Page 22 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)

T he inquest into the death of Lord Preston Farnsworth was scheduled to begin at four o’clock that afternoon at the Golden Dog Inn on Piccadilly, chosen as the site of the proceedings simply because it was the largest venue near the murder site.

“One would think,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, a handkerchief held discreetly to his nostrils as he stared out over the taproom’s raucous, shoving, malodorous crowd of curious onlookers, “that a city the size of London would erect a building specifically dedicated to inquests. The very idea of holding an official inquiry of this sort in a bar—complete with the dead son of a duke displayed naked for all to gawk at—is surely…” He hesitated as if searching for the right word and finally settled on “unseemly.”

“The lack of beer might also help reduce the size of the audience,” said Sebastian, trying not to breathe too deeply. The room stank of wet wool, unwashed bodies, cooked cabbage, spilled beer, and the inescapable sour-milk odor of the four-day-old corpse.

“One could hope,” muttered the magistrate, his words muffled by his handkerchief.

Under English law, any sudden, violent, or unnatural death required an inquest. Legal rather than medical in nature, inquests were presided over by the local coroner, who impaneled a jury of between twelve and twenty-four “good, honest men” to inquire on behalf of the King into “how and by what means” a victim had come to his death. To this end the jurors would be required to view the body of the deceased and hear the testimony of witnesses; they could also ask questions themselves, if so inclined. And because the viewing of the victim’s corpse was considered such an important part of the proceedings, Lord Preston himself was present, laid out naked on a table in the center of the room with a cloth draped strategically over his bare buttocks. Due to the fact that the fatal blow had been struck to the back of his head, he had been positioned—unusually—face down, so that the jurors could study the extent of the gory damage themselves. But anyone who wanted could wander in off the street and have a look, too.

As the person who had originally summoned Bow Street to the murder scene, Sebastian would be one of the first witnesses called. Sir Henry was here to testify as to the location of the various bloodstains found at the site as well as their recovery of the presumed murder weapon, now on display beside the corpse. He would also outline for the jury the steps the authorities had taken thus far in their attempts to identify the killer. The inquest would then expect to hear from the surgeon who had performed the official postmortem, although Gibson had yet to arrive and Sebastian was beginning to wonder what was keeping him.

Nor was Gibson the only important witness missing.

“I understand the coroner is decidedly annoyed by our inability to produce the boy who first found the body,” said Lovejoy, now using his handkerchief to clean his wire-framed spectacles. The testimony of the person who first discovered a murder victim should have been a vital part of such proceedings.

“Still no trace of Jamie?” said Sebastian as a familiar lean figure in high black boots and a dark blue coat with a decidedly military cut began to push his way in through the crowd milling around the door from the street.

Lovejoy shook his head. “We can’t find anyone who’s even heard of the lad. I’m beginning to suspect he gave you a false name.”

“Perhaps.” Or perhaps his friends dislike talking to constables, thought Sebastian.

“Who is that?” said Lovejoy, refitting his spectacles as the man with the military bearing paused beside the rough table displaying the corpse, his arms crossed at his chest, a muscle jumping along his clenched jaw as he stared down at the dead man before him.

“That’s Major Hugh Chandler.”

“Ah, yes; the cavalry officer who was forced to pay twenty thousand pounds for the privilege of running off with Lord Preston’s wife. Sir Nathaniel is becoming more and more convinced he’s our man. He personally interviewed the Major and discovered he has no alibi for that evening.” Lovejoy was silent for a moment, watching the major intently. Then something about his companion’s silence must have struck him because he looked over at Sebastian. “You don’t agree?”

“No,” said Sebastian, his throat painfully tight as they watched Hugh turn on his heel and leave. “But then, I served with Chandler in the Peninsula and consider him a friend.”

“Ah. That I did not know.”

An eddy of movement near a door at the rear of the taproom heralded the entrance of Lady Hester Farnsworth. Her back was rigid, her shoulders tense, her chin held high as the motley crowd parted respectfully before her. Sebastian had no doubt this was the first time the Duke of Eversfield’s sister had ever been called upon to set foot in such an establishment, and from the looks of things, she would vehemently agree with Lovejoy that a bar was not the proper venue for an inquiry of this sort.

“I fear the Palace is not going to be happy when the jury returns a verdict of willful murder against a person or persons unknown,” said Lovejoy.

“No,” agreed Sebastian as Lady Hester took her place in a chair that had been reserved for her. And I know someone else who is not going to be happy .

She was dressed for the occasion in a severe high-waisted gown of black bombast topped by a plain black spencer; the veil of her modest black hat was long, heavy, and full, effectively obscuring her features from the scrutiny of the vulgar. Her older brother, the Duke of Eversfield, had yet to put in an appearance, so the chair beside her was empty and she was thus alone except for an elderly man hovering at her elbow whom Sebastian suspected was her solicitor.

“Unfortunately,” Lovejoy was saying, “they found another Frenchman dead this morning.”

Sebastian turned his head to look at him. “Another one?” He vaguely remembered hearing something about an aged Parisian who’d been fished out of the Thames after supposedly slipping and falling into the river in a bad storm a week or so ago.

Lovejoy nodded. “This one’s a man by the name of Jean-Louis Ouvrard. He was discovered early this morning, although it took some time to identify him. Fortunately, it wasn’t a spectacular murder—a quiet stabbing in the back in an alley off Fleet Street, so it can conceivably be construed as the work of footpads. But there is concern in certain quarters that the Bourbons may have sent a new assassin to do away with their enemies here—or at least those they consider their enemies.”

“Oh, they have,” said Sebastian. “I met him this morning in Covent Garden. He seems to think I can lead him to someone the Bourbons are anxious to kill. But in that he is wrong.”

“Good heavens. Do you know the Frenchman’s name?”

“Not yet.” Although I’ve no doubt Jarvis could supply it.

Lovejoy was silent as they watched a large, untidy gentleman in a badly tied cravat and rumpled olive green coat push his way through the crowd to stand beside Lord Preston’s bloated, discolored body. The wet day combined with the heat of the crowded taproom was turning the man’s curly, overlong hair into a fuzzy halo.

“He looks familiar,” said Lovejoy.

“That’s Lord Quinton-Thomas.”

“Ah, yes. I gather he has made it his mission to oppose virtually every suggestion Lord Preston put forward for dealing with crime in the city.”

“Every single one,” said Sebastian. “Partially because he intensely dislikes the Society for the Suppression of Vice and everything they do, but I suspect it also has something to do with the fact that the Farnsworths successfully sued him for breach of promise after he broke off his betrothal to Lady Hester.”

“Oh? For how much?”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

Lovejoy frowned thoughtfully as they watched a nasty smile curl Quinton-Thomas’s lips. “How many people have the Farnsworths sued?”

“I don’t know, but it might be worth looking into.” Sebastian paused as his lordship, still smiling, turned on his heel and left. A tall, thin man with the face of an ascetic took his place. “Who’s he?”

“That’s Mr. Crispin Carmichael, the rector of St. George’s, Hanover Square. We’re told he and Farnsworth were good friends, and he’s offered to assign one of his clerks to assist Bow Street in compiling a list of the various criminal cases Lord Preston helped prosecute.”

Sebastian studied the vicar’s thin, handsome face, the long aristocratic nose and sensitive mouth, the deeply set pale blue eyes framed by straight, light blond hair. Instead of a cassock he wore fashionable pantaloons and a well-tailored coat; a high-crowned hat dangled from one hand. “Is the Reverend also a member of the Society for the Suppression of Vice?”

“He is, yes.”

As if aware of their scrutiny, Mr. Carmichael looked up, his gaze meeting Sebastian’s from across the noisy, crowded room. Then another swirl of movement at the back of the taproom jerked the churchman’s attention away.

“Ah, here comes the coroner now,” said Lovejoy, just as Paul Gibson, his cheeks shadowed by a day’s growth of beard, his waistcoat and cravat splattered with fresh blood from some patient, pushed his way through the crowd clustered around the street entrance. “The coroner does not look pleased, does he?”

Frowning fiercely, a wizened old man in tattered robes stood in the taproom’s rear doorway, one hand coming up to adjust his crooked wig as a constable with a booming voice shouted, “Oyez, oyez, oyez: Ye good men of this parish are summoned to appear this day in the presence of Lord Preston Farnsworth, lying dead here before you…”

Sliding into the seat Sebastian had saved for him, Gibson caught his friend’s eye and winked.

The proceedings dragged on until the shadows were lengthening in the street outside and the crowd of spectators had thinned considerably. But once the last witness was finally heard, the jury didn’t even need to leave the room to decide to return a verdict of homicide by party or parties unknown. The coroner signed a warrant allowing the body to be lawfully buried and reminded the various witnesses that they were required to stay and sign their depositions before they could leave. The inquest was then adjourned.

As the coroner pushed to his feet, Sebastian looked across the room to where Lady Hester still sat in rigid silence in her straight-backed wooden chair, her black-gloved hands clenched together in her lap. At some point she had pushed back her veil, allowing Sebastian to see her tense, flushed face.

And she was glaring at him from across the room as if the inconclusive nature of the proceedings were entirely his fault.