Page 13 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
F or reasons he couldn’t have explained, Sebastian found himself back in the old cobbled courtyard off Swallow Street, standing in the doorway of the abandoned chapel as a new rush of rain fell gently around him.
Over the past twenty-four hours, Lovejoy’s men had thoroughly scoured both the chapel and the surrounding area, looking for something—anything—that might help explain what had happened here.
They’d found nothing.
So why here? Sebastian wondered. Why had Lord Preston Farnsworth’s killer chosen this place for the site of the man’s death? Because it was a chapel? Because of some personal significance of which Sebastian was unaware? Or simply because it was deserted and out of the way? Had Farnsworth set off that evening for a routine walk, only to be snatched and brought here to be killed? Or had he come here willingly to meet his killer?
Why would he do that?
“Why, why, why,” said Sebastian aloud, his words falling into the hush of the ruined chapel. And he found his attention caught, as before, by the worn engravings on the paving stones at his feet. Here lyeth the body of Joseph Jennings, Esq, buried this 6th day of April Ano 1626…
Who had owned the ancient house of which this chapel had once been a part? he wondered. Did that explain its choice as the site for murder? Was there some connection between the house, the Farnsworths, and the family of the man who had killed him? A vendetta, perhaps, that stretched back centuries?
A ridiculous thought?
Or not?
Sebastian had come to the ruins of this old Tudor house once before, a year ago, to see a young half-Scottish, half-African fencing master who sometimes used the courtyard as a convenient open space for giving lessons. And found himself wondering, Could there be some connection there?
Another ridiculous thought?
Or not?
Swearing softly to himself, Sebastian turned and was about to leave when he became aware of the sounds of a carriage drawing up in the street outside. He heard a gentlewoman’s voice giving instructions to her coachman, followed by quick footfalls crossing the wet courtyard toward him. Then the figure of a woman elegantly dressed in black appeared in the doorway, her step faltering at the sight of Sebastian, her hand coming up to her mouth as she let out a soft mew of surprise.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Hester,” said Sebastian, touching his hand to his hat. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
A faint flush of annoyance showed high on her ladyship’s cheekbones. She shook her head, her back stiffening, her hand falling to her side. “Don’t be absurd; I was merely startled. How do you do, Lord Devlin?”
She had been born the daughter of a duke, and the arrogance and sense of superiority that had engendered in her showed in every movement, every utterance, every fiber of her being. Whereas the current Duke of Eversfield was an affable and unpretentious man and Lord Preston had had a reputation for being charming and likable, most people found Lady Hester proud and stiff. She was relatively tall for a woman, even taller than her dead brother but built thin and bony, with angular features, pale grayish blue eyes, and dark blond hair she wore scraped back in an austere style. In honor of his death, she was dressed in brutally severe but inescapably expensive mourning, from her demure black hat and short veil to her somber black pelisse, black gloves, black reticule, and dulled black shoes. “Bow Street has told us you are assisting them in their efforts to catch my brother’s murderer,” she said. “Have you found the evidence necessary to have him remanded into custody?”
Not “someone” or “the killer,” Sebastian noticed, but him , as if Lord Preston’s killer had already been identified and it was simply a matter of proving the case against him. “Not yet,” he said. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your brother.”
“Thank you.” She tightened her jaw against a threatened upsurge of emotion, her nostrils flaring on a deep breath as she let her gaze drift over the broken altar and rubble of fallen stones. “I came because I wanted to see for myself where my brother died.” She paused. “What a wretched place for Preston to have breathed his last.”
“Do you have any idea why your brother would come here?”
“No. I can’t begin to imagine.”
“This chapel was once part of a nobleman’s house from the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Did the Farnsworths perhaps have some connection to either the house or the family that owned it?”
“Was there a nobleman’s house here in the past? If so, I wasn’t aware of it. Surely you can’t think that might somehow be relevant to my brother’s death?”
“It seems worth exploring. Do you know if Lord Preston had received any threats recently? Perhaps from someone he encountered in his work with the Society for the Suppression of Vice?”
Something glittered in her ladyship’s hard eyes. “My dear Lord Devlin, I trust you don’t intend to fritter away valuable time by searching amongst the city’s criminal classes for the perpetrator of this outrage. The identity of my brother’s killer is more than obvious to everyone.”
“It is?”
“Of course it is. Six years ago Hugh Chandler ran off with my brother’s wife, then turned more than ugly when forced to pay for his sinful crime. And he never forgave my brother for it.”
Sebastian had to work to keep his voice even. “And how precisely did Major Chandler ‘turn ugly’?”
“Ask anyone who saw the man’s face when the verdict was returned and he heard the sum awarded. If looks could kill, Preston would have been dead six years ago.” Her lip curled. “Oh, I know he’s considered something of a hero now since Waterloo, but I’ve no doubt his character is the same as it has always been: devious, deceitful, and utterly devoid of any of the qualities one expects of a gentleman.”
Sebastian found he was unconsciously clenching his fists and had to deliberately relax them. “Do you have any idea why your brother went out Saturday evening?”
“Yes, of course; as I’ve already informed Bow Street, my brother always took a walk after dinner. We’ve never kept fashionable hours, you know. With the exceptions of Tuesdays and Sundays, when we typically attend evensong at St. George’s, Preston believed in dining at six.” She said it smugly, as if it had long been a matter of pride for both brother and sister. “And he was not one to linger over his port. ‘A walk after the consumption of sustenance cleanses the humors and strengthens the constitution,’ he always liked to say.”
“And did he make a habit of walking to Swallow Street?”
“As to that, I have no idea, although I shouldn’t think so. I myself typically take two turns around St. James’s Square and then retire to my rooms to read.”
“But you did see him before he went out that evening?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did he seem upset in any way? Distracted? Afraid, perhaps?”
“Preston? Afraid? I can’t think of anything short of the wrath of God that would have frightened my brother.”
“So there was nothing unusual about that evening?”
“Nothing. As I told Bow Street, he did receive a note shortly before dinner, but I doubt it was important.”
Sebastian knew a quickening of interest. “Do you still have it? The note, I mean.”
“No. If I remember correctly, he slipped it into the pocket of his coat after reading it.” She frowned. “Are you suggesting the note might have come from his murderer?”
“It’s possible, is it not? Did Lord Preston say anything about this note? Anything that might indicate who it was from?”
“No, nothing. We were having a glass of wine in the drawing room before dinner and discussing the prosecution of a Radical newspaper editor Preston had recently undertaken, when Dunstan—our butler—brought up the note. Preston thanked him, read through it quickly, then tucked the note in his pocket and continued our conversation.”
“Did he seem upset by the note in any way?”
“No, not at all. I assumed it had something to do with a report he was preparing to submit to the Select Committee on the police of the metropolis. My brother worked tirelessly to rid our streets of every sort of vermin, from loose women and unruly public houses to the dangerous, shameless atheists and radicals who seem to be proliferating more and more each day. If it hadn’t been for certain misguided individuals, this city would have had a disciplined, effective police force years ago, and my brother might well be alive today.”
“Was there a specific ‘misguided individual’ you had in mind?”
Her nose twitched. “I was referring to Lord Quinton-Thomas, of course. If you ask me, he has my brother’s blood on his hands.”
“Because Quinton-Thomas opposed the creation of a centralized police force, you mean?”
“No one has worked harder to defeat every proposal Preston advanced.” She was growing impatient. “But I fail to see how any of this can help convict my brother’s killer.”
“Perhaps not,” said Sebastian.
He had the sense Lady Hester was no longer listening to him. He watched her gaze drift again around the ruined chapel, her features pinched. “I’m told the inquest is scheduled for Wednesday afternoon.”
“Is it? I hadn’t heard.”
She nodded. “Let us hope the jurors reach a swift, sensible conclusion. It’s my understanding the coroner has the power to commit a case for trial to the Old Bailey directly without needing an indictment from the Grand Jury, does he not?”
“He does, yes. But I doubt that will happen in this case.”
Her lips pressed into a tight line. “In that, I trust you will be proven wrong.” She inclined her head in a gracious manner. “Good day, Lord Devlin.”
Sebastian touched his hand to his hat. “Lady Hester.”
She turned and walked away, her head held high, the muscles of her neck rigid with the effort required to keep every manifestation of her inner pain determinedly repressed. Impossible not to feel sorry for this lonely, grieving woman who had lost not only her brother but the daily rhythm of the life they had shared together for years. And yet Sebastian found himself wondering how well she had truly known her brother; how much she had known about the entirety of his life.
Sebastian himself had a widowed sister living in St. James’s Square. Amanda was his only surviving sibling, but they had never been close, even as children. Now they barely spoke to each other, and when he thought about it, Sebastian realized how very little he knew about the ways in which she spent her days.
Of course, Lady Hester had actually lived with her brother; she not only managed his household but, from the sound of things, also shared his enthusiasm for squashing the pleasures and exuberant excesses of the so-called lower orders. Was it really so hard to believe that one of the despised denizens of that reviled teeming multitude had decided to strike back at those who considered themselves his “betters”?
Sebastian didn’t think so.