What Remains of Heaven: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery Read online

  Sebastian found himself gazing at the young barmaid laughing with the innkeeper as she scooped up fistfuls of tankards. She looked no more than sixteen, with a heavy fall of auburn hair and a wide, infectious smile, and she reminded him so much of Kat at that age that his chest ached with yearning for all that had been lost, and all that might have been.

  “What is it, Sebastian?” asked Gibson softly. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “What?” Sebastian brought his gaze back to his friend’s face and shook his head. Rather than answer the surgeon’s question, he said, “You do realize, of course, that none of this even begins to answer the question we actually started with.”

  “What question?”

  “Who killed the bloody Bishop.”

  “And the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw,” Gibson reminded him.

  “And the Reverend Earnshaw,” said Sebastian.

  It was when they were leaving the tavern that Sebastian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded square of paper. Dr. and Mrs. Daniel McCain, Number 11 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.

  “What’s that?” said Gibson, watching him.

  Sebastian frowned down at the scrawled direction and resurrected with difficulty the memory of the Bishop’s chaplain accosting him in Whitehall that afternoon with some babble about a hiatus in the Bishop’s appointments.

  “It’s an address,” said Sebastian. “The name and address of a family in Chelsea the Bishop visited the Monday before he died.” He could be wrong, but he had a disquieting suspicion that McCain was the name of the doctor he’d seen escorting Miss Hero Jarvis around the Royal Hospital.

  “Chelsea?” said Gibson. “What the bloody hell was Prescott doing in Chelsea?”

  “I don’t know. But first thing tomorrow morning, I intend to find out.”

  Chapter 31

  MONDAY, 13 JULY 1812

  The next morning dawned cool and gray, with a heavy mist that blanketed the wet city and hung in dirty wisps about the chimney pots. Sir Henry Lovejoy was in his chambers at Bow Street’s public office, a scarf wrapped around his neck and the Hue and Cry spread open on the desk before him, when Sebastian strolled into his office.

  “My lord,” said the little magistrate, leaping to his feet. “Please have a seat.”

  “No, thank you,” said Sebastian, shaking his head. “I won’t be but a moment.” He drew a folded slip of paper from his pocket and laid it on the open pages of the weekly police gazette. “I have here the name and sailing date of a vessel that was said to have left Portsmouth in February of 1782. But it is also possible the ship sailed from London sometime in mid-December of 1781, headed for the American Colonies. I’d like you to verify when and where it sailed.”

  “ ‘The Albatross,’ ” read Lovejoy, fingering the paper. “The Board of Trade should have the information you require. I can go there this afternoon.” He glanced up. “I take it this is related in some way to the deaths of Bishop Francis Prescott, the Reverend Earnshaw, and Sir Nigel?”

  Sebastian felt a rare suggestion of heat touch his cheeks. “Yes. But I’d appreciate it if you could keep whatever information you discover confidential.”

  Sir Henry gave one of his jerky little bows. “You may, of course, rely upon my utmost discretion.”

  “I know,” said Sebastian, turning toward the door. “Thank you.”

  “I’m not entirely certain I understand this continuing fascination of yours with America,” said Sir Henry, stopping him.

  Sebastian turned. “You don’t find it curious, the way the events surrounding both Prescott men’s deaths keep circling back to the Colonies?”

  The magistrate shrugged. “Most men of affairs in London have ties to America. I would imagine your own father has had dealings with the Colonies.”

  Sebastian blinked, and kept his peace.

  “Personally,” continued Lovejoy, “I find the Bishop’s recent encounter with Jack Slade far more telling.”

  “Jack Slade was locked up in a watch house here in London the night Sir Nigel disappeared.”

  “True. But he could easily have had an accomplice who committed the actual murder for him.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “If I were going to kill the man I held responsible for the death of my entire family, I’d want to watch him die. And I’d want to make certain he knew exactly why he was dying.”

  The magistrate looked oddly pinched, as if the flesh had suddenly stretched taut across the features of his face. He cleared his throat and glanced away. “Yes . . . well . . . perhaps. But you must admit that the reappearance of Slade in the Bishop’s life at just such a time is curious.”

  “I won’t deny that,” said Sebastian.

  Half an hour later, Sebastian was rubbing gray ashes into his hair in his dressing room at Brook Street when Tom appeared in the doorway.

  “I ’ear yer lordship is goin’ to Chelsea this mornin’,” said the tiger, his arm resting rakishly in a sling, his voice strained by the effort to appear nonchalant. “Ye want I should bring the curricle ’round?”

  Sebastian glanced over at him and frowned. “What are you doing up?”

  “Dr. Gibson said I could.”

  “Getting out of bed and going back to work are two different things.”

  “But I’m gonna be fit fer nothin’ but Bedlam, sittin’ around ’ere with nothin’ to do! Please, gov’nor.”

  Sebastian wrapped a cheap black cravat around his neck. “I fear your sanity must be sacrificed to a higher cause—in this case, your health.”

  Tom’s scowl deepened. “Never say you’re taking Giles?” Tom had a long-standing rivalry with Sebastian’s middle-aged groom.

  “No, I’m not taking Giles. I have no intention of arriving in Chelsea in a gentleman’s curricle. I’m taking a hackney.”

  “A hackney? Gov’nor, no!”

  “A hackney,” repeated Sebastian, slapping the false padding around his stomach. “I’ve no doubt Mr. Brummell would sympathize with your revulsion. But then, the Beau would also swoon at the sight of this neckcloth and coat, so there’s no hope for it, is there? If I’m recognized by any of my acquaintances, my reputation is ruined.”

  Rather than smile, the tiger simply looked troubled. “The thing is, ye see, there’s this cove what’s been ’anging round the ’ouse, like ’e’s watching for ye. I seen ’im last night, and agin this mornin’. Early.”

  Sebastian crossed to the window and carefully parted the drapes. “Where?”

  “ ’E’s not there now.” Tom dug the toe of one boot into the carpet. “Even if ye take a hackney, I could still come with ye—”

  “No.”

  “Ye need somebody t’ watch yer back.”

  Sebastian gave a sharp laugh. “In Chelsea?”

  “Ye never know—”

  Sebastian slid his dagger into the hidden sheath of his boot. “I’ll be fine.”

  Much to her father’s disgust, Hero Jarvis spent a good part of that morning at London House, investigating church records. What she discovered was curious. Very curious.

  She devoted several hours during the afternoon to accompanying her mother on a tour of cloth warehouses and mantua makers. Lady Jarvis returned to Berkeley Square tired, but happily laden down with bandboxes and piles of brown paper- wrapped packages. At first she protested she had no appetite, but Hero managed to coax her into drinking tea and eating some cakes. Then, when her mother went to lie down for a rest, Hero ordered her carriage brought ’round, and set off with her maid for Tanfield Hill.

  Chapter 32

  By the time Sebastian paid off his hackney outside the Old Bun House at the end of Jew’s Row in Chelsea, the rain had started up again, a slow but steady drizzle that dripped off the nearest roofs and ran in the gutters. Ducking beneath the colonnade that projected out over the foot pavement, he stood for a moment, his gaze assessing the empty wet street before he entered the fragrant interior of the Old Bun House.

  The girl behind the coun
ter was young and pretty, with honey-colored hair and dimpled cheeks. Sebastian bought a couple of buns and lingered, talking to her of the endless rain and the mud and the high price of corn. He complimented her on the buns, which were justly famous throughout the metropolitan area. Then he said casually, “I’ve come to Chelsea to see a Dr. McCain. Dr. Daniel McCain, lives in Cheyne Walk. Do you know him?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the girl, slipping the tray of buns back onto its rack. “He and his missus come in here regular-like, in the evenings. Buy a pocketful of buns, they do, then go for a walk along the river.”

  “He’s been in Chelsea long?”

  “Long as I can remember,” she said, which didn’t exactly mean much, given that she didn’t look much above fourteen or fifteen. “He’s nice,” she volunteered. “So’s his lady. They always buy extra buns to give to the cottagers’ children, down near the waterworks.” For nearly a hundred years, the Chelsea Water Works had supplied water to Westminster and much of the West End, two powerful steam engines now doing the work of the old waterwheels to lift water from a series of river-fed ponds into the pipes.

  “The McCains have children of their own, do they?” asked Sebastian, nibbling on one of the buns.

  The girl’s smile dimmed. “Oh, they’ve had four or five babies, at least. But the poor wee things never seem to live more than a day or two.”

  Sebastian stared out the paned window at the rain dripping off the edge of the colonnade’s roof, at the muddy fetlocks of the team hauling a loaded wagon toward the river. A horrible possibility had begun to form in his mind, a confluence of events and interests and circumstances that he found profoundly, personally disquieting. He said, “Have you ever seen the Bishop of London around here?”

  The girl gaped at the shift in topic. “You mean him as got killed last Tuesday?” She cast a quick glance left and right, as if verifying that no one could overhear. They were alone in the shop, but she still leaned over the counter, her voice dropping confidingly. “He was in here just last Monday, you know.”

  “The Bishop of London?”

  “That’s right. The day before he was murdered.”

  “Was he ever in here before?”

  Her eyes suddenly widened. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you’re asking me these questions. Are you . . .” She cast another conspiratorial glance around and gave a little shiver of excitement. “Are you a Bow Street Runner?”

  “Shh,” said Sebastian, putting a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Cheyne Walk proved to be a cobbled lane faced by a single row of redbrick houses overlooking the river. Trimmed in white and varying in size from modest to prosperous, most looked to date back to the days of Queen Anne. Only a low stone embankment shadowed by an avenue of dripping limes and chestnuts separated the terrace and its narrow lane from the water.

  Plying the knocker at Number Eleven, Sebastian expected to find only Mrs. McCain at home at this hour. But when he introduced himself to the young housemaid as Mr. Simon Taylor, he was quickly escorted to the parlor, where both Mrs. McCain and her stout, mustachioed physician husband awaited him—the same stout, mustachioed physician Sebastian had seen not a week before escorting Miss Jarvis around the Royal Hospital.

  He’d discovered long ago that he didn’t need to actually say he was from Bow Street; all he had to do was look the part and say he was investigating a murder, and most people assumed the connection. “Mr. Taylor,” said the physician’s wife, a smile trembling on her lips as she extended her small white hand. “How may we be of assistance to you?”

  She was a tiny woman, well under five feet and small boned, with soft brown hair and large gray eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. She looked to be about thirty, with an air of quiet sadness underlined by the half mourning of her gray, high-necked gown.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Sebastian, his voice and manner carefully wiped clean of any trace of the West End and the Earl’s son.

  Dr. McCain’s eyes narrowed with puzzlement. “Have we met before, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I don’t believe so,” said Sebastian, adjusting the modest tails of his brown coat as he took the seat indicated by his hostess. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but this shouldn’t take long.”

  “You are investigating the death of Bishop Prescott?” said McCain, taking a seat opposite him.

  “Yes. I understand the Bishop visited you and Mrs. McCain last Monday?”

  “In the afternoon,” said McCain.

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence, while husband and wife exchanged glances. It was Mrs. McCain who answered, saying quietly to her husband, “I don’t mind, Daniel.” To Sebastian, she said, “In the past eight years, we have buried seven babies. None lived longer than a month.”

  “I am sorry,” said Sebastian. “Please believe me when I say that anything you choose to tell me from here on out will be treated with the strictest confidence.”

  She nodded, her slender throat working as she swallowed. “Thank you. You see, I have always wanted—” She glanced at her husband and corrected herself, “Dr. McCain and I always wanted very much to have a family, to have children. But God in his infinite wisdom has not seen fit to allow our own children to live. So we thought . . . It seemed perhaps that He was telling us He wanted us to . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  Sebastian said, “I take it Bishop Prescott spoke to you of adopting a child?”

  “That’s right,” said McCain. “The usual scenario. A young gentlewoman not in a position to keep her child . . .” He cleared his throat in obvious embarrassment at discussing so delicate a topic. “You know how these things are.”

  A gust of wind pattered the rain against the windowpanes as thunder rumbled in the distance. Somehow, Sebastian managed to keep his voice casual, disinterested. “And has the child been born already?”

  “Oh, no,” said Mrs. McCain. “The child is not expected until sometime late this coming winter. But the mother is particularly anxious to have the necessary arrangements in place well ahead of time. As are we.”

  Sebastian had no need to silently count off the months to know that if he and Miss Jarvis had indeed conceived a child during those moments of despair in the subterranean vaults of Somerset House, such a child would be born late in the coming winter.

  As if from a long distance, he heard McCain clear his throat. “The idea was for Mrs. McCain to go away for a few months to visit a sister in Bath when the appropriate time came, and return with the child.”

  Sebastian thrust to his feet and reached for his hat and gloves. “I understand. Please accept my apologies for intruding on your privacy.”

  Mrs. McCain rose quickly beside him. “Won’t you stay for tea, Mr. Taylor?”

  “What? Oh, no, thank you.” Sebastian’s fingers tightened on the brim of his hat. Then, because he knew the occasion required it, he added stiffly, “My congratulations on the coming adoption of the child.”

  “But that’s just it,” said Mrs. McCain, looking stricken. “We don’t actually know the gentlewoman involved. We were never meant to know her. Bishop Prescott was the only link between us. Now that he is dead . . .” She lifted one hand, only to let it flutter helplessly back to her side.

  “That is unfortunate,” said Sebastian. Although in truth, he found the thought of a child of his being raised by this stout, stuffy physician revolting. He knew an overwhelming urge to storm back to London, hunt down Miss Jarvis, and shake the truth out of her. “I’ve no doubt another such opportunity will arise in the future. Thank you for your help.”

  “I was just on my way back to the hospital,” said Dr. McCain, following Sebastian out into the hall. “Walk with me for a ways, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Of course,” said Sebastian, chafing at the delay while he waited for the physician to outfit himself with greatcoat, hat, gloves, and umbrella. “Please accept my apologies for any distress I may have
caused Mrs. McCain.”

  “It’s been a severe disappointment to her. I’ll not deny it.”

  “I would imagine that as a physician you must come into contact with many such cases.”

  McCain sighed. “No doubt that’s true of most physicians. Unfortunately, I work with old men.” The housemaid opened the door to a solid rain, and McCain paused to put up his umbrella. “Charlotte—Mrs. McCain—is so desperate for a child she’d be more than happy to pick up a foundling from the gutter, but . . .”

  “But?” prompted Sebastian as they stepped off the shallow porch into the downpour.

  McCain turned their steps toward the hospital. “Well, let’s just say I’ve bred enough horses and dogs in my day to know that characteristics such as temperament and intelligence are as likely as blue eyes and brown hair to be passed down from sire and dam. If I’m to adopt a child, I want to know something about the stable. The Bishop was able to vouch for the character of this babe’s mother and father. Reassured me both were young and healthy, and of good moral fiber. Superior in every way.”

  Sebastian stared off through the rain, to where a wherryman in an oil slicker and a slouch hat was unloading his fare at the base of a set of wooden steps leading down to the wind-whipped river. “Prescott never said anything to give you some clue as to the identity of the child’s mother—or its father?”

  McCain glanced at him in surprise. “Surely you don’t think the unborn child could have something to do with the Bishop’s death?”

  “I don’t see how. But I honestly don’t know.”

  The physician shook his head. “I’m sorry, but he was very careful not to give us any particulars.”

  “I understand.” They had reached the edge of the hospital’s courtyard by now, the redbrick walls and white columns of the facade half obscured by the driving rain. Sebastian drew up. “Thank you again for your help.”