Who Buries the Dead: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery Page 17

  “When will he be . . .”

  “Normal?” she shrugged. “He’ll sleep for some time now. When he wakes, he’ll be listless, depressed. Nauseous. Tomorrow will be better than tonight.”

  Sebastian set aside his second brandy untouched. “Then I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Chapter 31

  “What we doin’ ’ere?” asked Tom as Sebastian drew his curricle to a halt at the side of the lane leading to Bloody Bridge.

  The sky was light blue and marbled with ripples of white clouds, the spring air rich with the smell of freshly turned earth and budding leaves and the smoke rising from the chimneys of the nearby cottages. Sebastian handed the boy his reins. “Thinking,” he said, and dropped lightly to the ground.

  He could feel the drying, muddy ruts of the roadway crumble beneath his boots as he walked toward the bridge, his gaze drifting over the expanse of market and nursery gardens that stretched away to the east. The tolling bell of a small country chapel, its tower barely visible above a distant cluster of trees, was carried on the cool breeze. Frowning, he turned to look back at Sloane Square, now drenched with a rich golden sunlight.

  “So whatcha thinkin’?” asked Tom, watching him.

  “No one seems to be able to tell me what Stanley Preston was doing here on a rainy Sunday night.”

  “Some folks just like t’ walk in the rain,” said Tom. “Never made no sense to me, but ’tis a fact.”

  “True. Yet Preston was afraid of footpads, and Bloody Bridge has a decidedly nasty history.”

  Sebastian went to hunker down in the grassy verge where they’d found Preston’s decapitated body sprawled on its back. There was no sign now that it had ever been there. He rested a forearm on one thigh. “Molly Watson from the Rose and Crown says Preston’s greatcoat was open, with his pocket watch dangling on the grass beside him.”

  “Ye think somebody was goin’ through ’is pockets, lookin’ fer somethin’?”

  “That’s one explanation.”

  Tom screwed up his face in puzzlement. “There’s another?”

  “He was stabbed in the back, which suggests he either turned his back on his killer—obviously not a wise thing to do—or he didn’t hear the killer come up behind him.” Sebastian rose to his feet. “When do people typically look at their watches?”

  “I don’t know. Ne’er ’ad one, meself.”

  Sebastian found himself smiling. “Men generally check their watches when they’re late for an appointment, or when someone else is late.”

  “So yer sayin’ ye think ’e was ’ere t’ meet somebody? Somebody who was late?”

  “I think so, yes. And whoever it was, that person was obviously someone Preston was extraordinarily anxious to see.”

  “How ye know that?”

  “Because Preston was afraid of Bloody Bridge at night, yet he still agreed to come here, alone, after dark.”

  Sebastian stared across the open green of Sloane Square toward Chelsea and the river that flowed out of sight at the base of the hill. Anyone traveling down from Windsor to deliver the stolen royal relics to Preston would in all likelihood have come by the Thames. If he landed at Cheyne Walk, he would need only to come up the short stretch of Paradise Row and skirt the shadowy gardens of Chelsea Hospital and the Royal Military Asylum in order to reach Sloane Square and—just beyond it—the quiet, deserted lane to Bloody Bridge. Above Sloane Square lay the long, straight stretch of Sloane Street and Hans Place, both well lit and heavily traveled. The kinds of places where a man might be seen—and recognized.

  So Bloody Bridge was not simply out of the way and little frequented; it was essentially halfway between Alford House and the river.

  Sebastian went to stand at the edge of the rivulet where he’d found the ancient inscribed length of lead strapping. He was now fairly certain that Stanley Preston had come here that night to take possession of the relics from a thief whose identity Sebastian still didn’t know. Was it a trap? Possibly. If so, who had set it? Priss Mulligan? Thistlewood? Oliphant? Or had the killer simply taken advantage of Preston’s unwise decision to venture alone to such a dark, out-of-the-way spot? And what about the thief? Had he arrived before or after the murder? Impossible to say. But the thief had been there; the presence of the coffin strap proved that.

  So who was the thief? And where was the King’s head?

  “What sort of fellow arranges a meeting in a dark, out-of-the-way spot?” said Sebastian.

  “Someone who don’t want nobody t’ see ’im!” said Tom in triumph.

  Turning away from that death-haunted bridge, Sebastian went to leap up into the curricle’s high seat and take the reins. “Exactly.”

  “Stop glowering at us, Jarvis,” grumbled George, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Swallowing a half-masticated mouthful of buttered crab, the Prince reached for his wineglass and drank deeply. “It’s enough to give us indigestion.”

  They were in one of Carlton House’s private withdrawing rooms, the table before the Prince spread with a feast intended to still the hunger pains that so often came upon His Highness in the midafternoon.

  “Your meeting with the Russian Ambassador—” Jarvis began.

  “Can be put off until tomorrow,” said the Prince, negligently waving a delicate silver fork piled with more crab. “The Countess of Hertford should be here any moment. You wouldn’t expect me to forgo such a treat, now, would you?” He flashed a smile that was meant to be roguish but came off simply as simpering and foolish.

  He was fifty years old and grossly fat, his once handsome features coarsened by decades of dissipation and excess. But in his own mind, he was still the dashing young Prince Florizel who’d charmed the nation that now despised him for his extravagance and his irresponsibility and his breathtaking selfishness.

  Jarvis kept his own features bland. One did not reach—or retain—his position of power by indulging in useless displays of annoyance and contempt. “The Ambassador has been waiting three hours.”

  “Then one would think he’d welcome the opportunity to go home. Tell him to come back tomorrow. And take yourself off as well, before you bring on my spasms.”

  Any spasms the Prince was likely to suffer would owe considerably more to the pile of crab and two bottles of burgundy he’d already consumed than to the demands of his royal responsibilities. But Jarvis bowed and said, “Yes, sir.”

  He’d almost reached the door when the Prince said, “Oh, and Jarvis? I trust the arrangements for the formal opening of Charles I’s coffin are all in place?”

  Jarvis paused. “The opening is scheduled for the first of April, the day following your aunt the Duchess’s funeral.”

  “Excellent.” George gave a wide, slightly greasy smile. “What a treat it will be.”

  Jarvis bowed again and withdrew.

  He spent the next half hour soothing the outraged Russian Ambassador’s ruffled sensibilities and averting a minor diplomatic crisis. Then, feeling in need of a good, strong drink, he returned to his own chambers to find his son-in-law, Viscount Devlin, leaning against the sill of the window overlooking the forecourt, his arms folded at his chest and his boots crossed at the ankles.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” demanded Jarvis, going to pour himself a glass of brandy.

  “Have your men made any progress in their efforts to track down Charles I’s missing head?”

  “They have not. Have you?”

  “No.”

  Jarvis eased the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured a healthy measure into one glass. “I won’t offer you a brandy since you’re not staying.”

  The Viscount smiled. “When’s the formal opening to be?”

  Jarvis set aside the decanter and turned to face him, glass in hand. “Next Thursday.”

  “How
many people know Charles’s head is missing?”

  “The Dean and the virger of St. George’s, and the two men I’ve tasked with the item’s recovery. Why?”

  “I assume all have been sworn to secrecy?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I plan to drive out to Windsor Castle in the morning and take a look at the royal vault. It might be helpful if you sent a message instructing the Dean and the virger to cooperate with me.”

  Jarvis took a long drink, then paused a moment before saying, “You’ve found evidence to suggest these rather macabre murders are indeed linked to the theft from the royal crypt?”

  “Evidence? No.”

  Jarvis grunted. “I’ll send the message. But you will keep me informed.” It was not a question.

  Devlin pushed away from the window. “Of course.”

  Jarvis waited until the Viscount had taken himself off. Then he rang for his clerk.

  “Send Major Archer to me. Now.”

  Chapter 32

  T hat evening, Sebastian and Hero were sitting down to dinner when a peal sounded at the front door.

  His gaze met hers. “Expecting anyone?”

  “No,” she said, just as Morey appeared in the doorway with a bow.

  “Lord Sidmouth to see you, my lord. I have taken the liberty of showing his lordship into the library.”

  Sebastian found the Home Secretary pacing back and forth before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin sunk into the folds of his snowy white cravat. He wore the silk knee breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled evening shoes of a man dressed for a formal dinner or a ball. But when he turned toward Sebastian, his face was pinched and pale.

  “My lord,” said Sebastian. “May I offer you some wine? A brandy?”

  “Thank you, but no; I won’t keep you long. My apologies for interrupting your evening.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Sidmouth drew up with his back to the fireplace and shook his head. “I looked into the incident in Portugal you told me about—the one involving the convent.” He sucked in a quick, jerky breath. “My God. How could anyone do something like that?”

  Sebastian had never had much respect for Sidmouth. He was typical of the sycophants who hung around the court: ambitious, venal, and opportunistic. Yet it said something for the man that he still recoiled in horror from an act of such calculated cynicism.

  Sebastian walked over to splash brandy into two glasses and held one out to the Home Secretary, who took it without comment and downed half the contents in one long, shaky pull.

  Sebastian said, “Tell me what happened between Oliphant and Stanley Preston.”

  Sidmouth brought up a hand to rub his eyes with one splayed thumb and forefinger. “Most colonial governors find ways to use their positions for personal gain. It’s virtually expected, actually. But some . . . some go too far.”

  “Bribery? Corruption?”

  The Home Secretary nodded and blew out a long, harsh breath. “I began hearing about the problems between James Preston—Stanley’s son—and the new governor almost as soon as Oliphant arrived in Jamaica. It seemed as if every other week brought a different complaint from Stanley. For the most part I ignored them—you know what Stanley was like. But then, things became more serious. Oliphant confiscated a valuable stretch of the Prestons’ largest plantation. He claimed the land was needed to build a public road, although everyone knew the road was solely for the benefit of one individual—a large landowner who paid Oliphant handsomely for his efforts.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last spring.”

  Sidmouth paused to take another gulp of his brandy. “By that point we’d started receiving complaints from other prominent colonial figures. It was obvious that something needed to be done. But Oliphant has some powerful backers, which limited my ability to act. I told Stanley that if he wanted Oliphant recalled, he needed to find something else—something less personal and more injurious to the interests of the Crown.”

  “That’s when Preston went out to Jamaica himself?”

  “Yes. He was determined to dig up something he could use.”

  “And he found it?”

  “He did. To be frank, I could scarcely believe it at first. I mean, bribery and corruption are one thing. But flaunting the laws against the slave trade is something else entirely.”

  “You’re saying Oliphant was involved in slave running?”

  Sidmouth nodded. “It’s become extraordinarily lucrative, now that the slave trade has been shut down.”

  Sebastian doubted a slave owner like Stanley Preston would have had any personal moral objections to such activities. But the discovery would have served his purposes very well.

  “The evidence was damning enough that Oliphant agreed to return to London,” Sidmouth was saying. “That should have satisfied Stanley—it would have any normal man. But not my cousin. He was determined to see formal charges brought against Oliphant. Except then . . .” Sidmouth’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes?” prompted Sebastian.

  “Last Saturday—the day before Stanley was killed—I ran into him in St. James’s Street. Frankly, I was rather chagrined to see him, since he’d taken to seizing every opportunity—however inappropriate—to pester me about Oliphant. But to my surprise, he said he was dropping the entire affair. I was stunned.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. But he was behaving most peculiarly—very unlike himself.”

  “In what sense?”

  “I think he was frightened. Which puzzled me, because Stanley Preston was not a man who frightened easily. But he was afraid that day, and I think he was afraid of Lord Oliphant.”

  Sebastian studied the Home Secretary’s strained features. “Have you ever heard of a man named Diggory Flynn?”

  “Who?”

  “Diggory Flynn—a rather disheveled individual with an oddly lopsided face. I could be wrong, but I believe he works for Sinclair Oliphant.”

  Sidmouth’s heavy jaw went oddly slack. “A lopsided face, you say?”

  “That’s right. Have you seen him?”

  “No.” Sidmouth shook his head. “No. No.”

  But Sebastian noticed his hand was far from steady as he brought his brandy to his lips and drained the glass.

  Sinclair, Lord Oliphant, was standing beside the E.O. table in a gaming hell near Portland Square when Sebastian came up to him.

  “We need to talk,” said Sebastian. “Walk outside with me for a moment.”

  Oliphant kept his gaze on the spinning ball before him. “I think not. Whatever you have to say to me can be said here.”

  “You might change your mind when you hear that the topic of conversation is slave running.” The E.O. ball fell into one of the bar slots, and Sebastian said, “You lose anyway.”

  “Actually, I’ve yet to place a bet.” Oliphant’s habitual, faint smile never slipped. But his blue eyes narrowed and hardened, and he turned to walk out of the gaming hell’s dim, smoky atmosphere into the startlingly clear, crisp night.

  “Now, what is this about?” he demanded as they descended the front steps.

  “I’ve just been listening to an interesting tale—about how you used your position as governor of Jamaica to cheat Stanley Preston out of a valuable section of his land. He swore to make you pay, and he did—by discovering that in addition to the usual bribery and corruption so common amongst Britain’s colonial governors, you were also dabbling in the slave trade.”

  “The accusations were baseless,” Oliphant said calmly as the two men turned their steps toward the square, “which is why no charges were ever filed.”

  “Yet you did return to London.”

  Oliphant shrugged. “The islands have a certain appeal, I’ll not deny. But after a time, ennui sets in. I was more t
han ready to return to England.”

  “And Preston had nothing to do with it? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s right.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “I think Preston wasn’t content with having you quietly removed from the governorship. I think he was determined to see you publicly disgraced, and that’s why you killed him.”

  Oliphant gave a brittle laugh and swung to face him. “Do you seriously think I would allow some upstart merchant’s grandson to drive me from a post I wished to retain? Me? An Oliphant of Calgary Hall? Hardly. I tell you, the charges were unproven.”

  “Perhaps. Yet Preston could conceivably have found the proof he needed to make them stick.”

  “I’m afraid your information is sadly inaccurate, Devlin. Stanley Preston and I had a nice little chat the Friday before he died. And the very next day, he formally retracted his allegations.”

  “Threatened him, did you? With what? Did you suggest that something vile might befall his daughter, if he continued?”

  “Does it matter? The point is, I had no reason to kill him. In fact, I had every reason not to—particularly in such a spectacularly gruesome fashion that could only serve to attract attention to the very falsehoods I wished to quiet.”

  “He could have changed his mind.”

  Oliphant gave a low laugh. “The man wasn’t that stupid.” He started to brush past Sebastian, heading back toward the gaming house.

  “Tell me about Diggory Flynn,” said Sebastian.

  Oliphant hesitated for the briefest instant—so briefly that Sebastian afterward wondered if he might have imagined it. Then he quickly mounted the steps, rapped sharply on the gaming house door, and disappeared inside.

  That night, Sebastian dreamt of blood-soaked orange blossoms and a laughing man with mismatched eyes in a strangely lopsided face.