Where Serpents Sleep Page 15

  The carriage shuddered as the big coachman shifted his weight. His blunderbuss landed with a thump in the grassy verge. Hero tightened her grip on the handle of the pistol and carefully eased back both hammers.

  “You didn’t tell me we was stoppin’ a lord’s rig,” said the second man, nudging his horse forward into the lamplight. “Two ladies in a carriage like this oughta be sportin’ some nice baubles.” Hero watched him swing down from his horse. He was younger than the man in the cape, and more coarsely dressed. She steadied the heavy carriage pistol with both hands and pointed the barrel at the door.

  “That’s not what we’re here for,” snapped the caped man, shifting his stance so he could cover both the footmen and Coachman John. “Just make it quick before someone comes along. And make bloody sure you shoot the right woman.”

  The younger man laughed. “I can tell a young’un from an old’un,” he said, jerking open the carriage door.

  Hero squeezed the first trigger and discharged the pistol straight in his face.

  The man’s face dissolved in a bloody red shattering of skin and bone. The percussion was deafening, the carriage filling with a blue flash of flame and smoke and the acrid smell of burned powder. Lady Jarvis screamed and kept screaming as the impact of the shot blew the man out of the carriage and flopped him back into the dirt of the road.

  “Drummond!” The gentleman in the cape whirled, the barrel of his gun leveling on the carriage door. Half falling to her knees on the carriage floor, Hero leaned out the carriage door and squeezed the second trigger.

  She shot higher than she’d meant to, and wilder, so that instead of hitting the man square in the chest her bullet smashed into his right shoulder, spinning him around and sending his pistol flying out of his hand.

  “Quick,” Hero shouted to the servants. “Get his pistol.” She shoved up, only to sag slightly against the side of the open door. Now that it was over, her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand. “Is he dead?”

  “Naw,” said Coachman John, turning the caped gentleman over. “But he’s bleedin’ pretty bad, and he ’pears to have gone off in a swoon.”

  “This one’s done for,” said one of the footmen, Richard, bending over the first man she’d shot. “My Gawd, look at that. He don’t have a face no more.”

  “Get that gig out of the middle of the road so we can drive on,” said Hero, turning back to deal with her now hysterical mother. “Lady Jarvis has sustained a terrible fright.”

  Sebastian and the Irishman sat beside the empty hearth in the surgeon’s parlor, the chessboard, a bottle of good French brandy, and two glasses on the table between them. The neighborhood had long since settled into quiet, and only an occasional footfall could be heard passing in the street outside. From the distance came the cry of a night watchman making his rounds. “One o’clock on a fine night and all is well.”

  Sebastian said, “Just because he knew Rachel when she called herself Rose and entertained gentlemen in Orchard Street doesn’t mean he knew she’d taken refuge at the Magdalene House.” He watched his friend move his rook to b3.

  “Check,” said Gibson, sitting back in his seat and reaching for the brandy bottle. “But it is highly suggestive.”

  Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and studied the board before him. “In the Levant, if a young woman disgraces her family by loose, immoral conduct, the only way the family can regain their honor is to kill her. Some people think it’s a Muslim custom, but it’s not. All the religions of the area do it—Christians, Jews, Muslims, Druze. It’s not religious. It’s tribal, and it goes back to prebiblical days when the Jews were just another Semitic tribe wandering the deserts of the Arabian peninsula.”

  Gibson refilled their glasses and set the brandy bottle aside with a light thump. “This isn’t the Levant.”

  “No,” said Sebastian, moving his queen to e7. “But Englishmen have also been known to kill unfaithful wives and wayward daughters.”

  Gibson frowned down at the board. “You think that’s why Rachel fled Orchard Street and took refuge at the Magdalene House? Because her father discovered where she was?”

  “Her father or her brother. I’d say Cedric Fairchild knew his sister was in Covent Garden.”

  “But why? That’s what doesn’t make sense about any of this. How did she end up there in the first place? A lord’s daughter?”

  “That I haven’t figured out yet.”

  Gibson leaned forward suddenly, his two hands coming up together. “She could have had a secret lover. Someone her father considered unsuitable. Rather than marry Ramsey, she fled to her lover, who then abandoned her and left her on the streets. Too ashamed to go home, she was forced into prostitution to survive.”

  Sebastian sat back in his chair and laughed. “If you ever decide to give up medicine, you could make a fortune writing lurid romances.”

  “It’s possible,” insisted Gibson.

  “I suppose it is.” Sebastian watched his friend move his queen to d5. “The fact remains that however she came to be in Covent Garden, all three men have a motive for killing her. Both Lord Fairchild and Cedric Fairchild might well have wanted her dead for disgracing the family name, while Tristan Ramsey would hardly be the first man to kill a woman who rejected him.”

  Gibson reached for his brandy glass. “What about the other man you were telling me about? This purchasing agent.”

  “Luke O’Brian? His motive is roughly the same as Ramsey’s. He wanted her enough to try to buy her out of the Academy. According to Kane, she rejected him.”

  “So he flew into a rage and threatened to kill her? That sounds logical. She fled Orchard Street to get away from him.”

  “There’s just one little detail that doesn’t fit with any of these scenarios.”

  Gibson frowned. “What’s that?”

  “According to both Joshua Walden and Tasmin Poole, two women fled the Orchard Street Academy last Wednesday night—Rachel, and another Cyprian named Hannah Green.” Sebastian made his final move, and smiled. “Checkmate.”

  Gibson stared at the board. “Bloody hell. Why didn’t I see that coming?”

  Sebastian raised his head, his attention caught by the sound of a team driven at a fast clip up the street. There was a jingle of harness and the clatter of wheels over uneven cobbles as the carriage was reined in hard before the surgery. An instant later, a fist beat a lively tattoo on the street door.

  “What the devil?” Gibson lurched awkwardly upright.

  “I’ll get it,” said Sebastian, grabbing a brace of candles as he headed up the narrow hall.

  The pounding came again, accompanied by a man’s shouted “Halloooo.”

  Sebastian jerked back the bolt and yanked open the door. A liveried footman, his tricorner hat askew on his powdered hair, one fist raised to knock again, was caught off balance and practically fell into the hall. Sebastian gazed beyond him to the team of blood bays sidling nervously in the street, their plumed heads shaking. His eyes narrowing, Sebastian was studying the crest emblazoned on the carriage panel when the door was thrust open and an imperious female voice said, “Don’t just stand there. Help me.”

  It took Sebastian a moment to realize she spoke not to him but to a second footman, who now scrambled to let down the carriage steps.

  “George,” snapped the woman’s voice, recalling the first footman. “Come take the man’s shoulders while Richard takes his feet. Careful. He’s bleeding quite dreadfully.”

  “Bleeding?” Gibson limped toward the unconscious man the two footmen were easing through the carriage door. “No, don’t lay him down in the street! Take him straight into the surgery. This way,” said Gibson, hurrying before them.

  “Who is he?” asked Sebastian.

  “A would-be assassin,” said Miss Hero Jarvis, appearing in the open carriage door. A picture in a demure cream silk confection with a high waist and a skirt sodden dark with blood, she held a beaded reticule in one hand and what looked like a ca
rriage pistol in the other. “We left one dead on the road from Richmond, but this one’s still living. I’m hoping he’ll survive long enough to tell us who hired him.”

  Sebastian stepped forward to offer her his hand down. “Who shot him?”

  She handed him the carriage pistol as if somewhat surprised to find she was still clutching it. It was a double-barreled French flintlock, and he saw that both barrels had been fired.

  “I did.”

  Chapter 27

  Stripped to the waist, his face ashen in the flickering candlelight, the man lay on a table in the front room of Paul Gibson’s surgery. The room was silent except for a trickle of water as Gibson squeezed out a sponge in a pan of bloody water, the tin ringing as he knocked its edge.

  “Will he live?” asked Miss Jarvis from where she stood in the doorway.

  “I don’t know,” said Gibson, not looking up. “The bullet shattered the right shoulder blade and nicked a major artery. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “I tried to keep pressure on the wound.”

  Gibson nodded. “It’s probably the only reason he’s alive as it is.”

  Sebastian reached for the wounded man’s torn and bloody cloak lying amid his hastily discarded shirt, waistcoat, and coat. “Exceptionally fine tailoring for a highwayman.”

  “He’s not a highwaymen,” said Miss Jarvis, watching him. “He called the man we left dead on the road Drummond. I remember hearing that name the night the Magdalene House was attacked.”

  Without commenting, Sebastian began going through the injured man’s pockets.

  “There’s a purse with forty guineas, but no identification,” said Miss Jarvis. “I already checked.”

  Sebastian glanced over at her. “Did you check the man you left on the road?”

  “No. My mother was hysterical. I took her home even before coming here. I’m afraid her nerves were quite overset by the incident.”

  Sebastian finished going through the man’s pockets. She was right; there was nothing to tell them who he was.

  “This one,” she said, nodding to the silent man on the table, “was in charge. He spoke well, like a gentleman.”

  Gibson made a pad of bandages to apply to the man’s chest. “He’s certainly groomed like a gentleman. Cleanly shaven, hair neatly trimmed, fingernails manicured. Although from the looks of him, I’d say he’s spent a fair amount of time in the sun.”

  Miss Jarvis watched with interest as the surgeon went about his task. “The other man was a rougher sort. He may be a hireling.”

  “With orders to kill you?”

  “That’s right.” When he kept silent, a faint touch of color darkened her cheekbones. She said crisply, “You don’t need to tell me I brought this on myself.”

  Sebastian tossed aside the assassin’s garments and walked up to her. She stood tall and elegant and perfectly composed, despite her blood-drenched gown and the fact that she’d just fought off two assassins and killed a man. She was an incredible woman. He said, “The men who attacked the Magdalene House last Monday killed seven innocent women to get to one because they intended to leave no witnesses. Now they obviously know who you are.”

  “But I don’t know who they are,” she said, and for the first time he caught an echo of fear in her voice.

  “Whoever they are,” said Gibson, tying off his bandages, “they’re either incredibly courageous or incredibly foolhardy, to go after the daughter of Lord Jarvis.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “At this point, I suspect they realize they’ve no choice.”

  He watched her glance out the darkened window to where her carriage and footmen awaited. She said, “I must get back to my mother. If he regains consciousness—if he says anything—”

  “We’ll let you know.”

  She brought her gaze back to Sebastian’s face. “Have you discovered anything yet?”

  “Only that you were right. The woman you met at the Magdalene House was in all likelihood Rachel Fairchild.”

  She nodded. He was only confirming what she’d already suspected. He noticed the way exhaustion had sharpened her features, making her eyes huge in a pale face.

  He said, “It’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? Who she was. Now you know. You can go back to writing petitions to Parliament, or however you spend your time. Let your father deal with these people. God knows he’s capable.”

  “Have you discovered how Rachel Fairchild came to be there, in Covent Garden?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t stop.” She looked beyond him to Gibson. “You will send the bill for the man’s care to me.”

  “As you wish,” said Gibson.

  She nodded again, and left.

  Gibson stared after her. They could hear the jingle of harness, the clatter of hooves on cobbles as the carriage moved off. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints,” he said softly, then went back to work on the mangled man before him.

  “I’ve learned a wee bit more about your Mr. O’Brian,” said Calhoun, putting away Sebastian’s razor.

  Sebastian finished buttoning his shirt and glanced around. “Oh?”

  “Not only is he held in the utmost esteem by the city’s tradesmen, but he’s trusted implicitly by his clients,” said the valet, holding out a crisply laundered cravat. “His commissions are reasonable, he never demands compensation from merchants, and he’s a regular contributor to the Orphans’ Fund.”

  Sebastian carefully wound the cravat’s folds around his neck. “So how does he afford all the expensive pleasures of life?”

  “It’s quite simple, actually. He’s one of the biggest thieves working the Thames.”

  Sebastian looked around. “Now that is interesting.”

  “It’s a very clever arrangement, when you think about it,” said the valet. “His activities as a procurement agent mean he’s constantly down on the docks dealing with shipments and going in and out of warehouses. From what I understand, the man’s meticulous—plans his operations to the most exacting detail, then executes them flawlessly. He’s really quite brilliant. They say he’s been behind every big job on the river in the past five years. His last enterprise cleaned out an entire warehouse full of Russian sables from just off the Ratcliff highway.”

  Sebastian shrugged into his coat. “Russian sables? Sir William mentioned something about Russian sables. When was this?”

  “Monday night,” said Calhoun, holding out Sebastian’s hat. “Just hours after the attack on the Magdalene House.”

  Chapter 28

  Luke O’Brian kept rooms in a well-tended stone house not far from the ancient pitched slate roofs and towering chimneys of St. Katherine’s Hospital below the Tower.

  A few simple inquiries in the area brought Sebastian to a small eating house squeezed in between a ship’s chandler and a biscuit baker, for this was a part of the city that made its living from the docks and the river that linked London with the sea and the world beyond. The eating house was simple but wholesome, the air filled with the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh bread and boisterous conversations rising up from tables filled with ships’ officers, customs men, and clerks. Luke O’Brian sat by himself at a small table near the front window. Sebastian nodded to a middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and an apron tied over her expansive middle, and went to slide into the seat opposite the agent.

  “I understand congratulations are in order,” said Sebastian, keeping his voice low. “That was quite a successful enterprise you managed to pull off.”