Where the Dead Lie

by C. S. Harris

  Whom?

  The most obvious answer was his sources: the Bligh sisters and the comte de Brienne. Except that Jarvis had minions everywhere, which meant the killer could easily be someone Sebastian didn’t suspect, didn’t even know existed.

  Who else? Prominent members of the government, surely. Also prominent clergymen such as the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London. But Sebastian could think of no reason for Jarvis to protect a clergyman as insignificant as Leigh Filby, the lowly vicar of St. James’s, Clerkenwell.

  What about a young, up-and-coming actor such as Hector Kneebone?

  Sebastian pondered this possibility as he walked. Could Kneebone be one of Jarvis’s sources? Sebastian could certainly see Jarvis paying Kneebone for—or pressuring him into providing—information about the various wellborn women who passed through his bed, damaging information Jarvis could then use to blackmail and control those women’s husbands.

  The problem with that explanation was that Kneebone had an alibi for the last killing.

  So who else?

  Sebastian turned to cut up Southampton Street toward Covent Garden. Would Jarvis feel the need to protect the son and heir of a wealthy, powerful nobleman such as the Marquis of Lindley? Perhaps. Anything with the potential to undermine the common people’s respect for the aristocracy was by extension a threat to King, God, and country. The problem with that explanation was that Ashworth, like Kneebone, had a solid alibi—in Ashworth’s case, for the deaths of both Benji and Les Jenkins.

  Which left—what?

  Sebastian kept walking. Who else? More than anything, Jarvis’s talents were dedicated to protecting the House of Hanover. And that translated into carefully shielding the reputations of the royal family and their closest relatives.

  Relatives such as Sir Francis Rowe.

  Sebastian turned the name over and over in his mind. He’d largely abandoned his earlier suspicions of the King’s unsavory cousin, both because the Baronet had a solid alibi for the night Benji was snatched off the streets of Clerkenwell and because Sebastian’s understanding of the boy’s murder had evolved. Once he began to realize he was looking for a killer who’d spent years torturing and murdering the city’s poor, homeless children, it made little sense to suspect Sir Francis simply because of a purloined snuffbox. Except . . .

  Except just because Sir Francis targeted Benji out of personal malice didn’t mean he couldn’t also have killed Mick Swallow and Mary Cartwright and a dozen other children whose names Sebastian would probably never know.

  Thoughtful, he pushed his way across the crowded, raucous market. The problem with that theory was that Sir Francis Rowe had an alibi for the night of Benji’s abduction, just as Lord Ashworth had an alibi for the night of Benji’s death and Hector Kneebone had an alibi for the time of Les Jenkin’s death. But what if . . .

  Sebastian drew up abruptly, a sense of possibility coursing through him. He knew he was making a giant leap. But it was a way to make sense of much that had bedeviled and misled him.

  “Bloody hell,” he said softly. And then he said it again, loud enough this time to catch the attention of a passing matron, who frowned at him sternly. “Bloody hell.”

  • • •

  “By the time I left, they’d found six more graves in the gardens of the Bethnal Green cottage,” said Lovejoy, rubbing his eyes with a splayed thumb and forefinger as he and Sebastian walked along the terrace of Somerset House. The magistrate had spent most of the day out at Bethnal Green watching the bones of the city’s forgotten, murdered children slowly emerge from the earth. His eyes were sunken and red, his face slack with exhaustion. Most of London’s magistrates were content to exercise their duties from the comfort of their chambers. But there had always been some such as Lovejoy, men who never hesitated to go out into the streets to view crime scenes themselves and actively help catch killers.

  “What about the family that’s been living there?” asked Sebastian.

  “I understand the woman is refusing to return to the house with her children.”

  “Good,” said Sebastian, pausing to stare out over the choppy waters of the Thames, now turning a glorious gold with the sun’s descent. He’d always believed that places absorb the emotions, good and bad, experienced by those within their walls. No child should have to grow up in a house that had witnessed such horrors. “What about the Penniwinch Lane house?”

  Lovejoy shook his head. “Nothing. After our killer moved on from Bethnal Green, he must have begun burying his victims at the shot factory.”

  “No word yet on the factory’s owners?”

  “Ah, yes; I almost forgot.” Lovejoy drew a folded paper from his coat. “We received the heirs’ names just today.” He handed Sebastian the paper. “There are fourteen altogether.”

  Sebastian ran quickly through the list of men and women. Most were unknown to him. But there, second from the last, was a name that leapt out at him: Sir Francis Rowe.

  “My God,” whispered Sebastian.

  Lovejoy looked at him in surprise. “Something interesting?”

  Sebastian held out the list. “Sir Francis. He was suggested to me days ago as someone with a grudge against Benji Thatcher. But until recently I’d virtually eliminated him because he had a solid alibi for the night Benji was abducted and because I quickly realized we’re looking for a killer with a long-standing practice of targeting street children.”

  “Rowe.” Lovejoy frowned down at the list. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “He’s the Regent’s cousin—a grandson of Prince William Augustus, the old Duke of Cumberland, via a natural daughter. In fact, he was with the Regent himself the night Benji was taken.”

  “Oh, dear,” said the magistrate. Bow Street had a well-founded terror of tangling with the palace. “But you say he was with the Prince.”

  “Not the night Benji was killed.”

  Lovejoy shook his head. “I don’t understand. If he has an alibi for the night of the boy’s abduction, he can’t be the killer.”

  “He can if we’re dealing with more than one killer.”

  Lovejoy stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I wish I weren’t. Ironically, I started out thinking we were looking for two killers—a gentleman and a boy. Then I realized the boy digging the grave was probably a servant and the idea of two killers was dismissed. But what if there actually are two killers—two gentlemen with the same sick tastes, working together? One could have abducted Benji, while the other killed him.”

  “Two such vicious, depraved killers, drawn from the highest ranks of Society? But . . . surely that’s impossible.” Lovejoy stared off across the river at the timber yard on the far bank, his features tightening. “Isn’t it?”

  Sebastian thought about the comfortable armchairs drawn up before the hearth in that soaring, ancient hall, the marble-topped table with its fine brandies and crystal glasses. “I think it’s more than possible; it’s probable.”

  “So who is the second killer?”

  It was a question Sebastian had been asking himself. Kneebone was one possibility, although Sebastian found it difficult to believe that an arrogant aristocrat as proud of his royal lineage as Sir Francis Rowe would condescend to consort as an equal with a common actor. The same argument applied to both the Bligh sisters and Reverend Filby—unless, of course, Filby was one of Rowe’s distant cousins, which was certainly conceivable. De Brienne was a nobleman and must also remain a candidate. But if Sebastian had to put his money on anyone, it would be Ashworth.

  Unfortunately, all he had to back that up was his own intense dislike of the bastard and the memories of a white-haired old man with a tragic past.

  “I have some ideas,” he said vaguely, “but nothing definite yet. As it stands, the only thing we have tying Rowe to the killings is his standing as one of the shot factory’s heirs—
and there are fourteen of them.”

  Lovejoy stared at him, hard. “If you’re right—if there are two killers—how can we possibly prove it?”

  Sebastian watched a wherryman rowing his fare toward the nearby steps. “I don’t know. But I will. Somehow.”

  • • •

  Sir Francis Rowe lived in the same sprawling, Upper Grosvenor Street residence once occupied by his infamous royal grandfather, the Butcher of Culloden. It was a massive, opulent house filled with exquisite French crystal chandeliers, gleaming polished woods and marbles, priceless furniture, and objets d’art. The cost of a simple doorknob would have fed a good chunk of Clerkenwell’s street children for a year.

  Dressed in an elegant evening coat with satin knee breeches, silk stockings, and diamond-buckled shoes, the Baronet sat sprawled on a settee in his drawing room drinking a glass of wine when Sebastian was shown up by Rowe’s stately butler.

  “You’re lucky to have caught me,” said Rowe with a pointed glance at the ornate French clock on the mantel. “I leave in a few minutes for a dinner engagement. You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you any refreshment?”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Sebastian. His host did not invite him to sit, so he went to stand with one arm resting along the room’s marble mantel. “This won’t take long.”

  Rowe raised an inquiring eyebrow and took a slow sip of his wine.

  Sebastian said, “You didn’t tell me you’re one of the owners of the Rutherford Shot Factory in Clerkenwell.”

  “I don’t recall your asking, but yes; it comes to me from my father’s family. Is that relevant for some reason?”

  “That’s where Benji Thatcher’s body was found.”

  “Who?”

  “Benji Thatcher. The pickpocket who stole your favorite snuffbox on Clerkenwell Green and was later found tortured, raped, and strangled. At your shot factory.”

  Rowe settled more comfortably against the cushions of his settee and smiled. “And you think my connection to this abandoned factory somehow implicates me, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I fail to see why. To be frank, I scarcely give the place any thought. Why should I? It’s essentially worthless.”

  “Except, of course, as a place to bury murder victims.”

  “There are fourteen heirs altogether. Have you looked into the other thirteen?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rowe scratched his cheek with one curled finger. “You do recall I was with the Prince at the time you say the boy was abducted, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I also recall that you pointedly refused to say where you were the night he was killed.”

  “You can’t be serious. People are murdered in London all the time. Do you yourself have an alibi for the precise moment of each and every death?”

  Sebastian kept his gaze on the man’s full, self-satisfied face. “Where were you last Saturday night?”

  Sir Francis frowned as if in confusion. “When?”

  “Saturday night. At around midnight.”

  “Ah. As it happens, I dined that evening with the Prince—and Liverpool and Jarvis and half a dozen other such men.”

  “Again? Convenient.”

  “Evidently. Why do you ask?”

  “You know why,” said Sebastian.

  The Baronet’s eyes narrowed. Then he drew his watch from his pocket and flipped it open. “Shall I ring for a footman to show you out?”

  Sebastian pushed away from the mantelpiece. “That’s quite all right; I can find my own way. But I’ll be back.”

  Sir Francis Rowe’s lips curled into another of his tight smiles. “This is supposed to worry me, is it?”

  “‘In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice,’” said Sebastian, quoting de Sade.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Think about it,” said Sebastian and saw the royal cousin’s smile slip.

  Chapter 50

  “You’ve been talking again, haven’t you?” The gentleman stood with his legs spread wide, his fashionable beaver hat pulled low over his eyes, his deadly, silver-tipped walking stick gripped in one hand. The cold night wind billowed his silk cape out around him.

  The boy shook his head, his gaze fixed on the man’s pale face, his chest squeezing so tight he could scarcely breathe. “No, sir. No, I haven’t. I swear, sir.”

  “You swear?” The gentleman’s lips contorted into a hard sneer. “This is all your fault. All of it. If you’d told me some one-legged soldier had taken to sleeping in the warehouse, none of this would have happened.”

  “I didn’t know!”

  “You’re supposed to know that sort of thing. Why do you think I keep you?”

  The boy hung his head, narrowing his world to the darkness and the gentleman’s glossy boots and his own broken-down shoes. The silence filled with the rasp of his own breathing. Then he heard the silken voice that would forever haunt his nightmares say, “There’s something you must do.”

  The boy looked up, a sick dread seizing his stomach. “What, sir?”

  The gentleman smiled. “Come with me.”

  Chapter 51

  How do you tell your wife that her father is in all probability protecting a vicious child killer?

  The answer, Sebastian decided, is that you don’t.

  Sleepless and with a glass of brandy at his elbow, he sat at his desk in the darkened library. He wore only a pair of breeches and a dressing gown; the house lay dark and quiet except for the fire that flickered in the nearby hearth. From the distance came a passing watchman’s cry, “Three o’clock on a wet night, and all is well.”

  Except all was not well.

  Sebastian scrubbed his hands down over his face. He’d sent a carefully worded message to Liverpool, inquiring into the movements of the Prince and his cousin on Saturday evening. Liverpool’s response lay open on the desk before him. The Prince had hosted a dinner party that night and Sir Francis had indeed been amongst the guests. But the Baronet had pleaded illness and departed well before midnight.

  “Damn,” said Sebastian. Damn, damn, damn.

  He heard a distant door open, a familiar light step on the stairs, and looked up to see Hero standing in the darkened doorway. Her beautiful dark hair was loose about her shoulders, her face pale in the faint, flickering light of the windblown streetlamps.

  She said, “You’re hiding something from me. What is it?”

  He pressed his hands flat against the surface of the desk and leaned back in his chair. “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is to me.” She came to crouch down beside the cat that lay on the hearth, watching her. “Why did you want to see Jarvis this afternoon?” she asked, her attention seemingly all for the task of petting the cat.

  He watched the firelight play over the planes of her face, watched her mouth curl into a soft smile as the cat bumped its head against her hand in a rare show of affection. And he knew he couldn’t tell her. Not now, when her emotions were already raw with worry for her mother’s health. And so he lied. Sort of. “Sir Francis Rowe claims he was with the Prince and Jarvis the night the caretaker was murdered out at the Penniwinch Lane farm. I wanted to know if he’s telling the truth.”

  She looked up at him. “And is he?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “He was with the Prince earlier in the evening. But he left well before midnight.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were back to suspecting Francis.”

  “He’s your cousin,” said Sebastian. He was surprised to hear the steps of two men coming up the street and wondered who would be abroad, afoot, at this hour. “I didn’t want to say anything when I had so little to go on.”

  “You have more now?”

  “More. But not enough. I’m beginning to think—” Sebastian broke off.


  The footsteps had now stopped in front of the house. He heard a whispered word he didn’t quite catch and then a soft tread on the front stairs.

  “What is it?” asked Hero, watching him.

  He put a finger to his lips and rose to his feet just as they heard a sharp cry and a thump, followed by the sound of one person running away fast.

  Hero pushed up. “What was that?”

  Sebastian unlocked the secret drawer in his desk to grab the pistol he kept there primed and ready. “Stay here,” he said, coming from behind the desk.

  Pistol in hand, he sprinted for the entry hall to shove back the bolts and jerk open the front door.

  Cold and damp, the night mist swirled into the house. He could still hear someone running away, down Davies Street now. But crumpled at his feet lay a ragged boy, his chest a dark wet sheet of blood.

  It was Toby Dancing.

  Chapter 52

  Toby’s chest was jerking, his soft green eyes liquid with unshed tears, his lower lip quivering with pain and fear.

  Sebastian crouched down to ease an arm beneath the boy’s shoulders and lift his head. He could hear the killer’s running footsteps growing fainter and fainter in the distance, but he could not leave the dying boy. “Tell me who did this to you, Toby.”

  The boy’s gaze met Sebastian’s and he choked on a broken sob.

  “Tell me!” said Sebastian, aware of Hero coming to stand beside him.

  But the pain and fear had already faded from the boy’s eyes, leaving nothing.

  • • •

  Sebastian rode in the cart carrying Toby Dancing’s body across the dark, silent city to Gibson’s surgery.

  He sat with his elbows resting on his drawn up knees, his body swaying with each jolt and thump as the cart rattled over the cobbled streets. He’d sent Giles on ahead to warn Gibson they were coming. But he somehow couldn’t bear to let the boy make this penultimate journey alone.

  The night was cold, the fog damp against his face and heavy with the pungent scent of coal smoke and manure. Moisture glistened on the boy’s upturned face, the movement of the cart rocking his otherwise still body back and forth.