Where the Dead Lie

by C. S. Harris

  • • •

  Shortly after Devlin’s departure for the coroner’s inquest, Hero walked down to the stables to find Tom perched on an upended barrel and muttering to himself as he worked at rubbing soap lather into a saddle. She could have sent to have him come up to the drawing room, but she suspected he’d be more at ease if she came to him and let him talk while he worked. Tom was slowly becoming more reconciled to Devlin’s marriage than he had been at first. But the truce between Hero and the young tiger was still an uneasy one.

  “Ye want t’ interview me?” he said, staring at her when she explained her reason for venturing down to the stables. “Fer yer article?”

  “Devlin suggested it.”

  Tom’s brows drew together in a frown, and it occurred to Hero that under the circumstances, perhaps mentioning Devlin hadn’t been such a good idea.

  “What ye want t’ know?”

  “How old were you when your mother was transported?”

  Tom bent his head over the saddle again. “Reckon I was maybe nine,” he said vaguely, although Hero had long suspected the boy remembered far more of those early days than he was willing to let on. After a moment, he added, “Huey was older; ’e was twelve.”

  Huey, Hero knew, was Tom’s brother. He’d been hanged as a thief at the age of thirteen.

  “What did you and Huey do after your mother was taken out to the transport ship?” Hero asked. “How did you survive?”

  Tom twitched one shoulder. “It weren’t easy, at first. But after a while we got taken on by this old cull kept a livery stable on Long Acre. ’E used t’ let us sleep in the ’ay loft in exchange for muckin’ out the stalls and such.”

  “That’s when you learned to like horses?”

  “Oh, I always liked ’orses, milady,” said Tom, looking up with a smile. The smile faded. “The problem was, that old cove, ’e didn’t give us enough t’ eat and ’e didn’t pay us nothin’ either. But we ’ad t’ work so long doin’ everythin ’e wanted that there weren’t time to find the ready we needed fer more food. That’s when Huey got took up fer stealin’.”

  “What did you do then?” Hero asked quietly.

  Tom shrugged again. “Without Huey, that old man, ’e wouldn’t let me stay there no more. Said I was too little to do everythin’ needed t’ be done. So ’e brought in some bigger lads and I had t’ find a new rig.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Whatever I could.” The boy had given up all pretense of cleaning the saddle now and simply sat with the sponge clenched in his fist. “It’s a terrible place t’ be, all alone like that, not knowing where yer next meal is gonna come from or where yer gonna sleep. I was always comin’ upon dead boys and girls, curled up under the bridges and by the bog houses. I reckon most of ’em jist give up ’n’ died. I guess they figured, why keep fightin’ it? Yer crawlin’ with critters and yer belly’s so empty it’s like ye got somethin’ live inside ye, clawin’ at yer backbone. And yer ’ands, they’re so covered with chilblains from the cold that they aches like they’s on fire. But you know what’s the worst of it? The worst part is, nobody cares. Nobody cares that yer hurtin’. Nobody cares that yer hungry and cold and scared. And nobody cares when ye die.” Tom looked up, his sharp-featured face held so tight and bleak, it broke her heart. “I don’t like rememberin’ them days. Do we need t’ keep talkin’ about this, milady?”

  Hero closed her notebook. “I think I have enough. Thank you, Tom.” And then she walked back up to her grand, comfortable house, feeling intensely ashamed of her city and her world.

  Feeling ashamed of herself.

  Chapter 36

  The formal inquest into the deaths of the two men Sebastian had killed was held in a tidy eighteenth-century brick inn on Swallow Street, not far from where the men had died.

  Inquests were held in taverns and inns simply because they were amongst the few spaces large enough to contain them. The bodies of the dead were always put on public display, and when they were particularly mangled and bloody they tended to attract huge crowds.

  The dead men had been identified as Samuel Cash and Pierre Le- Blanc, both with unsavory reputations as petty criminals and worse. But not even Bow Street’s finest had been able to discover who had hired them to kill Sebastian.

  The verdict of justifiable homicide was never in much doubt.

  Afterward, Sebastian stood in the taproom staring down at the still, pale forms of the men he had killed. He was only dimly aware of the raucous, shouting, boisterous, malodorous crowd surging around him. Who sent you? he wanted to ask the silent dead men. Was it the Clerkenwell killer? Or someone else? And he found himself studying the pallid features of the young, thin-faced man identified as Pierre LeBlanc. The fact that one of his would-be killers was French could, of course, be entirely coincidental. Then again it might not be.

  Which meant that the comte de Brienne had some explaining to do.

  • • •

  Amadeus Colbert, the comte de Brienne, was coming down his front steps just as Sebastian turned into Half Moon Street. The Frenchman cast Sebastian a long, thoughtful look, then turned to stroll toward St. James’s.

  “You’re abroad unusually early,” said Sebastian, handing the reins to Giles and hopping down.

  De Brienne glanced over at him. He wore an exquisitely tailored greatcoat of fine gray wool, with supple leather breeches and gleaming top boots ornamented with silver tassels. Tucked beneath one arm he carried a walking stick with a silver handle that no doubt concealed a sword. “So are you.”

  “I had an inquest to attend,” said Sebastian, falling into step beside him. “Someone tried to have me killed Thursday night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Was it you, by any chance?”

  De Brienne kept walking. “No; sorry.”

  “It’s the oddest thing, but I find myself straining to believe you.”

  “Then why bother to ask?”

  “One of my assailants was French.”

  “And you think that implicates me? London is full of Frenchmen. Unfortunately, it’s inevitable that a certain number of undesirable characters will slip in along with the more deserving refugees.”

  “True,” said Sebastian. “But then, what is one to do? Turn all away and let them die by the tens of thousands?”

  “There are those who would advocate for it—and still call themselves good Christian men.”

  “True. But then, most people do tend to have a rather limitless capacity for self-deception.”

  De Brienne threw him a swift, sideways glance. “Meaning?”

  “The man who tried to kill me was named Pierre LeBlanc. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Ever hear of him?”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Not exactly.”

  De Brienne drew up and turned to face him. “If I wanted you dead, monsieur, I would do it myself. I have something of a reputation for doing my own killing, remember?”

  “Perhaps you’re adaptable. You’ve certainly proven yourself to be in other respects.”

  “You say that as if adaptability were a bad thing.”

  “It can be.” Sebastian studied the Frenchman’s tightly held face. “We’ve found the bodies of more murdered children; did you know?”

  “And do you expect me to care? Perhaps counterfeit compassion?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “No. That would be out of character for you. And you’re always very careful to stay in character, aren’t you?”

  The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. “I did not try to have you killed.” Then his lips curled into a nasty smile. “Have you by chance thought to ask this question of your father-in-law?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help
you. And now you must excuse me; I’ve an appointment with my tailor.”

  “I wonder,” said Sebastian as the Frenchman started to turn away. “How did you come to know three volumes of Les 120 journées de Sodome had been smuggled into England?”

  De Brienne turned slowly to face him again. “Rutledge told me, of course.”

  “He knows of your interest in de Sade?”

  “All good merchants are attuned to their clients’ tastes, are they not? But I fear you have been misinformed, my lord; Rutledge received five copies of de Sade’s lost book, not three.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “He had no need to tell me; I saw them myself. I was in his shop the evening they arrived. All but two had been reserved—or at least so he claimed.”

  “Did he say by whom?”

  “Do you seriously think he would? I’m afraid that’s a question you’ll have to ask Rutledge.” And with that he executed a neat bow and continued up the street as if entirely preoccupied with the important task of selecting the cloth for his new coat.

  • • •

  Despite the brightness of the day, the narrow, ancient street of Holywell still lay in cold shadow, its ragged booksellers shivering and stomping their feet beside their barrows. Sebastian had come here determined to discover exactly how many copies of de Sade’s nasty little book had been imported to England and who besides the comte de Brienne and Hector Kneebone’s aristocratic female admirer had bought them. He was in a foul enough mood to do whatever was needed to shake the truth out of Clarence Rutledge. Except that when he drew up before the bawdy bookseller’s it was to find the shop closed.

  “Well, hell,” he swore under his breath.

  He handed the reins to Giles and jumped down, his gaze traveling over the ancient house’s silent, shuttered facade. Even though he knew it was useless, he banged his fist on the door panels hard enough to rattle the ancient door in its frame. “Rutledge?” he called. “Rutledge!”

  “’E ain’t there,” said a voice behind him.

  Sebastian turned to find himself being addressed by a ragged but startlingly pretty girl of perhaps fifteen. She had a heart-shaped face with a small, straight nose and enormous brown eyes, and she looked both very young and very wise to the ways of the streets. “’E ain’t opened up fer days.”

  “Does he do that often—go away for days at a time and shutter his shop?”

  “’E does when the authorities nabs ’im.”

  “And have the authorities ‘nabbed’ him this time?”

  The girl twitched one shoulder. “Not so’s I ’eard. But meybe.”

  “Where does Rutledge live?”

  She glanced toward the closed casement windows of the old house’s jutting upper story. “Up there.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  The girl stared at Sebastian in expectant silence, her pretty face a study in quiet extortion.

  Sebastian swallowed an oath of impatience and handed her a shilling.

  “Thursday mornin’,” said the girl, the coin disappearing into her rags.

  Sebastian knew a faint whisper of concern. There was no reason to suspect that Rutledge had fallen victim to anything more sinister than their age’s harsh laws against selling lewd literature or printing seditious tracts advocating democracy.

  Yet even as Sebastian told himself these things, the sense of uneasiness remained.

  Chapter 37

  Balked of his first objective, Sebastian drove next to Covent Garden.

  He found Hector Kneebone still abed, surrounded by a frothy cocoon of lace-trimmed fine linen and gleaming burgundy silk. His handsome mouth hung half-open, emitting a crescendo of snores heavily perfumed by last night’s wine. The morning might be gone, but the actor’s bedroom was still dark thanks to the heavy, tightly closed drapes at the windows. Sebastian plucked Kneebone’s copy of Les 120 journées de Sodome from its shelf and tossed the book onto the actor’s stomach.

  Kneebone half strangled on his last snore and sat up with a jerk, his nightcap flopping down over his forehead. “What? What?” His gaze settled on the double-barreled flintlock pistol in Sebastian’s hand, and he froze.

  “Relax,” said Sebastian with a smile as he eased back the first of the pistol’s two hammers with a menacing click.

  “Relax?” Kneebone scooted back until he was pressed against the bed’s ornately carved headboard. “You sneak into my bedroom, throw things at me, point a pistol at me, and tell me to relax? What the bloody hell?” He cast a frantic glance toward the darkened parlor. “Where’s Dugger?”

  “If Dugger is your manservant, he’s been called away on an errand. He should return in an hour or two.”

  Kneebone’s gaze shifted back to Sebastian’s pistol. “What do you want from me?”

  “The book,” said Sebastian, wiggling the flintlock’s muzzle toward the black leather volume that had flopped to the counterpane beside Kneebone’s hip. “I want to know where you got it.”

  The actor brushed the volume away with a swipe that sent the expensively bound tome sliding to the floor with a loud thump. “It was given to me.”

  “By whom?”

  “I can’t tell you that!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s not the way these things are done and you know it. The ladies can brag about their conquests all they want. But let a man dare breathe one word—one bloody word!—and he’s instantly labeled a vile cad.”

  “Which obviously isn’t good for an actor’s career.”

  Kneebone’s brows drew together in a scowl. “No, it’s not.”

  Sebastian shifted the pistol’s muzzle to a lower part of Kneebone’s anatomy. “Neither is a bullet. Tell me where you got the bloody book.”

  The actor’s eyes widened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Lady Sutton,” he said on a gusty exhalation of breath. “Lady Sutton gave it to me. She said she bought it from some shop on Holywell Street, but I don’t know which one. I swear!”

  Sebastian blinked. He was vaguely acquainted with Lady Sutton, a baronet’s wife somewhere in her late forties with a reputation for drinking too much, laughing too loudly, and wearing her gowns cut too low.

  Her husband was in his late eighties.

  Sebastian nodded toward the book again. “Have you read it?”

  “It’s in French. How the blazes am I supposed to read it? My father was a costermonger. Where do you imagine I learned French?”

  “You don’t sound like a costermonger’s son.”

  Kneebone put up a hand to straighten his nightcap and hold it in place as he executed a short, mocking bow. “Thank you.”

  Sebastian pulled back the second hammer. “If you can master Mayfair’s version of the King’s English, why not French?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it?”

  “I do not speak French,” said Kneebone again, enunciating each word carefully. “And I wouldn’t want to read that book even if I did.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Because I looked at it; that’s why. The first few engravings are titillating enough, but by the end—” The actor’s famous features convulsed in a grimace of horrified revulsion that may or may not have been genuine. “That thing would give the devil himself nightmares. It’s sick.”

  “It’s meant to be.”

  Kneebone shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I’ve performed in some of de Sade’s plays over the years, and they’re nothing like that.”

  “True. But then, they weren’t written in the Bastille.” Sebastian shifted his weight. “Tell me about the woman who gave you the book—Lady Sutton. Does she like that sort of thing?”

  Kneebone’s eyes widened. “What? Young boys being skinned alive and beautiful young women rent limb from limb? I hope not.
I think she likes to shock, to test the bounds of—of everything, actually. She prides herself on being different, on not being afraid of anything. For her, I suspect much of the book’s appeal lies in its history—that, and the fact that only five copies were smuggled into England.”

  “Who told you there were five copies?”

  “She did. Why?”

  The way Sebastian figured it, Kneebone had one copy, Sebastian himself had one, and de Brienne had one—which left two still unaccounted for. “Did Lady Sutton buy one for herself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did she give it to you?”

  “Must have been a year ago, at least. It was right before she retired to the country with her lord.”

  “Are they still there?”

  “In the country? Last I heard, yes; the old bugger’s been quite ill. Why?”

  “Does her lord share her tastes?”

  “I gather he did, once. But he’s quite old now—essentially an invalid.” Kneebone sat up straighter, his fists clutching the bedclothes to the front of his nightshirt the way a woman might do. “I wonder: Have you . . . have you looked into Number Three, Pickering Place?”

  “Obviously,” said Sebastian. “They’re the ones who gave me your name, remember?”

  Kneebone’s tongue crept out to wet his dry lips. “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. But did you know there was a young girl killed there a few weeks ago? They gave it out as a suicide, but it wasn’t. The only reason they weren’t able to cover it up completely is because a customer saw the dead girl’s body before they could get rid of it. I gather he set up quite a ruckus.”

  “And how do you happen to know this?”

  “A friend of mine was there that night.”

  “A friend. And why should I believe him—or you?”

  Kneebone’s strong jaw hardened. “Ask the Bligh sisters about it yourself. The girl’s name was Jane. Jane Peters. My friend, he says that establishment must be protected by someone to get away with something like that. Someone with a great deal of power.”

  Sebastian pushed away from the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”