What the Devil Knows Read online

  “A sailor—call him Long Billy, they do, on account of him being so big and tall. He was the only man whose name came up in connection with both the Marrs and the killings at the King’s Arms. He was a shipmate of Williams’s, and a mean, all-around nasty son of a bitch in general. Led a mutiny on a ship they was on—the Roxburgh Castle, it was. Bow Street was lookin’ at him even after Williams was found hanged, but then it was all dropped at the insistence of the Home Office.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they had a dead man they could blame, and they wanted everything to quiet down so’s people would forget about it and quit frettin’.”

  “Do you know if this Ablass is still around?”

  “Aye. Heard just the other day he’s back in London.”

  “He’s been gone?”

  Horton nodded. “Sailed on an East Indiaman not long after the 1811 murders.”

  Sebastian felt a gust of wind lift the spray from the tops of the choppy waves on the river and throw it against his face. “Did Ablass have a motive for the killings?”

  Horton shook his head. “Nothin’ more than theft—the same motive they gave for Williams doin’ it.”

  “Was either man a known thief?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Exactly why was Williams brought in for questioning in the first place?”

  “Someone laid information against him a few days after the King’s Arms murders.”

  “Who?”

  “Nobody ever said.”

  “Odd.”

  Horton brought his gaze back to Sebastian’s face. The wind off the river flapped the tails of his worn corduroy coat and fluttered the brim of his hat. “Aye, my lord; that it is.”

  Chapter 11

  By the time Sebastian traced Billy Ablass to an inn on Pope’s Hill in Shadwell, the light was fading from the overcast, rainy day and a mist was beginning to drift up from the docks and warehouses that lined the Thames.

  The Three Moons was a surprisingly respectable brick inn built late in the last century, with symmetrical white-painted sash windows and a decorative pediment over the central front door. Inside Sebastian found a taproom filled with laughing, drinking, shouting men, the air heavy with the smell of ale and tobacco smoke and the fire crackling cheerfully on the hearth. The young woman behind the counter was washing tankards in a tin tub. But she reached for a cloth to dry her hands as she watched Sebastian cross the ancient flagged floor toward her, her green eyes narrow and thoughtful and decidedly unwelcoming.

  She was tall and comely, with thick, warm brown hair and pale ivory skin. Her gown was of forest green wool with a white fichu at the neck, and she had the easy, self-assured manner of a woman who has long known men and how to handle them.

  “You lost or something, your lordship?” she said mockingly as he drew nearer.

  He paused before her, one hand resting on the gleaming counter between them. “Hopefully not. I’m looking for Billy Ablass.”

  She held herself very still. “Why? What’s he done?”

  “Nothing to my knowledge. Has he been staying here long?”

  “Since his ship docked a few months ago.” She curled her widespread hands around the edge of the counter and leaned into them. “Now that I’ve answered your question, seems only polite for you to answer mine: What would a fine gentleman such as yourself be wanting with the likes of Billy Ablass?”

  “I’m looking into the death of Sir Edwin Pym.”

  She straightened abruptly and drew back, her arms falling to her sides. “You don’t look like a Bow Street Runner.”

  Sebastian took a card from his pocket and laid it on the counter. “I’m not. The name’s Devlin.”

  She picked up the card to study it. “Viscount Devlin,” she read. “So you actually are a lord.” She raised her gaze to his face. “What makes you think Ablass has anything to do with what happened to Pym?”

  “I don’t know that he does.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  Sebastian shifted to let his gaze drift around the room. The inn lay on the ridge overlooking the former marshland that now formed the riverfront, so the men here were more likely to be timber-yard workers, tradesmen, and shopkeepers than seamen. “Was Ablass staying at the Three Moons when he was in London three years ago?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t here then.” She set the card back down before him, then stared at it a moment, as if considering the implications of his question. “You’re thinking they’re linked, aren’t you? These new killings and the Ratcliffe Highway murders of three years ago.”

  “I think it’s possible, yes. Is Ablass here?”

  “Now? No. He went off this afternoon, and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “What’s he like?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s a sailor. He likes to drink, fight, gamble, and tumble women. They’re all much the same. They get off their ships at the end of a long voyage flush with their wages, spend like there’s no tomorrow, then head back out to sea in a few months when they’re broke.”

  “He’s from London?”

  “He claims he’s from Danzig.”

  The word “claims” didn’t escape him. “Was he here last night?”

  “Reckon he came in sometime after midnight.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Briefly. Why?”

  Sebastian looked into the woman’s moss green eyes and found himself reluctant to explain the reasoning behind his question. Whoever bashed in Sir Edwin’s skull and slit his throat in that noisome alley must have been covered in blood. If Ablass was indeed the killer, then she couldn’t have helped but notice—unless of course he’d taken off his bloodstained coat and gloves and washed at a pump somewhere before walking into the Three Moons.

  He said, “Do you remember the night Hugo Reeves was killed?”

  “Vaguely. It’s been more’n a week. Why?”

  “Was Billy Ablass here that night?”

  “Sorry. I don’t recall.”

  He wasn’t convinced she was telling the truth. “Did you know Reeves?”

  “I’d seen him around. He used to come in here sometimes.”

  “Did he know Ablass?”

  She shrugged. “They may’ve been shipmates once.”

  “On his last voyage?”

  “Reckon you’d have to ask Ablass that.”

  “When was the last time you saw them together?”

  “Reeves and Ablass? You think I remember?”

  “I think you do.”

  She met his gaze, then looked away. “Could’ve been a few days before Reeves was killed. They got into a brawl over something, but—” She broke off as the street door behind him opened with a jangle of the bell and a gust of cold air that flickered the rushlights in their holders. Something passed over her features—something Sebastian couldn’t quite read. “That’s him.”

  Turning, Sebastian watched a big man in a rough coat, seamen’s trousers, and nailed boots cross the taproom toward them. He was as tall as Sebastian and broader through the shoulders, with long legs, a muscular, beefy build, and wild black hair. His beard was full and as dark as his hair, his small brown eyes set close, his nose prominent enough to rival that of the Duke of Wellington. He walked right up to Sebastian, hands curling into fists at his sides.

  “You the rotter what’s been askin’ after me around town?” he demanded, his chin jutting out aggressively as he took up a wide-legged stance. The accent sounded a lot more like Kent than Danzig.

  Claims, indeed, thought Sebastian. He leaned back against the counter, his own hands dangling loose. “You’re Billy Ablass?”

  “I am. Who the bloody hell are ye?”

  “The name’s Devlin.”

  It meant nothing to the big seaman. “What ye want wit me?”

>   “I’m looking into the death of Sir Edwin Pym.”

  The man’s nostrils flared. “I ain’t got nothing t’ do wit that.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Here—not that it’s any of yer bloody business.”

  “I understand you came in after twelve. But Pym could easily have been murdered before that.”

  “Not by me!”

  “You were held for questioning after the Ratcliffe Highway and King’s Arms murders, weren’t you?”

  “So? I wasn’t never charged with nothin’.”

  “But you were questioned. Why?”

  “Because somebody don’t like me. That’s the way it goes, ye know?”

  “You were shipmates with John Williams?”

  “Aye. On the Roxburgh Castle. What’s that got t’ do wit anything?”

  “And you knew Hugo Reeves?”

  “Ain’t like I was best mates with either of ’em, if that’s what yer sayin’.”

  “Do you think Williams was the Ratcliffe Highway killer?”

  Ablass snorted. “Course he was. Everybody said so.”

  “So who do you think killed Sir Edwin Pym?”

  The abrupt shift in topic back to the present seemed to momentarily confuse him. “How’m I t’ know?”

  “What about Hugo Reeves? Who do you think killed him?”

  “How the blazes would I know how the fool come t’ get his head bashed in?”

  “So you weren’t good mates with Reeves, either?”

  “Said that, didn’t I?”

  “Where were you that night?”

  “The night Reeves was killed? Ye think I can remember? I reckon I was here, but I couldn’t swear t’ it.”

  “And last night?”

  “I told ye, I was out drinkin’. Stopped in the Jolly Roger and Pewter Pot and maybe a few other places I don’t remember too well.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Wit different mates. Why?”

  “I’m thinking they could vouch for your movements.”

  Ablass leaned into Sebastian, his big head thrust forward. “Ye know what I’m thinkin’? I’m thinkin’ I done answered all the questions I’m gonna answer.” Then he turned and pushed through the inner door that led to the stairs.

  Sebastian was aware of the woman behind the counter watching him. She said quietly, “He’s a dangerous man; you know that, don’t you?”

  “He does seem to have gone out of his way to leave me with that impression.”

  She stared at him, her eyes half-hidden by her lowered lashes, and he couldn’t begin to guess what she was thinking. She said, “What’s it to a fine gentleman such as yourself, anyway, if somebody slits the throats of a common seaman and a corrupt East End magistrate?”

  “Was Pym corrupt?”

  “Of course he was. They most all are, around here. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  He wasn’t sure how to explain to her the disquiet that drove him, the certainty that this brutal string of killings wasn’t over. Or the way he was haunted by three children chanting, Ten for the bird you must not miss.

  “It isn’t just about them,” he finally said. “It’s about . . . all of us.”

  Her troubled gaze met his, and what he saw there told him that she understood.

  * * *

  Outside the Three Moons, the mist was thicker, the normal crowds of carousing sailors and workmen thinned by the rain and the creeping fog and the threat of bloody murder.

  Sebastian hunched his shoulders against the cold, damp wind gusting up from the river as he walked down the hill to the stables where he’d left his carriage. He could smell the sea in the air, the tang of brine mingling with the reek of tar and the scent of fresh lumber from a nearby timber yard. He could hear the wind whistling through the rigging of the ships hidden in the mist, hear the click of his own bootheels on the wet cobblestones and something else—

  The rush of footsteps coming up behind him, fast.

  Chapter 12

  Sebastian whipped around, yanking his knife from the sheath in his boot as he settled into a fighter’s stance.

  “Want something, gentlemen?” he said, the honed steel blade catching the light from the oil lamp on the corner of a nearby shop as he held the knife before him.

  The two men stopped their forward rush, their chests jerking with their labored breathing, their eyes narrowed and watchful and glittering with animosity. One was of medium height and slim, with a long pale face and rusty hair that hung over the collar of his rough dark coat. His companion was a shorter, darker, meatier man in seamen’s trousers and a peacoat, his face hidden by the kerchief he’d drawn up over his nose and mouth.

  It was the shorter man who spoke, his chin jutting up. “Wot makes ye think we was wantin’ something?”

  Sebastian shifted so that his back was to the shop’s brick wall. “Just out for a stroll, are we?”

  “Ain’t no law agin that, now, is there?”

  Sebastian nodded toward the short length of pipe the man held at his side. “And the pipe?”

  The man brought it up, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling as if with amusement. “Wot? This? This is fer protection. It can be dangerous around here, ye know. Yer lordship ought to remember that, before ye go wanderin’ around these parts. Ain’t safe fer a fine gentleman such as yerself.”

  “Is that the message you were sent to deliver?”

  The two men exchanged glances. “That’s jist the way it is,” said the taller man, his voice thick with a Glaswegian burr. “Givin’ ye a friendly warning, we is.”

  “You’re most generous.” Sebastian held himself utterly still, his senses alive to the furtive sounds of the mist-filled night around him, the distant screech of a fiddle, a woman’s low laugh, the slop of the tide against the hulls of ships whose outlines were lost in the swirling white.

  The Glaswegian held a chunk of what looked like brick in his hand. He brought it up now, his lips pulling back into a hard smile that showed broken brown teeth. “Spent ten years before the mast, I did, servin’ under popinjays such as yerself. Always struttin’ about, they was, thinkin’ they’s better’n us, treatin’ us worse’n a man oughta treat a dog. Treatin’ us like we was nothin’. That’s what ye think, ain’t it? That we’re nothin’.”

  Sebastian was watching the men’s hands. He didn’t think they were stupid enough to rush someone with a knife, but there was a palpable wave of hatred roiling off them. Whether the men had been sent after Sebastian by someone or had simply marked him as an easy target, they seemed reluctant to back off even though the dynamics of the confrontation had shifted against them.

  And then he saw the Glaswegian’s eyes narrow and knew even before the man drew back his arm that he was going to pitch the brick at Sebastian’s head.

  Sebastian ducked easily, bringing up his knife just as Peacoat came at him.

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” swore Sebastian, one jagged end of the heavy iron pipe raking across the side of his head as he flung up an arm to knock the worst of the blow away.

  The attacker’s heavy peacoat stopped some of Sebastian’s knife thrust, but not all of it. He saw the man’s eyes flare with surprise; heard the painful expulsion of his breath as Sebastian yanked his bloodstained blade free, ready to strike again.

  “Danny!” cried the Glaswegian, catching his friend as he staggered back. For one icy moment, the seaman’s gaze met Sebastian’s. “He dies, I kill ye. Ye hear me? I’ll kill ye.”

  “Get him help quick enough and he won’t die,” said Sebastian.

  The Glaswegian held Sebastian’s gaze a moment longer. Then he melted away into the mist, half propping up, half carrying his friend.

  “Damn,” said Sebastian, swiping a sleeve across his bloody forehead as he leaned back against the rough b
rick wall beside him. Damn, damn, damn.

  * * *

  “Maybe you simply looked like a rich, easy target for a couple of local footpads,” said Hero, watching Sebastian hold a damp cloth to the side of his face.

  The dressing room was lit by the soft golden glow of a brace of candles, the house quiet around them, the mist outside thick even this far from the river. “Maybe.” He dipped the cloth into the basin of warm water on his washstand, then squeezed it out again, the trickle sounding loud in the stillness of the night. “Either that or someone sent them to try to scare me off.”

  “From looking into what happened to Sir Edwin Pym, you mean? Or from poking into the old Ratcliffe Highway murders?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re certain one of them wasn’t Ablass?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Ablass is a big man, whereas the Glaswegian was of average size and his companion even shorter.”

  “They could have been his mates.”

  “True. But then, why wasn’t he with them? Ablass doesn’t strike me as the kind to send other people to fight his battles.” He dabbed at the bloody graze again, his eyes on his reflection in the mirror. “Everything I’m hearing about the Ratcliffe Highway murders makes me think that the official explanations given at the time were wrong. From what Charlie Horton told me, it sounds as if robbery couldn’t have been the motive—at least not with the Marrs.”

  “What other motive could there have been?”

  “Revenge, perhaps? I can’t think of any other reason for killing a tiny babe. Either revenge or a pure, sick lust for murder.”

  “God help us,” she whispered.

  He took one last dab at the cut, then turned from the washstand. “Sir Henry was planning to review the evidence accumulated by the Shadwell Public Office after the 1811 murders, so maybe he’s found something that will help make sense of this.”

  “What kind of human being could bash someone’s head to a bloody pulp and then slit their throat?”

  “One who is utterly and completely without conscience, or very, very angry.” He carefully dried his face with the towel, then set it aside. “Do you have any interviews planned for tomorrow?”