the next morning that his body was discovered here. Which would suggest the boy was killed, then taken to an out-of-the-way spot to be butchered before being brought back here to be found by the Reverend at first light.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Nicholas Thornton’s throat was slit. If the boy had been killed beside the stream, the men who searched for him that evening would have seen blood. They didn’t. Whoever killed the boy might have overpowered him in the wood, but I suspect he was killed wherever he was butchered.”

  “Yes, of course.” Sir Henry stared off across the churchyard, lost deep in thought. “I wonder how many others there have been,” he said after a moment, half to himself. “There could be a dozen or more such killings scattered across the length of England and beyond. How would we know? I learned of this one only by chance.”

  “I suspect this was the first,” said Sebastian.

  Sir Henry swung to look at him. “How could you possibly assume that?”

  Sebastian squinted against the bright sunlight. “Are you familiar with the poetry of John Donne?”

  “Somewhat. Why? Whatever has Donne to do with any of this?”

  “The objects left in the victims’ mouths,” said Sebastian.

  Sir Henry shook his head. “I still don’t understand.”

  “They’re from a poem.” Sebastian hunkered down to search the grass beside the weathered tomb. “‘Go and Catch a Falling Star.’ Do you know it?”

  “I don’t believe so, no.”

  “I don’t remember all of it. Only the beginning. But listen…

  “‘Go and Catch a Falling Star

  Get with child a mandrake root,

  Tell me where all past years are,

  Or who cleft the devil’s foot,

  Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

  Or to keep off envy’s stinging,

  And find

  What wind

  Serves to advance an honest mind.’”

  “Merciful heavens,” said Sir Henry. “The killer is following the poem. First the star, then the page from the ship’s log, and now the goat’s hoof. Only the mandrake root is missing.” His lips tightened into a grim line. “There must have been another murder. A murder that took place at some point between April and June that we have yet to discover.”

  Reaching out, Sebastian traced the faded, incised cross on the tomb with his fingertips. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the killer simply skipped that line for some reason.”

  “Skipped it? What possible reason could he have for doing such a thing?”

  “I suspect he has a reason for everything he’s doing.” Brushing off his fingertips, Sebastian pushed to his feet. “The objects left in each man’s mouth. The different ways in which each was mutilated. The manner in which each body was displayed after death. It’s all been very deliberate. This killer has a reason for it all. And if we’re to have any hope of stopping him, we need to find out what that reason is.”

  Chapter 24

  The drawing rooms and ballrooms of Mayfair would forever be barred to women such as Kat Boleyn—women who displayed their charms on the stage, who had known a succession of men in their beds. But Kat was a frequent and welcome guest in those salons of Bloomsbury and Richmond, where the entrée depended not on birth or wealth but on possession of a keen wit and a sharp intellect, where conversation turned not so much to fashion, horses, and hunting as to art and philosophy, literature and science.

  On the afternoon following her fateful meeting with Jarvis, Kat put in an appearance at the select salon of a general’s daughter named Annabelle Hershey. Miss Hershey was a small woman with pale skin and dark hair, green eyes, and a mind that
might have made her an Oxford don had she been born a man.

  She greeted Kat with a peal of merry laughter. “Miss Boleyn, you have been sent by the very gods! You find us in desperate need of a Shakespearean expert to solve our dispute. Do tell us, please: in The Merchant of Venice, is Jessica’s father Shylock or Tubal?”

  Kat cast a quick glance around the crowded salon. The assembled company ranged from scientists such as Humphrey Davy to the renowned literary hostess Miss Agnes Berry and a moody, brilliant, but little-known poet named Lord Byron. The man Kat sought was not here. “Shylock,” Kat said. “Tubal is his friend.”

  Annabelle Hershey threw up her hands in mock surrender. “You were right, Miss Berry! It’s back to the schoolroom for me.”

  From there the conversation slipped easily into a discussion of the rebuilding of the Drury Lane Theater. Kat stayed chatting for some fifteen minutes, and was about to take her leave when Aiden O’Connell strolled into the room. Kat flashed him a wide smile, then immediately looked away.

  He approached her a few minutes later. A lean man in his late twenties, he had beguiling green eyes and a dimpled smile that made him a favorite with the ladies despite his unfortunate position as a younger son. “Any other man in the room would be in transports to have received such a welcoming smile from the most beautiful woman in London. So why am I filled with trepidation?”

  “Because you’re not the fool you would have others think you, perhaps?”

  He opened his eyes wide. “Do I play the fool?”

  “Very well.” She leaned into him under cover of flirtatious laughter. “I must speak with you. Urgently and alone.”

  His gaze met hers, and whatever he saw in her eyes drove the amusement from his. “When and where?”

  “I am being watched. Come to my dressing room at the theater. Tomorrow night after the performance.”

  He was silent for a moment, considering this. “Very well. Until then.” He moved away from her, to where Sir Thomas Lawrence was entertaining a small group with a tale of the antics of his latest subject’s ferocious pet parrot.

  Kat watched the Irishman out of the corner of her eye. It had occurred to her that by warning Aiden O’Connell, she was running a serious risk. If he knew she meant to betray him, he could very well decide to have her killed himself. Yet it was a risk she had decided she must take. She could not betray him to Jarvis without first giving the Irishman an opportunity to escape.

  How she would deal with Jarvis’s fury when he discovered his quarry flown was a quandary she had yet to satisfactorily resolve.

  That evening, the wind blew in from the northeast, bringing with it the biting chill of the North Sea. Devlin sat in a wing chair beside the fire in Kat’s bedroom, a volume of John Donne’s poetry open on his lap. He was flipping through the pages when Kat came to stand behind him and loop her arms over his shoulders.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Listen to this,” he said, and began to read.

  “‘Go and Catch a Falling Star

  Get with child a mandrake root,

  Tell me where all past years are,

  Or who cleft the devil’s foot,

  Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

  Or to keep off envy’s stinging,

  And find

  What wind

  Serves to advance an honest mind.

  “‘If thou be’st born to strange sights,

  Things invisible to see,

  Ride ten thousand days and nights,

  Till age snow white hairs on thee.

  Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,

  All strange wonders that befell thee,

  And swear,

  No where

  Lives a woman true and fair.

  “‘If thou find’st one, let me know,

  Such a pilgrimage were sweet;

  Yet do not, I would not go,

  Though at next door we might meet.

  Though she were true, when you met her,

  And last, till you write your letter,

  Yet she

  Will be

  False, ere I come, to two, or three.’”

  “Well,” said Kat, “Mr. Donne didn’t like women much, did he?”

  Devlin smiled. “He was a clergyman. It’s something of an occupational hazard.”

  Kat ran her fingers through the dark curls at the nape of his neck, felt the tension coiled within him. “The young man who was killed down in Kent last April…” She left the rest of the question unsaid.

  “Was found with a papier-mâché star in his mouth.”

  “Dear God.” She came around to curl up on the rug at his feet, her hands folded together on his knee, her head tilted back so she could see his face. “What does it all mean?”

  He closed the book and set it aside. “I wish I knew.”

  She rested her cheek against his leg. “Tell me about today.”

  He told her in soft, measured tones. When he finished, she lifted her head and said. “‘Get with child a mandrake root.’ It’s the second line of the poem. Why would the killer skip one line of a poem he’s obviously following so deliberately?”

  “Lovejoy thinks there must have been a similar killing someplace in England between April and June, a killing he simply hasn’t heard about yet.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  She sat back, her hands trailing down his leg in a gentle caress. Turning her head, she stared into the fire. For a moment she thought of the clergyman’s son in Avery, the lines of Donne’s poem running over and over in her head. But it wasn’t long before her thoughts slid away to her own problems, to Jarvis’s threat and her meeting with O’Connell tomorrow.

  Devlin touched her hair, his hand cupping her chin to turn her face to him again. “What is it?” he asked.

  She gave a startled laugh and shook her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s troubling you. Something you’re trying to hide from me.”

  She laid her hand over his and shifted to plant a kiss against his palm. She kept her voice light, her smile in place. “Are you suggesting I’m a poor actress?”

  “I’m suggesting I know you.”

  “Do you?” She took his hand and placed it on the swell of her breast. “What does this tell you?”

  His hand tightened over her breast, caressing her through the thin muslin of her gown. She saw the leap of desire in his eyes and let her own eyes slide shut, her head tipping back as she sucked in a quick, delighted breath.

  He slipped from the chair, his knees denting the carpet beside hers, his lips warm against the bare flesh of her throat. His hands found the tapes of her high-waisted gown, loosened them. He eased the gown from her shoulders, taking with it the light chemise she wore beneath it.

  Her lips closed over his, hungry now. Pressing her naked body against his clothed one, she drove all thoughts but this from her mind—this man, this love, this moment—and surrendered herself to it utterly.

  Later, as she lay naked and spent in his arms, he traced the features of her face with one softly sliding finger and said, “Marry me, Kat.”

  A pain swelled in her chest, a pain of want and longing that could never be eased. But she was an actress, and so she was able to summon up a smile, even though her voice shook slightly. “You know why I can’t.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow, his fierce eyes glowing in the dying light of the fire. “My aunt Henrietta has found another suitable bride for me. A Lady Julia Something-or-other.” He entwined his hand with hers and kept his tone light, although she knew he was intensely serious. “If you truly loved me, you would rescue me from the matrimonial machinations of my family by marrying me yourself.”

  “You need a Lady Something-or-other as a wife.”

  “No. I need you.”

  “I would destroy you.” Her voice was a torn whisper.

  He slid his hands beneath her, drawin
g her up close so that he could bury his face in her hair. “No,” he said, all hint of lightness gone from his own voice. “Not having you in my life would destroy me.”

  Chapter 25

  WEDNESDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 1811

  Early the next morning, Sir Henry Lovejoy was just leaving his bed when one of his constables banged at his door.

  “What is it, Bernard?” Henry asked when the constable came stomping in, bringing with him the cold damp of the morning.

  “You know that case you was telling us about yesterday? The one you think might be linked to some poem about mermaids and mandrake roots?”

  Henry felt a twist of anxiety deep within his being. “Yes.”

  Bernard ran a hand across his beard-roughened face. “I think there’s somethin’ down near the docks you need to see.”

  In the dim light of dawn, the forest of masts out on the river were mere ghostly things without form or function. Sir Henry Lovejoy thrust his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and suppressed a shiver. The mist coming off the water swirled around him, cold and damp and smelling strongly of hemp and tar and dead fish.

  “Oye. You there.” The bulky form of a constable appeared out of the gloom. “T’ain’t nobody allowed any farther ’ere. Orders of Bow Street.”

  “Sir Henry Lovejoy, Queen Square,” snapped Henry. He brushed past the constable, his footsteps echoing on the wooden planking of the docks.

  He could see a knot of men clustered near an old warehouse up ahead. Henry paused, aware of a hollowness yawning deep inside and trying to swallow the thickness that had come to his throat. The sight of violent death was never easy for Henry. He had to steel himself for the sight of yet another human being butchered like a side of beef.

  At Henry’s approach, one of the men near the warehouse straightened and came toward him. A fleshy man with protruding watery gray eyes and loose wet lips, Sir James Read was one of Bow Street’s three serving magistrates, a small-minded man Henry knew to be both ambitious and fiercely jealous of his dignity.

  “Sir Henry,” said the magistrate with a show of bluff good humor, “no need for you to have braved the cold on such a foul morning. This one had the courtesy to get himself offed well away from Queen Square.”