Who Buries the Dead: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery Page 8

  “Careful,” said Hero, keeping a strong grip on her reticule as she steadied the boy.

  He threw her a cocky grin and darted off again.

  The number of young children at the market, most of them boys, surprised her. Shrieks rose from a clutch of children washing at the pump, while more could be seen crowding around the fires of the coffee and tea stalls beneath the arcades, or congregating near the narrow lanes leading out of the square. Some looked no older than four or five.

  “Why are they queuing?” asked Hero, watching the boys push and shove as they lined up.

  “They’re ’opin’ some costermonger without a boy of ’is own will ’ire ’em for the day,” said Lucky. “Some ’as parents what send ’em ’ere to look for work. But a good many of ’em are orphans. They sleeps under the stalls at night and eats mainly specks.”

  Hero brought her gaze back to his freckled face. “They eat what?”

  “Specks. That’s what we call anything that’s overripe or shriveled, or that the wasps ’ave been at. They’re set aside, ye see, then sold for a quarter the price o’ the rest. Me da always says, if somethin’ won’t fetch a good price, then it must fetch a bad one.”

  Hero drew her notebook and pencil from her reticule and began scribbling notes.

  Officially, Covent Garden Market was devoted to the sale of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. But she could also see old iron sellers and crockery stalls scattered amidst the produce, as well as countrymen peddling wild ducks and rabbits. Rows of baskets and slippers dangled against the railings of St. Paul’s churchyard, while men and women with rusty trays slung from straps around their necks pushed their way through the crowd, hawking seedcakes and sweetmeats, razors and knives, ribbons and combs.

  She was watching a lark at the bird catcher’s stall beat its wings against the bars of its cage when Lucky said, “Ye know that feller?”

  “Who?” asked Hero, her gaze scanning the surging, raucous mass of humanity.

  “That queer-lookin’ cove up there by the Piazza Hotel—the one with the fancy black boots. ’E’s been staring at ye ever so long. At first, I thought maybe ’e was jist puzzlin’ over what such a bang-up lady’s doin’ at Covent Garden Market. But ’e ain’t no coster, and ’e ain’t no grower neither, from the looks of ’im. So what’s ’e doin’ ’ere?”

  Hero could see him now, a slope-shouldered man of medium height, lanky except for a small, slightly protuberant belly. He had a slouch hat tipped back on his head and was leaning against one of the granite pillars of the elevated north piazza, a tin cup from a nearby coffee stall cradled in one hand, the other resting negligently in his pocket.

  “How do you know he’s not a costermonger?” she asked.

  Lucky laughed. “I know.”

  The man took a slow sip of his coffee. He wore neither the blue apron of the greengrocers nor the straw hat, smock frock, and dusty shoes of the countrymen, although his coat and breeches had never been of particularly good quality and were now worn and rumpled and greasy. Only his well-polished, high-topped boots struck a discordant note.

  For one long, intense moment, the man’s gaze met hers across the square, and Hero felt her mouth go dry and an unpleasant sensation crawl across her skin. He had an oddly uneven face, with a full-lipped, crooked mouth and one eye that seemed slightly larger than the other. The sun was just cresting the rooftops of the decrepit seventeenth-century houses that lined the square and spilling golden light across the ragged, raucous crowd. The slanting sunlight caught the smoke from the charcoal fires so that, for one eerie moment, the air took on a hellish glow. Then the sun inched higher, and the illusion was broken.

  “How long has he been watching us?” she asked Lucky. To her knowledge, she had never seen the man before and could not imagine who he might be.

  “I can’t say fer sure,” said Lucky. “But I noticed ’im right after we got ’ere.”

  She studied the unknown man’s strange profile. He was perhaps thirty-five or more years of age, his straight black hair worn long enough to hang over his collar, and a two- or three-days’ growth of beard shadowed his face. He kept his head deliberately turned away. But she had no doubt that he was still aware of her, that she was the reason he was here, now.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think ’e followed ye ’ere,” said Lucky. “Only, why would some feller be followin’ ye?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hero, shoving her notebook and pencil back into her reticule. “But I intend to ask him.”

  Gathering her carriage gown in both fists to lift the hem clear of the muck-strewn paving stones, Hero strode across the square, weaving around weathered, half-rotten stalls and plowing determinedly through the throngs of earnestly haggling purchasers and sellers. She had almost reached the step up to the piazza when the black-booted man pushed away from the pillar and melted into the crowd.

  She tried to follow him, shoving past sieves piled high with apples and a thick mass of gawkers gathered around what looked like an upside-down umbrella filled with ribald prints. But by the time she reached the corner of James Street, he had disappeared.

  She stared out over the noisy sea of donkeys and barrows and ragged men and women clogging the lane. “Blast,” she whispered beneath her breath.

  “Who was he?” asked Lucky as he caught up with her.

  But Hero only shook her head, conscious of an unpleasant tingling in her fingertips and a sensation of disquiet that would not be stilled.

  Chapter 15

  S ebastian was sitting down to a solitary breakfast after a hard ride in the park when he heard the distant peal of the front bell, followed by a young woman’s voice in the hall.

  “A Miss Anne Preston to see you, my lord,” said Morey, appearing in the doorway. “She says it’s urgent.”

  “Please, show her in.”

  Stanley Preston’s daughter came in with a quick step and a determined, almost fierce expression that faded to chagrin as she drew up just inside the doorway. “I’ve interrupted your breakfast. I do beg your pardon. I’ll go—”

  He pushed to his feet. “No. Please, come in and sit down. May I offer you some tea? Toast, perhaps?”

  “Nothing, thank you.” She took the seat he indicated, both hands gripping her reticule in her lap as she leaned forward. “I’m sorry for coming so early, but I spoke to Jane Austen last night, and she says she told you about Hugh—I mean, Captain Wyeth. I . . . I don’t think she realized that when you heard about Father’s argument with Mr. Austen, you might leap to some unfortunate conclusions.”

  Sebastian suspected that Jane Austen had been perfectly aware of the implications of what she’d told him. But all he said was, “Conclusions about what?”

  “About H—Captain Wyeth, and Father.”

  Sebastian reached for his tankard and calmly took a sip of ale, his gaze one of polite interest.

  When he remained silent, she said in a rush, “I won’t deny that Father was displeased when he learned Captain Wyeth had returned to London. But there was never any confrontation between them. Truly there wasn’t.” She looked at him with a pinched, earnest face, as if she could somehow will him to believe her.

  She was an appallingly bad liar.

  Sebastian cut himself a slice of ham. “Yet your father quarreled with Mr. Austen over a simple statement of regret voiced by the man’s wife from her sickbed?”

  “Father never could abide having his judgments questioned or being told he was wrong—about anything.”

  “Oh? And what, precisely, led your friend to change her mind about Captain Wyeth?”

  Anne Preston threaded her reticule strings between her fingers. “When she opposed the match between Hugh and me six years ago, Eliza was very much governed by material considerations. She thought at the time she had my best interests at heart. But . . .”

  “Yes?” prompted
Sebastian.

  “She says her illness has altered her perception, that she now sincerely regrets the part she once played in helping to deprive me of the happiness I could have enjoyed all these years.”

  “Your father found that objectionable?”

  “Father always hoped to see us—that is, my brother and me—marry well. It was extraordinarily important to him.”

  “So Captain Wyeth has renewed his quest for your hand?

  “Oh, no. No. We . . . we’ve only met a few times since his return to London—as old acquaintances. Nothing more.”

  Sebastian noted the telltale stain of color on her cheeks. But all he said was, “I understand Captain Wyeth has taken a room in Knightsbridge. Where, precisely?”

  She stared at him. “But . . . I’ve just explained there is no reason to involve him in any way.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to speak with him.”

  He watched her nostrils flare in panic as she realized her bold attempt to shield the captain from suspicion had failed utterly. She dropped her gaze to her clenched hands and said quietly, “He’s at the Shepherd’s Rest, in Middle Row.”

  “Thank you,” said Sebastian.

  She fiddled again with the strings of her reticule. “You asked yesterday if there was anyone with whom Father had quarreled recently.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been giving your question some thought, and it occurs to me that there is someone. I don’t know if you could say Father quarreled with him precisely, but Father was definitely afraid of him. His name is Oliphant. Sinclair Oliphant.”

  In the silence that followed her words, Sebastian could hear himself breathing, feel the slow and steady beat of his own pulse. He cleared his throat and somehow managed to say, “You mean, Colonel Sinclair Oliphant?”

  “Yes, although he’s Lord Oliphant now. He inherited his brother’s title and estates, you know.”

  “Yes; I did know. Although it was my understanding he’d been posted as governor of Jamaica.”

  “He was, yes. But he recently surrendered his position and returned to England. He’s taken a town house in Mount Street for the Season.”

  Sebastian reached for his ale and wrapped both hands around the tankard. Three years before, in the mountains of Portugal, Sinclair Oliphant had deliberately betrayed Sebastian to a French major known for his inventive and painful ways of inflicting death. Sebastian had survived. But what the French major had done after that would haunt Sebastian for the rest of his life.

  He took a long, slow swallow of the ale, then set the tankard aside with a hand that was not quite steady. “Why was your father afraid of Oliphant?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I mean, I know Father was furious with Oliphant’s behavior as governor. In fact, Father went out there last year precisely to try to do something about him.”

  “Your father was in Jamaica last year?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go with him?”

  “Oh, no; I stayed with the Austens. I’ve never actually been to Jamaica at all. Father always said it wasn’t a healthy place for a woman.”

  “It isn’t a healthy place for anyone.”

  He studied her smooth, seemingly guileless young face. He wanted to ask if it bothered her to know that the clothes on her back, like the pearl drops in her ears and the food she ate every day, were paid for by the labor of enslaved men, women, and children. But all he said was, “Do you know if your father had anything to do with Oliphant’s decision to return to England?”

  “No; Father never discussed such things with me. But last Friday, he was out for several hours in the afternoon, and when he returned home, he looked positively stricken. I asked what was wrong, and he said that he was afraid he’d made a mistake—that Oliphant is far more dangerous than he’d realized.”

  “Your father was right. Oliphant is dangerous. Very dangerous.”

  Something in his voice must have given him away, for she looked at him strangely, her lips parting, a faint frown line creasing her forehead. “You know him?”

  “I did. Once,” said Sebastian, and left it at that.

  After she had gone, he went to stand before the long windows overlooking the terrace and the gardens below. The neatly edged parterres showed a vibrant green in the fitful sunshine, the newly turned earth a warm brown. But he saw only ancient stone walls burned black and a child’s doll lost in a drift of orange blossoms.

  There are moments in the course of a man’s life that can irrevocably alter its path and sear his soul forever. Sebastian had encountered such a pivotal moment one cold spring in the mountains of Portugal, when he had obeyed the orders of a colonel he knew to be both vicious and deceitful, and dozens of innocent women and children had paid with their lives for his gullibility. Another man might have sought refuge in a string of excuses: I didn’t know. . . . I was simply obeying orders. . . . I was too late to save them. But not Sebastian. Their spilled blood had irrevocably colored his sense of who and what he was.

  Once, he had sworn to avenge their deaths, sworn to kill Oliphant even if it meant he had to die for it himself. But, with time, he had come to realize that the drive for vengeance was his own, that it was his own pain he sought to ease, his own guilt he hoped to redeem. Those gentle, religious women who had dedicated their lives to the care of others, and died because of it, would have prayed for Sinclair Oliphant’s salvation. Not for his death.

  Sebastian would not violate their memory by killing in their name. But there was a difference between vengeance and justice, and he was determined that the innocents of Santa Iria would have justice.

  One way or another.

  The elegant house on Mount Street so recently hired by Sinclair Oliphant for his gently bred wife and their five children rose five stories tall, its shiny black door flanked by polished brass lanterns, its marble front steps freshly scrubbed. Sebastian stood for a time on the footpath, his gaze on that stately facade, his thoughts on the man he’d last seen in a rough campaign tent in the mountains of Portugal. Colonial governorships were coveted, lucrative positions seldom surrendered voluntarily. If Stanley Preston was, in fact, behind Oliphant’s sudden, unexpected return to London, then Preston had made himself a dangerous enemy indeed.

  Still thoughtful, Sebastian mounted the house’s front steps. His knock was answered by a somber butler who provided the information that his lordship was breakfasting that morning at White’s. But Sebastian had to trail Oliphant from the clubs of St. James’s through several exclusive shops in Bond Street before he finally came upon his former colonel at Manton’s shooting gallery in Davies Street.

  Leaning against a nearby wall, Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and waited while Oliphant methodically culped wafers with one of Manton’s sleek new flintlock pistols. The man looked much as Sebastian remembered him. In his mid-forties now, he was trim, broad shouldered, and tall, with the erect carriage typical of a career military officer. His jaw was strong and square, his cheeks lean, his lips habitually curled into a smile that hid a capacity for self-interest that was brutal in its intensity.

  Sebastian had no doubt that Oliphant was aware of his presence. But the colonel simply went on calmly hitting the rows of paper targets attached to an iron frame at the far end of the long, narrow room. After each shot, he paused, reloaded his pistol, and fired again, the acrid smoke billowing around them, until the last wafer went down. Only then did he turn to face Sebastian, his movements graceful and untroubled, almost bored.

  It was the first time Sebastian had seen the colonel since he’d sent Sebastian on a mission deliberately calculated to end in so much innocent death. Now Sebastian searched the man’s clear blue eyes for some sign of guilt or regret or even discomfort. But he saw only the familiar self-satisfaction edged faintly with contempt. And he knew then that the events of that faraway spring—the deaths that had sha
ttered Sebastian’s soul and marked him for life—had troubled the man who caused them not at all.

  Sebastian felt a powerful surge of rage pulse through him. He wanted to smash his fist into that complacently smiling face. He wanted to feel flesh split and bone shatter beneath his driving knuckles. He wanted to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and crush it until he saw the life ebb from those hated eyes. And he had to clench his hands at his sides and force himself to take a deep, steadying breath before he could bring the surging bloodlust under control.

  “I didn’t realize shooting had become a spectator sport,” said Oliphant, calmly passing the pistol to a waiting attendant.

  Sebastian held himself very still. “Practicing in case someone should challenge you to a duel?”

  Oliphant’s smile never slipped. “I like to keep my hand in.” He stripped off the leather sleeves he wore to protect his starched white cuffs and went to wash his hands at the basin. “You’re not here to shoot?”

  “Not today.” Sebastian watched him splash warm water over his face and reach for the towel. “How long have you been back from Jamaica?”

  “Not long,” said Oliphant, his attention seemingly all for the task of drying his hands.

  “I understand you knew a man named Preston. Stanley Preston.”

  Oliphant glanced over at him. “As it happens, I did. Why do you ask?”

  “Someone cut off his head and used it to decorate a bridge near Five Fields.”

  “So I had heard.”

  “I’m told he was afraid of you. Why?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Are you saying he wasn’t?”

  Oliphant tossed the towel at the washstand and turned away to ease his coat up over his shoulders with the attendant’s help. “Some people frighten easily.” He adjusted his cuffs. “They say you came down from the hills in Portugal swearing to kill me on sight.” He pivoted to face Sebastian, his arms spread wide, his eyebrows lifted as if in inquiry—or challenge. “Change your mind?”