Why Kings Confess

by C. S. Harris

  Sebastian’s hand hovered over the nearest platters. “Crab and asparagus?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He added them to the plate in his hand.

  She reached for a serving of shrimp in aspic. “You’ve obviously sought me out for a reason; what is it?”

  Sebastian studied her still faintly smiling profile. “Somehow, I suspect you’re not going to approve of what I have to say.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “Shall I undertake not to throw this plate of food at your head?”

  “That might help. You see, I’ve made a rather troubling discovery. It seems that not only did Damion Pelletan’s father perform an autopsy on the boy identified as the Dauphin; he also removed and carried away with him the child’s heart. He still has it.”

  She was no longer smiling. Her lips parted, two little white lines appearing at the corners of her mouth as her hand tightened so hard on the plate she held that he wondered it didn’t crack. “I did not know that. Are you certain?”

  If she were an actress, she was a world-class one. Sebastian said, “I’m told he keeps it in a crystal vase in his study. Why would he do that?”

  She reached for a bread roll. “It has long been the practice in France to preserve the internal organs of the royal family separately from their bodies. The burial of the royals’ remains typically took place at the basilica of Saint-Denis. But their hearts and entrails were willed to various places. The previous Dauphin of France had his heart buried at Val-de-Grâce, along with those of scores of other kings and queens and princes of the blood.”

  Sebastian wondered if she’d heard of the fate of those hearts during the Revolution. Their precious silver and gold reliquaries torn open and sent to the mint to be melted down, the hearts were put into a wheelbarrow and burned—except for a few that were sold to painters, who liked to use the dried organs to create a special rare red-brown pigment known as “mummia.”

  He said, “So you’re suggesting—what? That Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan was a royalist? That he took the Dauphin’s heart so that even if his body were consigned to a common grave, his heart might at least be preserved?”

  “I don’t know Dr. Pelletan’s politics. But he has managed to hold on to his position at the Hôtel-Dieu in Paris through the Revolution, the Directory, and now Napoléon’s empire. Whatever his opinions, he is obviously most adept at keeping them to himself.”

  Sebastian glanced toward Marie-Thérèse, who sat rigidly staring at him with palpable dislike. He said, “Pelletan took a risk, preserving the heart of the child who died in the Temple. He obviously believed the boy was indeed the Dauphin.”

  “The rumors that the Dauphin somehow escaped the Temple—that the boy who died in his place was an unfortunate deaf-mute imposter—are just that: rumors. A myth. A tale told to comfort those unable to accept the harshness of reality.”

  “Yet the rumors persist.”

  “They do, yes. I will never understand why the revolutionaries failed to show Marie-Thérèse her brother’s body. Perhaps after years of neglect and mistreatment, they feared she might not recognize him. Or perhaps they feared allowing her to see the state to which their cruelty had reduced him. But there is no doubt in my mind that the last son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette died in the Temple in 1795. To suggest otherwise is as ridiculous as to lend credence to the silly tales of the Dark Countess.”

  Sebastian shook his head, not understanding. “What Dark Countess?”

  Lady Giselle gave a small, tight laugh that held no real humor. “Ask Ambrose LaChapelle. I’ve no doubt he would enjoy telling you the story.” She took the second plate from Sebastian’s hand. “And now you must excuse me, my lord. Thank you for your assistance.”

  He watched her return to the Princess’s side and fuss about her with unfailing good humor. A few glances were thrown in his direction, but he had no doubt Lady Giselle was seriously editing her recital of their conversation.

  He went in search of Ambrose LaChapelle. But neither the French courtier nor the Comte de Provence was in attendance that night. Sebastian was just calling for his hat and cloak when a small, lithe figure in a tiger’s striped waistcoat wiggled in through the crush, deftly evading all attempts to collar him.

  “Guv’nor!” cried Tom, panting as he skidded to a halt. “Come quick!”

  Sebastian felt his stomach twist as he gripped the boy’s slim shoulders. “What is it? Is it Lady Devlin?”

  “What? Oh, Lord no. It’s Sir ’Enry Lovejoy. ’E says t’ tell ye that Frenchy colonel ’as been found dead, on the Old Swan Stairs. And wait till ye ’ear what the killer done t’ ’im!”

  Chapter 38

  What was left of Colonel André Foucher lay sprawled on his back halfway up—or halfway down, depending on one’s perspective—the ancient, slime-covered granite steps known as the Old Swan Stairs. Located at the base of Swan Lane just above London Bridge, the stairs led from the lane down to the Thames.

  By day, it was a busy landing point for the wherrymen and barges that plied the river. But at this hour of the night, the river was deserted. A heavy, wet fog swirled around the body; the air was thick with the smell of the river and damp stone and death. His arms were thrown up on either side of his head, elbows slightly bent, palms toward the white sky. Sebastian took only one look at the man’s face before turning away.

  “Good God. What did they do to him?”

  Sir Henry Lovejoy stood at the edge of the steps with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. He had a scarf wrapped around his neck and held his shoulders hunched forward, although whether it was from the cold or the horror of what lay before him, Sebastian couldn’t have said.

  The magistrate cleared his throat. “It appears someone has gouged out his eyes.”

  “And his heart?”

  “Oh, he still has that.”

  Sebastian squinted down the river, toward the bridge. But the fog was so thick he couldn’t see five feet in front of his face. “How did you even find him?”

  “A wherryman tripped over him.”

  “Has anyone spoken to Harmond Vaundreuil?”

  “Not exactly. The clerk, Camille Bondurant, identified the body. According to the constable who carried the news to the Gifford Arms, Monsieur Vaundreuil took the news quite badly. He’s now dosed himself with laudanum and taken to his bed.” Lovejoy’s disgust at this Gallic display of sensitivity flattened his face and quivered his nose, although he felt compelled to add, “I gather he has a bad heart.”

  “He thinks he does, at any rate.”

  “Having two of your party of five murdered—brutally—is enough to give anyone a bad heart.”

  “True.”

  Sebastian hunkered down beside the murdered man and forced himself to take another look. A dark stain of blood spread out from beneath the body. “How was he killed?”

  “Stabbed in the back, from the looks of things. But we’ll know more when Gibson’s had a go at him.”

  “I wonder why the eyes?” Sebastian said, half to himself.

  “It is rather symbolic, is it not? Rather like the theft of Pelletan’s heart. Perhaps Foucher saw something he was not supposed to see.”

  Sebastian let out a long, troubled breath. In his arrogance, he’d thought he was narrowing in on who had killed Damion Pelletan, and why. But Foucher’s death—and, more important, what had been done to him after death—suggested that the focus of Sebastian’s inquiries so far had been all wrong.

  • • •

  He pushed to his feet. “Have you heard anything about this morning’s explosion in Golden Square?”

  Lovejoy nodded. “I saw a preliminary report not long ago. It seems the rooms in which the charge was set were empty; the woman who previously occupied them died last week.”

  “Convenient. No one saw anything?”

  “Apparently not. But there’s no doubt that whoever set the blast knew what he was doing. I’m told the gunpowder was contained in such a way that the
full force of the blast went upward.”

  “Toward Alexandrie Sauvage’s rooms.”

  “Yes.”

  Sebastian brought his gaze back to the French colonel’s ruined face. He’d become convinced that the theft of Damion Pelletan’s heart was somehow connected to the reason for his murder. But Foucher’s death complicated that scenario even as it underscored his conviction that they were dealing with a killer who was either far from sane or else diabolically clever.

  Or perhaps both.

  The problem was, how did that morning’s attempt on the life of Alexi Sauvage fit into any of it?

  “Nothing symbolic about trying to blow someone up,” he said aloud.

  Lovejoy swallowed. “If there is, I don’t see it.”

  Sebastian nodded and started up the stairs, the soles of his dress shoes slipping on the wet, slimy stones. Then he paused to look back as a thought occurred to him. “What was Foucher doing here, anyway?”

  “That we don’t know.”

  “Monsieur Vaundreuil picked a damned inconvenient time to dose himself with laudanum.”

  “Perhaps he’ll have developed more of a stiff upper lip by tomorrow.”

  “One can only hope,” said Sebastian.

  Wednesday, 27 January

  The next morning, Charles, Lord Jarvis, was still in his dressing room when he heard someone ringing an impertinent peal at the distant front door. He pulled on an exquisite pair of unmentionables and calmly buttoned the flap.

  His valet’s head jerked around, eyes widening at the sound of a shout, followed by a light, quick step on the stairs.

  Jarvis said, “From the sounds of things, I shall shortly be receiving a visitor. You may leave us.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The valet bowed and moved toward the door, just as the handle turned and Viscount Devlin walked into the room.

  “Oh, good,” said Devlin. “You’re still here.” He was dressed in doeskin breeches, tall Hessians, and a black coat, and he brought with him all the smells of a foggy London.

  Jarvis wrinkled his nose and reached for a starched white cravat. “As you see.”

  Devlin shut the door in the interested valet’s face. “I take it you’ve heard about Colonel Foucher?”

  “I have.”

  He was aware of Devlin studying him, those ungodly yellow eyes glowing with a fierce passion. “Is it you? Is this all part of some diabolical scheme to frighten Harmond Vaundreuil into fleeing back across the Channel?”

  “By plucking out the hearts and eyes of his underlings? How revoltingly Gothic. What do you suggest I do next? Eliminate the clerk—what’s his name?”

  “Bondurant.”

  “—by having his tongue cut out?”

  “If anyone’s capable of it, you are.”

  Jarvis laughed. “Thank you. Or was that meant as an insult?” He carefully settled the wide strip of linen around his neck. “While I’ve no doubt such a simple solution would appeal to you, the fact remains that it is not I. Nor do I know who is doing this. But I won’t pretend to be even vaguely troubled by the turn of events. If Vaundreuil is still in London by the end of the week, I’ll be very much surprised.”

  Devlin stood with his legs braced wide, his head thrown back, his jaw set hard. “Yet you would have had me believe you were concerned my inquiries might disrupt the progress of the negotiations.”

  “I was concerned.” Jarvis smiled. “If not quite for the reasons I led you to believe.”

  “Would peace with France really be so bad?”

  “As long as Napoléon still rules as Emperor? Yes.”

  “Who would you have in his place? The Comte de Provence?”

  “For a time. He is next in line, after all, and one must at least appear to observe the traditional order of succession. Provence is a fool and ridiculously infatuated with the more extreme permutations of constitutional monarchy. But he’s old before his time and hopelessly fat. He won’t last long.”

  “And then what? His brother, Artois? The man is a dangerous reactionary as well as being foolish and vain and hopelessly profligate. The French would never put up with him for long.”

  “I think perhaps you underestimate Artois’s enthusiasm for repression. He watched the mistakes his brother Louis XVI made back in 1789, giving in to one demand after the next, when a few well-placed whiffs of grapeshot would have scuttled the entire Revolution before it had a chance to gather momentum.”

  Devlin remained silent.

  After a moment, Jarvis smiled. “You know, of course, that I’ve had men watching the French delegation since their arrival?”

  “I didn’t know, but I can’t say that I’m exactly surprised. Would you have me believe they observed something useful?”

  “As to its usefulness, that is not for me to say. But I do know they witnessed an interesting quarrel between Damion Pelletan and his sister on the night he died.”

  The Viscount’s eyes narrowed. “You knew Alexandrie Sauvage was Pelletan’s sister?”

  Jarvis kept his gaze on the mirror, his fingers adjusting the folds of his cravat.

  Devlin said, “Where precisely did this quarrel occur?”

  “At the Gifford Arms. I’m told that a man and a woman arrived first; they spoke to Pelletan for a time, then retired. Madame Sauvage appeared just as Pelletan was about to return to the inn.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

  “Really? How industrious of you. Only, I gather you somehow neglected to hear of the quarrel which then took place.”

  “And what precisely was the subject of this quarrel?”

  “That, my informant was too far away to hear.”

  “Then how did he know it was a quarrel?”

  “It was rather heated. There was no mistaking the level of passion involved.”

  “And the man and woman who came before? Who were they?”

  “My observer was unable to make an identification.”

  “Indeed?”

  Jarvis smiled at the Viscount’s posture of stiff incredulity. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because this obsession of yours with the death of Damion Pelletan is becoming tiresome. You belong at home with your pregnant wife.”

  “Hero is fine. Believe me, she wouldn’t thank you for encouraging me to hover anxiously about her.”

  Jarvis smoothed the line of his waistcoat, his gaze hard on his son-in-law’s face. “If my daughter dies because of the babe you planted in her belly, I swear to God, I will kill you. Personally.”

  Devlin’s gaze met his and held it. And Jarvis saw there a deep and quiet awareness of the looming danger to Hero that Jarvis realized matched his own.

  “She’s not going to die.”

  Chapter 39

  Alexandrie Sauvage answered Sebastian’s knock at the door of Gibson’s surgery on Tower Hill.

  “Gibson is in the yard, performing the autopsy on Colonel Foucher,” she said.

  “Good.” Sebastian brushed past her when she would have shut the door again. “You’re the person I wanted to see.”

  She stood for a moment with one hand on the latch, the fog creeping in around them. Then she closed the door and turned to face him. “What do you want?”

  She wore the only dress she now possessed, although she had fastened an apron over it. The apron was liberally smudged with grime, and there was a dirty streak across one cheek. He realized she’d been scrubbing the small room to the right of the door, making it her own. He should have been relieved to discover that she was staying in the surgery rather than in Gibson’s house. Only he wasn’t sure it made much of a difference.

  He said, “You told me that the night Damion Pelletan was killed, you went to the Gifford Arms and found him standing in front of the inn.”

  “Y-yes,” she said slowly, as if mistrusting where his questions were leading.

  “What exactly did you say to him? ‘There’s a sick child I’d like you
to look at; please come’?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Nothing else? And then you left for St. Katharine’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “And as you walked up Cat’s Hole, he told you he wanted Lady Peter to run away with him, and you quarreled?”

  “Yes.” She stared back at him, her brown eyes dark with suspicion and what looked very much like hate.

  He said, “So what did you argue about at the Gifford Arms? Given everything I’ve learned about Damion Pelletan, I find it difficult to believe you had to work to convince him to come with you. So what the devil were you quarreling about?”

  “Who told you we argued at the inn?”

  “Damion was part of a French delegation sent to London on a delicate mission. It’s hardly to be wondered at that he was being watched.”

  “By Jarvis, you mean?”

  When Sebastian didn’t say anything, she huffed a scornful, breathy laugh. “What exactly are you suggesting? That I quarreled with my brother, lured him into a dark alley, cut out his heart, and then hit myself over the head? Oh, and then blew up my servant woman when she threatened to expose my evil deeds to the world?” Bright color appeared high on her cheeks. “I am a doctor. I save lives; I do not take them.”

  It had, in fact, occurred to him that she might be far more involved in her own brother’s death than she would like them to believe. But all he said was, “The argument at the inn: What was it about?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. It involves a secret that is not mine to reveal.”

  Sebastian stared at her. “What the devil do you think I’m going to do? Shout it from the rooftops? Take out an advertisement in the Times? God damn you! Three people are already dead. How many more must die before you start being honest with me? Tell me what the bloody argument was about.”

  She went to stand at the narrow window overlooking the lane. But the fog was so thick it was like trying to look through yellow soup.

  She said, “Damion had discovered that I knew . . . something. That I had known it, for nine years. Something he believed I should have told him. I’m sorry, but more than that I cannot say.”