by C. S. Harris
He was failing her; he knew that. She was in trouble, and for some reason he couldn’t understand she felt unable to confide in him. Or had she tried to turn to him for help, he wondered, only to find him so preoccupied with stopping this killer that she came away thinking he had no time for her? He realized he couldn’t even be sure.
Which was, he supposed, a damning conclusion.
Chapter 33
THURSDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 1811
Sebastian hesitated in the cool morning shadows of the ancient arcade, his gaze on the gentlewoman ladling porridge at a table set at the far end of the courtyard.
The poor and hungry of the city pressed past him, their gaunt frames clad in filthy rags, their faces drawn and desperate. The smell of unwashed bodies, disease, and coming death mingled with the dank earthy scent of the old stones around them. Once, before Henry VIII cast his covetous eyes upon the wealth of the church, this had been the cloisters of a grand convent. Now it was a half ruin that served as an open-air relief center, part of a vast yet woefully inadequate network of private charities that struggled to alleviate the worst of the sufferings of London’s burgeoning population of poor.
A young girl clutching a wailing baby cast Sebastian a curious look, but he kept his attention fixed on the gentlewoman quietly dispensing porridge: Lady Carmichael. A tall, starkly thin woman in her late forties, she wore a plain black apron tied over a fine walking dress also of unrelieved black, for she was in deepest mourning. Beneath a simple black hat covering dark hair heavily laced with gray, her face looked nearly as gaunt and drawn as those of the men and women who crowded around her, cracked and chipped bowls clutched eagerly in desperate hands.
Sebastian had known other women dedicated to good works. Most were nauseatingly condescending and self-righteously conscious of their ostentatious benevolence. Not Lady Carmichael. She worked with a quiet selflessness that reminded Sebastian of the nuns he’d encountered on the Iberian Peninsula and in Italy. She was as generous with her smiling words of encouragement as with her porridge. Yet she did not strike Sebastian as either gentle or soft. There was a firmness there, along with a calm self-possession that marked her as a strong, formidable woman.
Sebastian continued to hang back, watching her, until the last of the porridge was distributed and the throng began to thin. Only then did he step forward.
“Lady Carmichael?”
She turned at his words, her gaze assessing him. He had the impression she’d been aware of him, watching her from the shadows. “Yes?”
Sebastian touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “I’m Lord Devlin. I’d like a word with you, if I may?”
Considering the way Sir Humphrey Carmichael had reacted, Sebastian knew he was taking a chance, identifying himself to her. She continued looking at him steadily for a moment, then said, “You wish to talk to me about my son.” It was not a question.
“Yes.”
She drew a deep breath that flared her nostrils, then nodded crisply. “Very well.”
She motioned to her servant to continue packing up the supplies, then turned to walk with Sebastian beneath the ancient arcade.
“Why have you involved yourself in this, my lord? What prompts a wealthy young nobleman to participate in a murder investigation? Hmm? Morbid curiosity? Arrogance? Or is it simple boredom?”
“Actually, it was at the request of a friend.”
She glanced sideways at him, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.
“Sir Henry Lovejoy,” he said.
“Ah. I see. Yet it’s my understanding Bow Street has taken over the investigation. And still you persist. Is that not arrogance?”
Sebastian found himself faintly smiling. “I suppose in a sense it is. But that’s only part of it.”
“And what’s the other part? Don’t tell me it’s a desire to see justice done. There is very little justice in this world, and you know it.”
“Perhaps. But I can’t allow something like this to continue, if I can stop it.”
Again that arch of the eyebrow. “You think you can stop it?”
“I can try.”
A brief flicker of what might have been amusement softened the grim line of her lips, then faded. “And have you discovered anything, my lord?”
“I think so, yes.” Sebastian studied the gentlewoman’s delicately boned profile. “Did you by any chance accompany Sir Humphrey on his trip to India five years ago?”
“India?” She swung to face him, the dark skirts of her mourning gown swirling softly around her. “Whatever has India to do with my son’s death?”
“Sir Humphrey and Lord Stanton were both return passengers aboard a ship called the Harmony, captained by Edward Bellamy.”
He watched her lips part on a quickly indrawn breath. “You think that’s the connection between the deaths of Dominic Stanton and my son? The Harmony?”
“Considering what happened to Adrian Bellamy on Tuesday night, yes.”
She brought up one hand to press her fingers to her lips. “You mean the young naval lieutenant killed on the docks? That was Captain Bellamy’s son?”
“Yes.”
“But his body wasn’t…” Her voice trailed off.
“No. But there is evidence his death is connected, nevertheless. Were you a passenger on that ship?”
She shook her head. “No. I do sometimes travel with my husband, but not on that trip, thankfully.” She turned to continue walking, the soft soles of her shoes whispering over the worn stones. “You’ve heard what happened to them?”
“Yes.”
“Sir Humphrey was ill for months after his return. I sometimes think he’s never entirely recovered from the ordeal.”
“Do you know who else was on that ship besides your husband and Lord Stanton?”
She hesitated, the frown lines between her eyebrows deepening with thought. Then she shook her head. “No. There were some six or seven others, but I don’t recall their names.”
“Was one of them a clergyman?”
“Actually, yes. A missionary and his wife returning from some years’ stay in India. I remember because he annoyed Sir Humphrey excessively.” Her gaze flickered over to Sebastian. “Why?”
“There was a young man murdered down in Kent last Easter, in Avery. The son of one Reverend William Thornton.”
“And this Reverend Thornton was on the Harmony, as well?”
“I don’t know for certain yet, but I suspect so, yes. I do know that he and his wife spent some years on a mission in India.”
They walked along in silence for a time, their footsteps echoing in the stone-vaulted corridor. At last she said, “It makes no sense. Why would someone be killing the children of the Harmony’s passengers?”
“Someone who wanted revenge, perhaps.”
“Revenge for what?”
Sebastian met her gaze and held it, and the air between them crackled with all that remained unsaid. The desperate, starving men and women of the Harmony might have kept their secret for five long years, but there was no escaping the implications suggested by the butchered bodies of their children.
Lady Carmichael’s eyes widened. She shook her head fiercely, her throat working hard as if she were forced to swallow a rise of bile. “No. You’re wrong. Nothing like that happened on that ship.”
“Can you be certain?”
Her voice throbbed with emotion. “My husband is a hard man, Lord Devlin. A hard, brilliant man who can be brutal in business if he must. But only in business. He could never, ever have done what you are suggesting. Never.”
Sebastian stared off across the now silent, half-ruined cloister, all that remained of what had once been a thriving community. “Most of us probably think we could never do such a thing,” he said. “Yet when faced with the stark choice between that and death, I suspect we’d all be uncomfortably surprised by how few would choose death.”
“You’re wrong,” she said again. But she was no longer looking at him, and Sebastian suspected she
spoke the words in a futile effort to convince herself.
Chapter 34
Kat was seated at the elegant little writing table in her morning room, attempting to draft a terse note to the Irishman Aiden O’Connell when she heard Devlin’s rich voice in the hall below, mingling with the desultory tones of her maid, Elspeth. Quickly shoving the note out of sight, Kat stood and turned just as he entered the room.
He was dressed in doeskin riding breeches and top boots, and brought with him the crisp scent of the September morning. He caught her to him for a quick kiss and said, “Come ride with me in the park.”
She held him just an instant too long, then laughed. “I’m not dressed for riding.”
“So change.” He touched his fingers to her cheek, his expression suddenly, unexpectedly serious. “I’ve hardly seen you the last few days, and when I do, I find you looking…tense.”
The urge to confide the truth to him welled up within her, hot and desperate. Yet even more than she feared Jarvis, she found she feared watching the love in Devlin’s eyes turn to hate. And so she kept silent, although the need to confide in him remained, filling her with a bittersweet ache.
She brushed her lips across his and somehow managed to summon up a smile. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” he said with exaggerated incredulity, then threw up his hands to catch her playful punch.
Some half an hour later, as they trotted side by side through the streets of the city, he told her of Captain Bellamy, his beautiful young Brazilian wife, and little Francesca. Kat knew a pang of fear when he told her of the knife-wielding assassin on the Thames. And then he told her of last night’s meeting with Charles, Lord Jarvis.
She listened to him in silence. “And you believed him?” she asked when Devlin had finished.
He glanced over at her, a light frown touching his forehead. “Sir Henry is checking into the particulars of the ship. But yes, I believe him. It simply fits too well. I suppose even Jarvis must tell the truth at times.”
She made an inelegant sound deep in her throat. “Without an ulterior motive? Never.”
She was uncomfortably aware of him watching her as they turned through the gates of the park and rode in silence for a moment. She could fool all of London from the stage, but she couldn’t fool this man.
He said, “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
She considered trying to laugh the question away, but knew she would never convince him. Forcing herself to meet his fierce yellow stare, she said in a low, strained voice, “I’m sorry. I can’t speak of it.”
He continued to hold her gaze, his face drawn with worry. But he said no more.
She looked away, her attention caught by a small man in a round hat and spectacles hurrying toward them across the park. As she watched, he raised one hand in a discreet attempt to catch their attention.
Devlin reined in and swung to his feet.
“My lord,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, coming up to them. Pivoting, he gave Kat an awkward little bow. “Miss Boleyn. My apologies for the interruption. Your young tiger told me I might find you here, and I thought you would be interested to hear that I’ve been to the Board of Trade.”
“And?” said Devlin.
“Their records of the inquiry into the Harmony’s loss appear to be missing. The clerk assures me they’ve simply been misfiled and he has instituted a thorough search for them, but it’s curious. Very curious.”
Kat heard Devlin utter a soft oath. “You think someone could have taken the records?” she asked.
“Surely not,” said Sir Henry. Reaching into his coat, the magistrate drew forth a slip of paper. “I was, however, able to ascertain the names of the owners of both the ship and the cargo.”
“What was she carrying?” asked Devlin, taking the paper.
“Tea. In an effort to stave off the mutiny, Captain Bellamy was forced to allow the crew to throw the entire shipment overboard in an attempt to delay the ship’s sinking. The owner of the cargo—a Mr. Wesley Oldfield—was ruined. Utterly ruined. He’s in debtors’ prison, at the Marshalsea.”
“That’s interesting.” Devlin glanced down at the paper in his hand and gave a wry smile.
“What is it?” said Kat, watching him.
Devlin handed her the paper. “The ship’s owner. It’s Russell Yates.”
Sir Henry cleared his throat. “You know Mr. Yates?”
“Mr. Yates is a well-known figure around the West End,” said Kat. “The man used to be a pirate.”
“A pirate?”
She smiled. “Well, a privateer. He was the younger son of an East Anglian nobleman, but ran off to sea as a boy and came home a wealthy man. He still wears a gold hoop in one ear and talks like a pirate. Society professes to be scandalized, but they tolerate him because…Well, because he’s Yates, and he was brought up a gentleman, and he is both amusing and very, very wealthy.”
Sir Henry was looking serious. “You think he could have something to do with these savage murders?”
“Yates?” Kat thought about it. “I suspect he could be savage, if driven to it. But to coldly murder four young men for something their fathers might have done? No. I don’t think he could do that.”
“What finally happened to the Harmony?” Devlin asked. “Do you know?”
Sir Henry nodded. “According to what I’ve been able to discover, a partial crew from the HMS Sovereign tried to patch her up and sail her back to London, but she was too far gone. They finally had to abandon her when she floundered in heavy seas off Lisbon.”
“So Mr. Yates suffered a loss, as well.”
“So it would seem. Although the ship might well have been insured. I plan to spend the afternoon in the offices of the city newspapers, reading their back issues for more details on the incident.”
“I thought you were off the case?” said Devlin with a smile.
A rare gleam of amusement lit the magistrate’s serious gray eyes. “I am.”
Chapter 35
Having exchanged the black Arab for his curricle, Sebastian rattled across the worn stones of London Bridge into Southwark. The sun shone warm and golden on the river, but the lanes around the Marshalsea prison were dark and dank, the air heavy with the foul stench of rubbish and rot and despair.
“Wesley Oldfield,” said Devlin, pressing a coin into the shaky hand of an old man he came across within the prison’s high gray brick walls. “Where might I find him?”
“Up the stairs. Last door to your right,” said the man in a surprisingly cultured voice.
“Thank you.”
Holding a handkerchief to his nose, Sebastian climbed the noisome, urine-stained stairs and made his way down a cold passage. The sound of a violin playing a sad, sweetly lilting tune came to him from the far side of the scarred old door at the end of the corridor. The music stopped when Sebastian knocked.
“Who is it?” called a tight, anxious voice.
“Viscount Devlin.”
The door jerked open.
An unkempt man stood on the far side. According to what Sebastian had been able to learn, Wesley Oldfield was in his late thirties. But the man before Sebastian looked a good twenty years older than that, his long, matted hair the color of a winter sky, his face sunken and gray with ill health. He stood hunched over, one hand on the edge of the door as if for support, the other arm cradling a battered violin. He peered at Sebastian through watery, washed-out blue eyes, his jaw slack. “Do I know you?”
“Mr. Wesley Oldfield?” said Sebastian.
The man ran one hand across the stubble on his chin in a self-conscious gesture. “That’s right.”
“May I come in?”
Oldfield hesitated, then took a step back and swept a flourishing bow. “Come in. Do come in. Pray accept my apologies for the less than salubrious nature of my accommodations.”
Sebastian stepped into a small, low-ceilinged room with a meager, empty fireplace and a single, barred window. The room was as unk
empt as the man, and smelled foully of stale sweat and excrement and the slowly creeping madness that can come from a once-promising life now hopelessly derailed.
Oldfield moved awkwardly to clear the clutter of papers and books from the threadbare seat of a once grand chair. “Please. Sit down. I get so few visitors these days I fear I’m forgetting my manners. May I offer you brandy?” He reached for a bottle that stood open on a rickety table, then said, “Oh, dear,” and tssked softly to himself, staring down at the empty bottle. “I must have finished it last night.”
“I have no need of refreshment, thank you.” Looking at the broken man before him, Sebastian found it difficult to believe Oldfield could have anything to do with the murders. He wasn’t sure the man was even capable of remembering anything of significance about the Harmony or its last, fatal voyage.
“You’re the Earl of Hendon’s son, are you not?” said Oldfield, turning away to lay the violin in its case with an almost reverent air.
“You know my father?”
“I know of him.” The man swung back to fix Sebastian with an unexpectedly steady stare. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the Harmony.”
The man’s reaction to this bald statement was utterly unexpected. The Harmony might have led to his ruin, but at the mention of the ship’s name, he came to perch on the edge of his unmade bed, a strange excitement animating his features as he leaned forward. “You’ve noticed it, too, have you?”
“Noticed what?”
“These killings. First the Reverend Thornton’s son—”
“You know about Nicholas Thornton?”
