Why Mermaids Sing sscm-3

  Why Mermaids Sing

  ( Sebastian St Cyr Mystery - 3 )

  C.S. Harris

  Murder has jarred London’s elite. The sons of prominent families have been found at dawn in public places, partially butchered, with strange objects stuffed in their mouths. Once again, the local magistrate turns to Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, for help. Moving from the gritty world of London’s docks to the drawing rooms of Mayfair, Sebastian confronts his most puzzling—and disturbing—case yet.

  From Publishers Weekly

  While appending a serial killer plot line to a historical setting is nothing new, Harris imbues what could be an overdone and tired narrative device with refreshing novelty, making his third Regency-era whodunit (after 2006's When Gods Die) a triumph. Sebastian St. Cyr, an unconventional nobleman with a talent for detection, is called in by Westminster chief magistrate Sir Henry Lovejoy after two scions of the upper classes are found butchered and left on public display. St. Cyr soon finds a connection between the killer's calling card and a John Donne poem. As shadowy figures threaten and the parents of the victims display an inappropriate hostility to his efforts, the sleuth doggedly persists, uncovering a secret with shocking repercussions for London's upper class. Neatly meshing the page-turning whodunit plot with major developments in St. Cyr's love life, Harris shows every indication of assuming the mantle of the late Bruce Alexander as a reliable producer of quality period mysteries.

  Why Mermaids Sing

  THE SEBASTIAN ST. CYR MYSTERY SERIES

  What Angels Fear

  When Gods Die

  WHY MERMAIDS SING

  A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

  C. S. HARRIS

  For the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast,

  who suffered so much, and are still suffering,

  from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita

  Acknowledgments

  Why Mermaids Sing will always be, for me, my “Katrina book.” I began the first chapter just days before the storm slammed into my New Orleans–area home. In the dark months that followed, as we shifted from one place of refuge to the next and started on the long, hard road to reconstruction, there were many times when I seriously doubted the manuscript would ever see publication. I wrote this book in a Baton Rouge apartment, in a cabin by a lake in central Louisiana, in the back room of my mother’s house, and in the gutted office of my own half-built home. That I managed to pull it off is due to the many wonderful people who stood by me.

  I am especially grateful to my editor, Ellen Edwards, and all the great people at NAL who were so supportive and understanding; my agent, Helen Breitwieser, who said cheerfully, “You can do it!” everytime I started losing faith; all the many friends who were there for us, including Jon, Ben, Bruce and Emily, Laura, Elora, and Charles; and my incredible, resilient, unbeatable family—my mother, Penny, Samantha, Danielle, and Steve.

  Thank you all.

  Chapter 1

  SATURDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 1811, ON THE ROAD BETWEEN MERTON ABBEY AND LONDON

  Fear twisted Dominic Stanton’s stomach, compressed his chest until his breath came shallow and quick.

  He told himself he was being a fool. A fool and a coward. He was a Stanton, for Christ’s sake. In less then two months, he would be nineteen years old. Men his age—younger, much younger—went off to war. Yet here he was just a few miles outside London and he was acting like some silly girl from the village, about to pee his pants with fear every time the thunder rumbled or the rising wind rustled the oak leaves overhead.

  A copse of mingled oak and chestnut closed around him. Dominic kneed his mare into a canter. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, but the heavy cloud cover and the thickness of the grove created their own eerie air of twilight. Over the keening of the wind, he could hear the faint clip-clop of a horse’s hooves coming from somewhere behind him. He wasn’t imagining it again, was he? He glanced over his shoulder at the empty road curving away out of sight. “Jesus,” he whispered.

  It was his mother’s fault, he decided. She was the one who’d insisted he make it home in time for her stupid dinner party. If it weren’t for her, he’d still be back at the pub with Charlie and Burlington and the rest, calling for another round and talking over each blow and rally of the prizefight they’d all ridden down to Merton Abbey to watch. Instead, here he was riding back to London alone at dusk with a storm about to break.

  Telling himself he was hurrying because he was going to be late, Dominic urged his mare on faster…and felt his saddle begin to slip.

  Shit. Stupid ostler, forgetting to tighten the girth. Dominic reined in, his face slick with cold sweat. Casting another quick glance around, he hopped down from the saddle. His fingers were shaky, clumsy. Throwing the stirrup leather out of the way, he fumbled for the buckle and heard the rattle of harness, the clatter of wheels coming up behind.

  He whirled around, his mare tossing her head and sidestepping nervously away from him. A horse and carriage loomed out of the darkness. “Oh my God,” whispered Dominic as the driver drew up.

  Chapter 2

  SUNDAY, 6:45 A.M., 15 SEPTEMBER 1811, WESTMINSTER

  Sir Henry Lovejoy, chief magistrate at Queen Square, Westminster, stood at the edge of the Old Palace Yard. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, he forced himself to look at the mutilated body sprawled before him.

  Dominic Stanton lay on his back, his arms flung wide, his eyes open to the misty sky above. Beads of moisture had collected on the boy’s light, softly curling hair, while the dampness left from last night’s rain had seeped into the fine cloth of his blue coat to darken it until it looked almost black. From the hips up, the body appeared unmarked except for the traces of blood on his cravat and the strange object shoved in his mouth.

  What had been done to his legs was unspeakable.

  “For God’s sake, cover him up again,” said Lovejoy, his stomach heaving.

  The constable reached to flip the sheet of canvas back over the body. “Yes, sir.”

  The early-morning fog rolling in from the nearby river felt cold and damp against Lovejoy’s face. Lifting his gaze, he stared up at the ancient soot-stained walls of the House of Lords beside them.

  “Think it’s the same killer, sir?”

  It had been just three months since they’d found another young man, a banker’s son named Barclay Carmichael, in St. James’s Park. His body had been mutilated in virtually the same horrid way. Lovejoy glanced over at his stocky, ruddy-faced constable. “You can’t seriously be suggesting London has two such killers at work, now, can you?”

  Constable Higgins shifted uncomfortably. “No, sir. Of course not.”

  Henry Lovejoy let his gaze wander around the Yard. They’d roped off the area to keep back the crowds of curious onlookers already beginning to gather. Some half a dozen constables were walking the Yard in a slowly advancing line, their heads bowed as they searched the ground. Lovejoy didn’t expect them to find anything. They hadn’t found anything before, with Carmichael’s son.

  “You’re certain the lad is Dominic Stanton?” said Lovejoy.

  “Appears so, sir. There’s an engraved watch in his pocket, and the caretaker who found the body recognized him. Says he used to come here all the time as a little one with his da.”

  Lovejoy pressed his lips together. Alfred, Lord Stanton was an active member of the House of Lords and an intimate of the Prince Regent. As bad as things had been after the murder of young Barclay Carmichael last June, this time would be worse.

  The disembodied sound of a foghorn drifted in with the mist from the river. Lovejoy shivered. It might be only September, but already the morning held a chill that told of the coming of winter.

  “Lord De
vlin is here, sir.”

  Lovejoy swung around. A tall, aristocratic-looking gentleman crossed the Yard toward them. His breeches were of the finest doeskin, his coat inimitably tailored, his waistcoat of white silk. But a day’s growth of beard shadowed a handsome face set in hard lines, and Lovejoy knew a moment of misgiving. From the looks of things, Devlin had yet to make it to his own bed. And Lovejoy was not at all certain how the young Viscount would react to what the magistrate was about to propose.

  “Thank you for coming, my lord,” said Lovejoy as Devlin came up to them. “I apologize for the unseemliness of the hour.”

  Heir and only surviving son to the Earl of Hendon, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, glanced down at the canvas-covered figure at their feet, then up again. “Why precisely am I here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he followed the line of slowly advancing constables.

  The man had strange amber-colored eyes that still had the ability to make Lovejoy uncomfortable even after some eight months of acquaintance. Lovejoy cleared his throat. “We’ve had another young gentleman killed, my lord. And partially butchered. Just like Barclay Carmichael.”

  The Viscount’s brows twitched together. “Let me see.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a rather distressing sight, my lord.”

  Ignoring him, Devlin hunkered down beside the body and flipped back the canvas.

  A faint quiver of distaste passed over his lordship’s features, but that was all. Watching him, Lovejoy supposed the Viscount must have seen many such sights—and worse—during his years at war.

  Devlin’s gaze traveled over the dew-dampened coat to the point where the boy’s breeches had been cut away. What was left of the Stanton boy’s legs looked like something one might see hanging up for sale in a meat market, the flesh hacked and raw, the exposed bones gleaming white.

  “Carmichael’s body was butchered like this?”

  Lovejoy brought up a handkerchief to wipe his face. “Yes. Only, in Carmichael’s case it was the arms. Not the legs.”

  Devlin studied the boy’s smooth-skinned face, framed in soft blond curls. “Who is this one?”

  “A young man by the name of Dominic Stanton. Eldest son of Alfred, Lord Stanton. Just eighteen years old.”

  Devlin nodded. “I still don’t understand why I’m here.”

  Lovejoy hunched his shoulders against the damp cold. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. “I was hoping perhaps you might be able to help us understand what is happening.”

  Devlin held his gaze steadily. “Why me?”

  “These young men are of your world, my lord.”

  “And you think their killer might also be of my world? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “We don’t know, my lord. The boy was obviously killed someplace else and then brought here.”

  “And the missing flesh?”

  “Has not been found, my lord.”

  Devlin stared across the Yard, to where the apse of Westminster Abbey loomed out of the mist. Beyond that, one could just make out the ancient bulk of Westminster Hall. “Why leave the body here, do you suppose?”

  “It’s a public spot,” suggested Lovejoy. “The killer obviously wanted the body to be seen. And quickly found.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps he was trying to send some sort of message.”

  Lovejoy fought back a shiver. “A message? To whom?”

  From the fog-shrouded river a hundred yards or so away came the sound of another horn, followed by a burst of laughter from unseen men on a passing barge. Devlin pushed to his feet. “Where does Lord Stanton say his son was last night?”

  “We’ve yet to speak to his lordship.”

  Devlin nodded, his forehead creasing with a frown as he studied the distorted face of the desecrated body before them. “What’s that in the boy’s mouth?”

  Lovejoy had to turn away again and swallow a few times before he could answer. “We’re not certain yet, but it appears to be the severed hoof of a goat.”

  Chapter 3

  Leaving the Yard, Sebastian cut behind the massive stone walls of the House of Lords to where a set of stairs led down to the banks of the Thames. The fog was beginning to lift with the strengthening of the sun; in the clear morning light, the water showed flat and silver.

  He didn’t want this again, he thought, pausing at the top of the steps to stare off across the river to where a wherryman worked his oars in slow, rhythmic strokes. Didn’t want to find himself once again sucked into the midst of the kind of tortured emotions that destroyed people’s lives. Murder always seemed to lead to more killing, and Sebastian was tired of killing. Tired of death.

  He’d spent last night in the arms of the woman he would make his wife, if only she’d let him. But she wouldn’t let him, and so he had left her bed before the sun rose. He’d just reached his own house on Brook Street when Lovejoy’s constable found him. He rasped his hand across his unshaven face and wished he’d stayed in Kat’s bed.

  He heard the magistrate, Sir Henry, come up behind him. “Tell me about the other one, about Barclay Carmichael,” said Sebastian, keeping his gaze on the river.

  “His body was also found early in the morning,” said Sir Henry, “hanging upside down from a tree in St. James’s Park. But it was obvious he hadn’t been killed there.”

  “You say he had been mutilated, as well?”

  “Yes. The arms.” Sir Henry paused at the water’s edge a slight distance away. “He’d been with friends the night before. Left them at White’s and said he was walking home. According to his friends, he was slightly foxed, but not excessively so.”

  Sebastian glanced at the magistrate. “That was nearly three months ago. What have you discovered?”

  “Very little. No one remembers seeing him after he left White’s.” Sir Henry lifted the collar of his coat against the breeze blowing off the river. “When we found him, Mr. Carmichael’s throat had been slit and his body drained of all blood. The flesh was missing from the arms.”

  “Who did the examination of the body?”

  “A Dr. Martin, from St. Thomas. I’m afraid he was able to tell us little beyond the obvious.”

  “You’ll be ordering a postmortem on Stanton?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’d do well to send him to Paul Gibson on Tower Hill.” If Dominic Stanton’s body had any secrets to tell, Paul Gibson would find them.

  Sir Henry nodded.

  Sebastian stared down at the waters of the Thames lapping the algae-covered stones of the steps at their feet. The smells of the river were strong here, the stench of dead fish mingling with the odor of the tanneries on the river’s banks. “You say Stanton was eighteen. How old was Mr. Carmichael? Twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Nine years’ difference. I doubt you’ll find the two had much in common.”

  “Not have much in common, my lord? But…both were wealthy young aristocratic men from the West End.”

  “You think that’s why they were killed?”

  “I fear it’s what people will say.”

  Sebastian lifted his gaze to the far side of the river, where the bulky outlines of the Barge Houses were just beginning to emerge from the mist. The fortunes of both families were indeed immense, but there were subtle differences. For while the Stantons were one of England’s oldest families, Sir Humphrey Carmichael had been born the simple son of a weaver.

  Sir Henry cleared his throat, his voice coming out sounding tight, worried. “May I count on your assistance, my lord?”

  Sebastian glanced over at the magistrate. He was a funny little man with a shiny bald head, pinched, unsmiling features, and an almost comically high voice. Painstakingly moral, upright, and fastidious, he was also one of the most sincere and dedicated men Sebastian had ever met.

  The urge to say no was strong. But the memory of the dew beading on the dead boy’s fair curls haunted him. And the kind of debt Sebastian owed this earnest little magistrate could never really be repaid.


  “I’ll think about it,” said Sebastian.

  Sir Henry nodded and turned toward the Yard.

  Sebastian’s voice stopped him. “When you found Barclay Carmichael, was there anything in his mouth?”

  The magistrate swung back around, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing as he swallowed. “As a matter of fact, yes. Although we could never determine its significance.”

  “What was it?”

  The breeze from the river fluttered the hem of the magistrate’s coat. “A blank page torn from a ship’s log. Dated 25 March.”

  Chapter 4

  Sebastian arrived at his house in Brook Street to find his father, Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon, just turning away from the door. Hendon’s own town house was in Grosvenor Square. He seldom visited his son’s residence, and never without a reason.

  The Earl was a big man, taller than Sebastian and more solidly built, with a barrellike chest and a massive, bull-like head. His hair was white now, but once it had been dark, nearly as dark as Sebastian’s own. “Well,” said Hendon, his gaze traveling from Sebastian’s unshaven face to his less-than-impeccable cravat, “I thought to catch you before you went out. I see that instead I’ve come too early, before you arrived home.”

  Sebastian felt his lips twitch up into a reluctant smile. “Join me for breakfast?” he asked, leading the way into the dining room.

  “Thank you, but I breakfasted hours ago. I’ll take some ale, though.”

  Sebastian caught the eye of his majordomo, Morey, who bowed discreetly.

  “Your sister tells me you’ve instituted a search for your mother,” said Hendon, pulling out a chair beside the table.

  Sebastian paused in the act of spooning eggs from the sideboard dish onto his plate. “Dear Amanda. However did she come to hear of that?”