Who Buries the Dead (13 page)

S
ir Galen Knightly was seated in one of the red bucket chairs in White’s reading room when Sebastian walked up to him. A cup of tea rested on the table beside him, and he was engrossed in his newspaper’s account of the previous evening’s session at the House of Lords.

Sebastian doubted anyone had ever described Sir Galen as dashing, or even handsome. But he was not an unattractive man, despite his angular, somewhat bladelike features. Although he was now in his early forties, his frame was still strong and solid, his dark hair little touched by gray. His clothes were those of a prosperous country gentleman, tailored for comfort rather than style, as sober and serious as the man himself.

According to gossip, Knightly’s father had been a notorious rake, a member of the infamous Hellfire Club well-known about London for his drunken excesses and addiction to deep play. It often seemed to Sebastian that Sir Galen lived his life as if determined to prove to the world that his character was not that of his scandalous father. Where the father had been profligate and intemperate, boisterous and careless, the son was steady, sober, and serious. Eschewing gaming hells, the track, and London’s ruinously expensive highfliers, he devoted himself to scholarship and the careful management of his estates, in both Hertfordshire and Jamaica. He had married, once, when young. But his wife died in childbirth, leaving him heartbroken and—if possible—more serious than ever.

At Sebastian’s approach, he looked up, his features set in grave lines.

“Do you mind?” asked Sebastian, indicating the nearby chair.

“No; not at all.” Sir Galen folded his newspaper and set it aside. “I take it you’re here about Preston?”

Sebastian settled into the chair and ordered a glass of burgundy. “I’m told you knew him well.”

“I did, yes. His largest plantation in Jamaica lies between the land I inherited from my great-uncle and that of my mother’s family.”

“Have you spent much time there? In Jamaica, I mean.”

Sir Galen reached for his tea and took a small sip. “I have, yes. After the death of my grandfather, I was sent to the island to live with my uncle. I find I miss it if I’m away from it too long.”

Something of Sebastian’s thoughts must have shown on his face, because Sir Galen said, “I’m told you’re a rather outspoken abolitionist.”

“Yes.”

Sir Galen stared down at the delicately patterned china cup in his hands, then set it aside. “It’s a dreadful institution. I don’t care what the Bible says; I can’t believe we were meant to own our fellow beings as if they were nothing more than cattle and horses.”

“Yet you do.”

“I do, yes; by the hundreds. I inherited them, the same way I inherited Knightly Hall in Hertfordshire and the money my grandfather invested in the Funds. I suppose I could sell them, but while that might soothe my conscience, it wouldn’t do anything to improve their situation, now, would it? At least while they’re under my care, I can see they’re treated well.”

“You could always free them.”

“And so I would—if I could. But the law requires me to post bond guaranteeing their support for the rest of their lives. All five hundred of them. It would bankrupt me. If I were a better man, I suppose I’d do it anyway. But . . .” He shrugged and shook his head.

Sebastian studied the Baronet’s sun-darkened, broad-featured face. Sebastian had heard of a woman who, upon inheriting an estate in the West Indies, loaded all of the plantation’s slaves on a ship and transported them to Philadelphia, where she was able to set them free without posting a bond. But all he said was, “Did Preston feel the same way?”

“Stanley? Good God, no. He was convinced slavery was instituted by God to enable the superior European race to care for and shepherd the benighted souls of Africa. He genuinely believed that manumission was a misguided evil and contrary to God’s plan.”

“How often did he visit Jamaica?”

“He used to go out there quite regularly. But since his son, James, has taken over the management of the plantations, he’s been more content to adopt the role of an absentee landlord.”

“What can you tell me about his dealings with Governor Oliphant?”

“Oliphant?” Knightly pressed his lips together in disgust, as if the name tasted foul on his tongue. “He was extraordinarily unpopular with the planters, you know. Governors frequently are, but . . . Let’s just say that Oliphant went far beyond what was proper.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not really. Anything I could say would be all speculation and hearsay, and I have a healthy respect for England’s slander laws—and no desire to fall afoul of them.”

“Could Preston have had something to do with Oliphant’s rather sudden, unexpected return to London?”

“He never boasted of it, if that’s what you’re asking. But—” Sir Galen cast a quick glance around and grimaced suggestively. “Well, his cousin is the Home Secretary, now, isn’t he?”

“Miss Preston tells me her father was afraid of Oliphant.”

“I’ve heard he has a reputation for being someone you don’t want to cross. Unfortunately, Stanley Preston wasn’t the kind of man to let that stop him.” Knightly shook his head. “He was a brilliant man, well educated and learned in a number of subjects. But he was not always wise.”

The waiter delivered Sebastian’s wine, and he paused to take a deliberate sip before saying, “I understand Preston was also upset because of his daughter.”

A faint band of color appeared high on the older man’s cheekbones. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“He was disturbed, was he not, by the reappearance in London of a certain hussar captain?”

“I take it you mean Wyeth?”

“Yes.”

Sir Galen shifted his gaze to the large, gilt-framed battle scene on the far wall. “I’m afraid Anne—Miss Preston—has a generous nature, which combined with a warm and trusting heart can sometimes lead her to misjudge those she meets, especially when a friendly manner and a graceful address create the appearance of amiability.”

“You believe Wyeth’s amiability to be merely an appearance?”

“I fear it may be. But then, as you are doubtless aware, I am not exactly a disinterested party. When she was younger, the difference in our ages seemed insurmountable. It was only recently I’d begun to think perhaps I might have some chance, but then—” He broke off and shifted uncomfortably with all the embarrassment of a painfully reserved man in love with a younger woman who has given her heart to another.

“Do you think Preston would have forbidden a match between his daughter and Captain Wyeth?”

“He was certainly determined to do all within his power to prevent them from marrying. He had a younger sister, you know, who married an Army officer and died a hideous death at the hands of the natives at a fort in the wilds of America.”

“No, I didn’t know that. Yet Anne Preston is of age, is she not?”

“She is, yes.”

“Would she have married without her father’s blessing, do you think?”

“If she believed his blessing unfairly withheld, I suspect she would, yes.”

“And would he have disinherited her, if she married against his wishes?”

“He certainly swore he intended to do so. But would he have actually carried through with the threat?” Knightly tipped his head to one side, then shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

Sebastian stared at him. “You’re saying Preston threatened to disinherit Anne if she married Captain Wyeth?”

“He told me the day before he was killed that he would cut her off without a farthing if she did. But I can’t say whether or not he ever threatened Anne herself. He was like that, you know—full of bluster and passion, saying he was going to do things he would later realize were folly—once he calmed down.”

“Men of that nature frequently accumulate enemies.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Can you think of any—apart from Oliphant and Wyeth?”

Sir Galen studied his empty teacup, as if lost for a moment in thought. Then he shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t, no. As I said, his passions sometimes ran away with him, leading him into careless or hasty speech better left unsaid. He doubtless alienated more people than he realized. But can I think of anyone else angry enough to kill him and cut off his head? No.”

“Any idea what Stanley Preston might have been doing at Bloody Bridge that night?”

“No. I hadn’t actually given it much thought, but you’re right; it is odd for him to have been there so late, is it not?”

“He didn’t often walk at night?”

“Only to the pub and back. There was a time not so long ago when Bloody Bridge had a well-deserved reputation for violence. I can’t imagine him going there alone, at night.”

“Did he say anything to you about some Stuart relics he was considering buying?”

Knightly shook his head. “Not that I recall, no. But then, I’m afraid I sometimes didn’t pay a great deal of attention when Stanley would start prattling on about his collection.”

Sebastian set aside his wineglass and rose to his feet. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Sir Galen rose with him and tucked his paper under one arm in an awkward, self-conscious gesture. “He was a good man, you know. My uncle died the summer I was fourteen, when we were in Jamaica. I had already lost my grandfather, and my parents long before that. Stanley Preston took me under his wing. I was nothing more than a tiresome adolescent, but he treated me like a man grown. You couldn’t ask for a truer, more loyal friend. Whoever killed him—” He broke off, as if fearing the intensity of his emotions might lead him into the kind of intemperate speech he’d just credited to Stanley Preston. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, then said, “Whoever killed him left the world a poorer place.”

“Who do you think did it?”

The question seemed to surprise Knightly. “Me?” He paused. “If it were me, I suppose I would look into Captain Wyeth’s movements.” A self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “But then, as I said, I’m not exactly disinterested in that quarter.”

“It sounds to me as if this Captain Wyeth may well be our man,” said Lovejoy as he and Sebastian stood on the terrace of the vast pile of government offices known as Somerset House, looking out over the sullen gray waters of the Thames. “He readily admits he has no alibi for the time of the murder, and given that Preston was opposing the captain’s ambitions of marrying Miss Preston and had promised to disinherit her if she wed against his wishes, he also possessed a powerful motive.”

“Just because he had a motive and no alibi doesn’t mean he did it,” said Sebastian, watching a crane fit into place a large stone on the new Strand Bridge. “I’m still not convinced Henry Austen is being entirely honest about his quarrel that night with Preston. It might be worthwhile to send a constable to talk to the Monster’s regular patrons; one of them may have overheard something interesting.”

Lovejoy nodded. “Good idea. We’ve recently discovered Preston received a visitor on Sunday morning, by the way—a physician named Sterling. Douglas Sterling.”

“Preston was unwell?”

Lovejoy shook his head. “According to Miss Preston, her father was in the best of health—at least, as far as she knows.”

“What does this Dr. Sterling say?”

“Very little, unfortunately. I sent one of my best lads—a Constable Hart—to speak with him, but Sterling claims the visit was medical in nature and refuses to discuss it further. When Constable Hart tried to press the matter, the good doctor became quite agitated and stormed off. Hart thinks he’s hiding something.”

“Interesting. I’ll have to have a go at him.”

Lovejoy cleared his throat. “I should perhaps have mentioned this Dr. Sterling is quite aged.”

“How aged?”

“Nearly eighty. He’s been retired for years.”

“So why was he treating Preston?”

“He claims he saw him as a favor.”

“They were friends?”

“Miss Preston says he’s the former colleague of a some relative—a cousin of her grandfather, I believe.”

Sebastian turned to stare at him. “Lord Sidmouth’s father was a physician—and her grandfather’s cousin.”

“Was he? Then perhaps that’s the connection.”

“Where does this Dr. Sterling live?”

“Number fourteen Chatham Place. But I gather he spends most of his time at a coffeehouse near the bridgehead. He sounds like a crusty old gentleman. I suspect you’ll not find him easy to coerce into talking, if he’s made up his mind not to.”

“Perhaps I can appeal to his better nature.”

“After listening to Constable Hart,” said Lovejoy, turning away from the river, “I’m not convinced he has one.”

D
ouglas Sterling proved to be one of those aged gentlemen who still clung to the powdered wigs considered de rigueur for men of birth and education when they were in their prime.

Sebastian found him in a coffeehouse on the east side of Chatham Place, seated near the bowed front window where he could watch the steady stream of traffic passing back and forth on Blackfriars Bridge. He was hunched over a medical journal that lay open on the table before him, but looked up and frowned when Sebastian paused beside him.

His face was heavily lined with age, the skin sallow and blotched with liver spots. But his frame was still lean, his hands unpalsied, his dark eyes shiny with a belligerent intelligence. “You’re obviously not from Bow Street,” he said, his voice raspy but strong. “So what in blazes do you want with me?”

“Mind if I have a seat?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said the old man, and returned pointedly to his reading.

Sebastian leaned one shoulder against a nearby wall, his arms crossed at his chest. Through the window he could see a massive farm wagon heavily laden with hay jolting and swaying as it came down off the bridge’s span. “Nice view,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Come here often, do you?”

“You must know I do; otherwise, you wouldn’t have found me here, now, would you?”

“I understand you’ve retired from the practice of medicine.”

“Pretty much.”

“Yet you consulted with Stanley Preston the very day he died?”

“I like to keep my hand in, now and then.”

“Now and then?”

“Yes.” The aged physician gave up all pretense of reading and leaned back in his chair. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Devlin.”

Sterling’s eyes narrowed. “The Earl of Hendon’s son?”

“Yes.”

“I hear you’ve taken a fancy to solving murders. In my day, gentlemen left that sort of thing to the constables and magistrates.”

“Like Constable Hart?”

Sterling grunted. “The man is beyond impudent.”

Sebastian studied the old doctor’s watery, nearly lashless dark eyes. “He thinks you’re hiding something.”

Rather than become flustered, Sterling simply returned Sebastian’s steady gaze and said, “He’s welcome to think what he likes.”

“It doesn’t disturb you that someone lopped off Stanley Preston’s head less than twelve hours after you saw him?”

“Of course it disturbs me—as it would any right-minded gentleman.”

“Yet you refuse to divulge information which could conceivably lead to the apprehension of his killer.”

“It is only your assumption—and that of the ridiculous Constable Hart—that I possess any such information.”

“Are you by chance acquainted with the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth?”

“Huh. Knew him before he was even breeched, I did—although I doubt he’d acknowledge the likes of me now that he’s become so fine. Lord Sidmouth, indeed. And his father no more than a simple physician, like me.”

“You were colleagues?”

“We were. Although it was years ago, now.”

“Yet you still maintained an acquaintance with Stanley Preston?”

“That strike you as odd?”

“I suppose not. Tell me this: Did Preston seem at all anxious when you last saw him? Frightened?”

“Hardly.”

“How often would you see him?”

“Not often.”

“Yet he consulted with you over a medical problem his own daughter didn’t know he had?”

“I don’t discuss my health with my daughters. Do you?”

“I don’t have a daughter.”

“A son?”

“Yes.”

The old physician gave a throaty grunt. “Strapping young man like yourself, bet you think you want sons—carry on the name, make you proud at Oxford and on the hunting field, and all that rot. But mark my words: You get to be my age, it’s a daughter you’ll be wanting.”

Outside in the square, the hay wagon had caught a wheel in a rut and shuddered to a halt. Someone shouted as the driver cracked his whip.

Sebastian said, “What did you think of Preston’s interest in collecting the heads of famous men?”

The old physician thrust out his upper lip and shrugged. “Ever see the collection of anatomical specimens amassed by the late John Hunter? They’re in the care of the Royal College of Surgeons these days.”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Mind you, Hunter’s collection was based on anatomical peculiarities rather than whatever fame or infamy the individuals may have managed to acquire in life. But his point was the same.”

“Was it? I’d have said the impetus behind Hunter’s collection was education and research.”

“He liked to think it was. Could even have started out that way. But if you’d ever observed his pride in his specimens, you’d know better.”

Sebastian studied the aged doctor’s sallow, wrinkled face. “Can you think of anything that might have taken Stanley Preston to Bloody Bridge last Sunday night?”

“No.”

“Ever hear of a man named Sinclair Oliphant?”

“No,” said Sterling again. Although this time he blinked, and his gaze skittered away.

“You’re certain of that?”

“Course I’m certain,” Sterling snapped and glared defiantly back at Sebastian again, as if determined to stare him down.

“Who do you think killed Stanley Preston?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Then why your reluctance to discuss your last meeting with him?”

For one brief moment, Sterling’s jaw sagged, and Sebastian caught a glimpse of uncertainty and what might even have been fear in the old man’s eyes.

Then the aged physician clenched his teeth together. “My meeting with Stanley Preston last Sunday was private, and I intend for it to remain that way. You can stand there for the rest of the day as far as I’m concerned, but I’ve told you all you need to know.”

He hunched a shoulder and returned pointedly to his reading.

“Telling me what you think I need to know is not the same as telling me all you know,” said Sebastian.

But Sterling kept his stare fixed on the page before him, the powder from his old-fashioned wig dusting the shoulders of his worn coat.

Frustrated, Sebastian went next to the Home Office, where his second attempt to speak to Viscount Sidmouth was no more successful than the first. This time, the clerk insisted that his lordship was at Carlton House in consultation with the Regent and was not expected to return that day.

Sebastian studied the clerk’s pasty white face. He was a short, gently rounded man with a balding pate and a small, puckered mouth that curled up into what looked like a habitual condescending smile. “At Carlton House, you say?”

The smirk deepened. “That is correct.”

“You’re certain of that?” Sebastian could quite clearly hear the Home Secretary in conversation with a fellow cabinet member behind a nearby closed door. But the clerk had no way of knowing that.

“Of course I am certain,” said the little man with a sniff.

“It’s the oddest thing, but I’m beginning to get the impression the Secretary is deliberately avoiding me.”

The clerk stared back at Sebastian, pale eyes blinking rapidly.

If Sidmouth had been closeted with anyone else, Sebastian would have been tempted to set the supercilious clerk aside and open the door to the Home Secretary’s office. But Sebastian recognized the voice of the nobleman whose low, measured tones alternated with Sidmouth’s higher ranges: It was the Earl of Hendon, the man Sebastian had called Father until a short time ago.

Sebastian nodded to the closed door. “When the Secretary finishes his meeting with Lord Hendon, you can tell him that I’ll be back.”

The clerk gave a nervous titter. “When? When will you be back?”

“When will he be available?”

“I’m afraid I can’t really say. He’s busy. Very busy.”

“Then I suppose I’ll simply need to catch him when he’s not busy.”

The clerk’s smile slid into something less confident. “What does that mean?”

But Sebastian simply smiled and walked away, leaving the clerk bleating behind him, “But what does that mean? What does it mean?”

That night, Sebastian donned silk knee breeches, buckled dress shoes, and a chapeaux bras and took his wife to a ball.

The ball was given by Countess Lieven, the Russian Ambassador’s wife. Her husband had only recently been posted to the Court of St. James, yet the young Countess had already managed to make herself one of Society’s leaders. She was politically astute, totally unscrupulous, breathtakingly snobbish, charismatic, and brilliant. Her invitations were amongst the most sought after in London, and her approval was critical to any young lady making her debut into Society.

“If he’s that desperate to avoid you,” Hero said to Sebastian as their carriage joined the crush of fashionable vehicles making their way toward the Lievens’ town house, “maybe he won’t be there.”

“His daughter is making her come out this Season. He’ll be there.”