Who Buries the Dead (12 page)

W
ith the approach of evening, a fierce bank of clouds had scuttled in from the east, their roiling dark underbellies tinged with a strange, coppery green glow. Billowing gusts of wind sent handbills fluttering over the uneven paving stones and flapped the worn black shawl of a stooped old woman hawking nuts from a rusty tray. The knots of dirty, pinch-faced children huddled closer to the braziers of the coffee stalls and hot-potato sellers, their hollow eyes following Sebastian without curiosity or comprehension as he passed.

He paused as if to study the colorful caricatures displayed in a print shop’s dusty window, being careful not to glance toward the slope-shouldered man in polished black boots who drew up abruptly and started fumbling in his pockets as if in search of a handkerchief. When Sebastian walked on, the
click-click
of the man’s bootheels was just audible above the din of rattling cartwheels and the shouts of the children and the singsong cries of the street sellers.

Sebastian quickened his pace and heard that distinctive
click-click
speed up. When he slowed, so did his shadow. Then, as they neared the end of the lane, Sebastian turned abruptly and strode back toward Priss Mulligan’s shop.

The slope-shouldered man paused, his eyes widening ever so subtly. Of medium height and lanky despite his small potbelly, he had stringy black hair worn long enough to hang over his collar and a noticeably asymmetrical face with a bulbous nose and crooked mouth. But he was obviously convinced that Sebastian remained oblivious to him, because he simply turned as if to watch a brewer’s wagon full of empty casks that was rattling up the street, its tired horses hanging their shaggy heads, the malty aroma of ale mingling with the smell of roasted nuts and hot coffee and dung.

“Who are you?” demanded Sebastian, walking right up to him. “And why the devil are you following me?”

He expected the man to run, or at least to deny following him. Instead, the man laughed, his face instantly transforming from bland abstraction into a mask of glee. “I’d heard you were good,” he said. “But I didn’t credit it, meself.”

“Your mistake.”

“Ain’t it just?”

Sebastian studied the man’s beard-shadowed face, the grimy collar and filthy hair. His clothes were those of a workman down on his luck—or someone who had other reasons for doing his shopping at the rag fairs of Rosemary Lane.

“Who are you?” said Sebastian again.

The man tipped his hat and bobbed his head, as if making an introduction. “Name’s Flynn. Diggory Flynn.”

“Why were you following me?”

Diggory Flynn’s eyes slid away, his tongue flicking out to wet his full, oddly misshapen lips. “Didn’t mean you no harm.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Never did you nothing, now, did I?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Someone took a shot at me, just last night. Could have been you.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“Who set you after me?”

“What makes you think anybody did?”

“Who told you I’m ‘good’?”

A strange quiver passed over the man’s lopsided face, then was gone. “You’ve got a reputation, you do.”

Sebastian resisted the urge to grab the man by the front of his coat and shove him up against the dirty brick wall of the wretched shop beside them. “Why were you following me?”

“You got some folks worried, you do.”

“Who?”

The man had the strangest eyes, one a pale blue that burned with a fierce intensity, as if lit from within by a fire bordering on madness; the other was light brown. “You think on it, you’ll know.”

“Where’d you get the boots?”

“The boots?” He cast an admiring glance down at them. “Won ’em off a hussar captain, I did. Ain’t they grand?”

“I knew exploring officers in the Army who had no trouble rubbing grease in their hair or dressing themselves in filthy rags, but for some reason they really, really hated wearing anything but their own boots. It got them killed sometimes.”

Diggory Flynn’s face shone with merriment. But all he said was, “I wouldn’t know nothin’ about that. Weren’t ever in the Army, meself.”

Sebastian took a step back, then another, his gaze never leaving Flynn’s face. “Turn around and walk back the way you came.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Flynn touched a hand to his battered slouch hat. “Yes, sir,” he said, his grin never slipping. Then he thrust his hands in the sagging pockets of his worn-out coat and sauntered back up the lane, whistling “Bonny Light Horseman” softly beneath his breath.

“I assume this Diggory Flynn is the man you heard behind the curtain in Priss Mulligan’s shop?” said Hero.

She was seated in the armchair beside the bedroom fireplace, one hand trailing lightly over the back of the big, long-haired black cat stretched out beside her. The cat had adopted them some months before, although they’d yet to come up with a name that seemed right for him. It was nearly midnight; the fire on the hearth filled the room with a warm golden glow, while outside, a howling wind buffeted the house and sent the rain clattering against the windowpanes.

“It’s possible,” said Sebastian, holding his dozing son against his shoulder, his palm splayed against the child’s tiny body as he walked back and forth.

“Yet you don’t sound convinced. Why?”

He found himself reluctant to put his suspicions into words. “She certainly has a nasty reputation. And I suspect it’s well earned.”

“It’s odd, but he sounds rather like the man I saw at Covent Garden Market this morning.”

Sebastian turned to look at her. “What man in Covent Garden?”

“I thought I told you about him. It was my coster guide, Lucky Gordon, who noticed him first. He was simply standing there, staring at me. But when I tried to approach and ask what he wanted, he disappeared.”

Sebastian went to lay the sleeping babe in his cradle, then stood for a moment, watching the firelight dance over the child’s soft cheeks and the gentle curve of his dusky lashes. And he knew it again, that chilling whisper of fear, that shuddering awareness of how fragile and vulnerable were the lives of those he loved.

“What?” asked Hero, watching him.

“As of dawn this morning, I had never heard of Priss Mulligan. So why would she have set someone to follow my wife?”

“Why would anyone?”

When he remained silent, she said, “You think Diggory Flynn works for Oliphant, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head to one side, and he knew what she was thinking—that his history with Oliphant was tempting him to see connections where they didn’t necessarily exist. He acknowledged that she might even be right.

But he didn’t think so.

She said, “Why would Oliphant set someone to watch me? Not you, but me?”

Sebastian went to where a decanter stood warming on a table before the fire and poured himself a glass of brandy. “It’s a game he plays; a game of intimidation. He wants people to know they’re being watched—and that the people they love are vulnerable. He enjoys making them afraid.”

“I would think he’d know you better than that—know that you don’t frighten easily.”

He watched her head bend as she stroked the cat, watched the firelight catch the subtle auburn glints in the heavy fall of her hair and glaze the angle of her cheekbone. He wanted to tell her that there were things Oliphant knew that she did not, and that sometimes the innocent are made to pay for the sins of the guilty. But all he said was, “The thought of anything happening to you or Simon scares the hell out of me.”

She lifted her head to meet his gaze, her features calm and still. “Nothing is going to happen to us.”

He took a long pull of his brandy and felt it burn deep in his chest. “Your father thinks I’m putting you at risk simply by looking into Preston’s murder.”

“Well, that’s something you two have in common, then—needlessly worrying about Simon and me, I mean.” She shifted her hand to scratch the cat beneath his chin, the feline’s eyes slitting with pleasure as he lifted his head. “Jarvis tells me Charles I’s head is missing, as well as the coffin strap.”

Sebastian went to stand before the fire. “Saw him, did you?”

“This afternoon, when Simon and I were visiting my mother. He’s not exactly pleased with you, is he?”

“Is he ever?”

A gleam of amusement showed in the gray eyes that were so much like her father’s. “No.” The amusement faded. “Do you have any idea yet how the theft from the royal vault figures into Preston’s murder?”

“Oh, I’ve plenty of ideas. And not a bloody clue which—if any—of them are right. I don’t even know who brought the coffin strap to the bridge that night. It could have been the original thief, or a dealer, or the killer—assuming that the thief or dealer
isn’t
the killer. Or even Preston himself.”

“Why would Preston be carrying it?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Perhaps he was taking it to show someone. Or perhaps he’d just purchased it.” He tilted his head back and moved it slowly from side to side in a futile attempt to loosen some of the tension he carried in his neck. “If the strap had been left beside the body, I might think the killer intended it as some sort of statement or warning. But it wasn’t; it was lying in weeds down near the creek, as if someone had simply dropped it.”

“Perhaps the killer did leave it with the body. Only, someone else came along and picked it up. Someone who then dropped it in fright. Or perhaps the killer was stealing it and
he
dropped it.”

“I can see Thistlewood or Priss Mulligan taking the coffin strap. But not Oliphant or Wyeth.”

She smiled. “You complained last night that you had almost no suspects. Now you have almost too many: the unknown relic thief; a vindictive ex-governor; a scorned Army captain; a rival curiosity collector; and a nasty secondhand dealer.”

“Don’t forget the banker who quarreled with Preston right before he was killed. I haven’t even been able to speak with him yet.”

“What’s his name? Do you know?”

Sebastian nodded. “Henry Austen. I spoke to his sister.”

“You mean, Jane Austen?”

“Yes. You know her?”

“I met her a few times at a friend’s salon last year. She’s a deceptively clever woman with a devastating wit.”

“She is indeed. She tells me Preston was angry with her brother over something Austen’s wife said.”

“Sounds like a rather silly argument over which to kill someone.”

“True. Yet men have killed for less. And he is the last person known to have seen Preston alive.” Sebastian drained his glass and set it aside. Then his gaze fell on the set of three slim blue volumes that rested on the table beside her chair, and he said, “Don’t tell me you’re reading this new anonymous novel as well?”

“My mother gave it to me. It’s quite entertaining.” She scooped the cat up into her arms and laughed out loud when he stiffened and widened his eyes in indignation. “And I’ve found the perfect name for you,” she told the cat. “It precisely captures your charming blend of arrogance and aloofness—
and
your impressive handsomeness, of course.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Mr. Darcy.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She let the cat go and smiled as he jumped down in disgust. “Then you must read the book.”

Wednesday, 24 March

T
he next morning, Sebastian was standing on the corner of Henrietta Street, his gaze drifting over the facade of Henry Austen’s bank, when a tall, slim man in a neatly tailored blue coat and high-crowned beaver hat emerged from the bank’s entrance and walked across the street toward him.

He looked to be in his early forties, with a long face and aristocratic nose and a military carriage that lingered still. His small, thin mouth curled up in a pleasant smile that was probably habitual, and he looked enough like his sister that Sebastian had no difficulty identifying him.

“I thought I’d save my clerk the trauma of another visit from you and simply come out,” said Henry Austen, drawing up before him.

“Was he traumatized?” asked Sebastian as the two men turned to walk along Bedford Street, toward the Strand and Fleet Street.

“He likes to pretend he is, at any rate.” Austen threw him a swift, sideways glance. “My sister warned me to expect a visit from either you or Bow Street. Am I a suspect?”

“Bow Street thinks you are.”

Austen pressed his lips together and drew in a deep breath that flared his nostrils. “It’s because of that blasted incident in the pub the other night, is it?”

“Is there another reason Bow Street should suspect you?”

“Good God, no.”

They paused at a side street to allow a collier’s wagon to lumber past.

“Why, precisely, did you quarrel?” Sebastian asked. He’d already listened to Jane Austen’s explanation, but he wanted to hear her brother’s version.

“I don’t know if I’d describe it as a quarrel, exactly. Preston was already furious when he walked into the pub. If you ask me, he was looking for someone on whom to unload some spleen, and I was simply there.”

“What was he angry about?”

“The crushing of his grand ambition of seeing his daughter married to a title, I suppose. Jane told you about Anne, didn’t she?”

“She did. Although I must admit I find it hard to believe Preston would be so enraged simply because your wife expressed regrets over something she said six years ago.”

“Yes, well . . .” Austen put up a hand to scratch his ear. “The thing is, I didn’t exactly tell my sister everything. I mean, Preston was angry because of what Eliza had said. But he was also furious with Jane.”

“For what?”

“For ‘encouraging Anne’s romantic notions,’ was the way he put it. You see, before Captain Wyeth reappeared in town, Anne was on the verge of accepting an offer from Sir Galen Knightly.”

Sebastian was familiar with Sir Galen. A prosperous if somewhat lackluster baronet, he was ten years older than Sebastian—which would make him nearly twenty years older than Anne Preston. “And your sister discouraged the match?”

“Oh, no—at least, not intentionally. It’s just that Anne likes to read romance novels.”

“And Miss Austen gave her novels?”

The banker drew his chin back into his cravat and fiddled self-consciously with the buttons of his coat. “Well . . . yes.”

Sebastian watched Austen’s gaze slide away. The man obviously needed to take lessons in lying from someone with Priss Mulligan’s talents. Although why he should be anything less than honest about his sister’s involvement in Anne Preston’s reading material escaped Sebastian entirely.

Sebastian said, “How well did you know Preston?”

“I’ve known him for years, although the real friendship was between our wives.”

“Any idea what he might have been doing at Bloody Bridge on a rainy Sunday night?”

“I suppose it’s possible he decided to go for a walk after leaving the pub. He’d worked himself up into quite a rage. Perhaps he realized he needed to cool off.”

“I understand he had something of a temper.”

“He did, yes. Although I’ve known worse. Much worse, actually. He was a man of strong passions who sometimes allowed his emotions to override his sense. But there was no real harm in him.”

There was no real harm in him.
Austen’s words almost exactly echoed those of his sister. And Sebastian found himself wondering why both Austens had felt compelled to make such similar observations.

He said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”

“No. But then, as I said, we weren’t exactly intimates.”

“Did you ever hear him mention a man named Oliphant?”

“Who?”

“Sinclair, Lord Oliphant. He was until recently the governor of Jamaica.”

Austen thought about it, but shook his head. “Sorry. You might try talking to Sir Galen Knightly. He owns plantations in Jamaica too, you know. And unlike Preston, he’s quite a steady fellow. My sister Jane calls him Colonel Brandon.”

“Colonel Brandon? Why?”

Austen glanced down, his eyes crinkling as if at a private joke. “I suppose you’ve never read
Sense and Sensibility
?”

“By the author of this new novel everyone is talking about? No.”

“Ah. Well, there’s a character in it—a Colonel Brandon—a staid, older man in love with a much younger woman, who herself prefers a younger, more romantic figure.”

“And Sir Galen Knightly reminds your sister of this character?”

“He does, yes. I don’t think Sir Galen was ever dashing, even when young.”

“Unlike Captain Wyeth.”

The amusement faded from Austen’s face, leaving him looking serious and troubled. “Jane worries that Wyeth may well be another Willoughby or Wickham.”

“Excuse me?” said Sebastian.

“The dastardly fellows in
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“She thinks Wyeth is dastardly?”

“Not exactly; it’s more that she worries he could be. Have you met him? He’s quite handsome and charming.”

“I didn’t realize such attributes were considered a bad thing.”

Austen gave a soft laugh. “Jane would tell you that handsome, charming young men without fortune should always be considered suspect, particularly when showering attentions on fair maidens of good family.”

“I’m told Miss Preston is not well dowered.”

“I suppose that depends on your standards. She’s no great heiress, certainly. But she has a small portion from her mother in addition to what she’ll get from Preston.”

“I was under the impression Preston had entailed his estates to the male line.”

“He did, yes; but I believe Anne stands to inherit some five thousand pounds invested in the Funds.”

“Now that Preston is dead,” said Sebastian.

Austen drew up and swung to face him. “Surely you don’t think Wyeth—” He broke off, as if unwilling to put the suggestion into words.

Sebastian paused beside him. “If not Wyeth, then who? Who do you think killed Preston?”

Austen shook his head. “I would hope I don’t number amongst my acquaintances anyone capable of such barbarity.”

“Yet Preston obviously did. Whether he realized it or not.”

Austen puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled a long breath. “You’re right, of course. Although I must admit, it’s troubling even to think about.” He looked out over the wide gray expanse of the river cut by the newly constructed arches of what would eventually be the Strand Bridge. “Try talking to Sir Galen. They’d been friends since Knightly was a lad. He’d be far more likely to know if the man had recently acquired a dangerous enemy. You’ll find him in his club’s reading room, this time of day.”

“Which club?”

“White’s, of course. He’s there every day from four until five. And he dines at Stevens every Wednesday and Sunday at half past six. He’s quite the creature of habit.”

Sebastian studied the banker’s long, scholarly face. That gentle, good-humored smile was firmly back in place. Yet there was an evasiveness, a lack of directness to his gaze, that was hard to miss. And Sebastian couldn’t escape the feeling that, like his sister, Henry Austen was hiding something.

He thanked the banker and started to turn away, only to pause and say, “Was Preston carrying anything when he came into the pub that night?”

Austen looked puzzled. “Such as what?”

“A strip of thin, old lead, about eighteen inches long. Or perhaps a larger, wrapped package or satchel of some kind?”

Austen thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “No, he couldn’t have been.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. I remember quite clearly; he came in with his arms held stiffly at his sides and his fists clenched. He couldn’t have been carrying anything.”