Page 27 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)

T he Reverend Crispin Carmichael, Lord Preston’s good friend and fellow crusader against whores, drunks, blasphemers, and sellers of lewd books, was no humble churchman.

The soaring, classically fronted church of St. George’s, Hanover Square, was the parish church for the wealthy, exclusive section of West London known as Mayfair. The men appointed as its rector were traditionally of the same background as their more distinguished parishioners, and Crispin Carmichael was no exception, being the younger son of Lord Carmichael of Plumbury Castle and a grandson through his mother of the Earl of Bathurst. As was to be expected for someone with such glittering connections, Carmichael had enjoyed rapid preferment. After taking bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degrees at Cambridge, he spent just one year at a parish in Kent and as the second prebendal stall in Rochester Cathedral before being appointed to the rectory of St. George’s. It was fully expected that he would be made a bishop in a few more years.

The actual, tedious work of the parish was naturally delegated to less exalted underlings, which allowed Mr. Carmichael himself to spend the bulk of his time in the library of his elegant little house on Conduit Street producing a stream of erudite, improving tracts. And it was there that Sebastian found him, seated at a graceful mahogany desk, a pen balanced in his long, aristocratic fingers as he stared down at his latest composition.

“Lord Devlin, come in, come in,” said the Reverend, setting aside his pen and rising from his chair to come around from behind his desk as his housekeeper quietly curtsied herself out. Today Mr. Carmichael was dressed in a long black cassock of fine wool exquisitely tailored to his tall, thin form, with silk tassels that shimmered in the light of the branches of beeswax candles he had lit against the gloom. “May I offer you something to drink? Tea, perhaps? Or would you prefer brandy?”

Sebastian had left his rain-soaked hat and greatcoat in the entry hall, but he was still damnably wet and cold. “I’ll take brandy, thank you.”

“Excellent choice for such a wretched day,” said the Reverend, going to pour two drinks. “I fear it’s becoming increasingly difficult to doubt those who say something has gone seriously wrong with our world.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “You’ve heard the theory that this strange weather we’re experiencing is caused by the unusually large sunspot that has recently appeared? Some even speculate that the massive spot is weakening the sun’s rays in a way that will permanently cool our earth. Either that, or the sun may in time become so wholly encrusted with such spots as to plunge us forever into darkness.”

“I’ve heard the theories. But I don’t personally know enough about sunspots to have an educated opinion,” said Sebastian, taking the glass handed to him.

Mr. Carmichael gave a soft laugh and turned to pour himself a drink. “Does anyone, really? I’ve seen speculation they could be anything from volcanoes on the surface of the sun to chasms in its atmosphere caused by currents of gas. But I don’t see how we’ll ever be able to know for certain.” He extended a hand toward one of the leather chairs drawn up to the fire. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m glad to have the opportunity to speak to you,” said Mr. Carmichael, his brandy cupped gracefully in one hand as he settled in the chair opposite Sebastian. “I found your testimony at yesterday’s inquest troubling, given that the boy who claimed to have found Lord Preston’s body has now disappeared. Why do you think he has done that?”

“It’s understandable, isn’t it?” said Sebastian. “What poor lad off the streets is going to want to find himself tangled up in the investigation of a nobleman’s murder?”

“I suppose,” said the Reverend, although he sounded less than convinced.

Sebastian took a slow sip of his brandy. “I understand you and Lord Preston were friends.”

Mr. Carmichael expelled his breath in a long sigh. “Yes, good friends, from the time we were boys. First at Eton, then at Cambridge, although of course Preston stopped with his bachelor’s. He always liked to say knowledge is found in books, but a true understanding of the world we live in can only be learned when one goes out into the world itself.” A faint smile touched the cleric’s thin, sensitive lips, then was gone, and he brought up a splayed hand to rub his eyes before continuing. “I still can’t believe he’s been murdered, and in such a hideous, bizarre fashion.”

“You were both members of the Society for the Suppression of Vice?”

“We were, yes. It was Preston’s passion, you know. He wanted to see London become a place where women and children could walk freely without fear of having their ears assaulted by obscenities or encountering drunken men or lewd, immoral women.”

“Do you have any idea what might have taken him to Swallow Street last Saturday night?”

“No; I can’t imagine.”

“He hadn’t involved himself in some prosecution in the area?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. But then, he was always far more active in such things than I. You might try asking Lady Hester. She has worked with him quite closely for years now.”

“I hadn’t realized that.”

“Oh, yes; the Society has always encouraged women to take an active role in its campaigns.”

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

Mr. Carmichael held his brandy up so that the amber liquid captured the light of the fire within its depths. He stared at its warm, golden glow for a moment, his thin, scholarly face drawn and troubled. Then he gave a slight shake of his head. “Not really. Bow Street has asked for the Society’s help in compiling a list of those from the lower orders in whose prosecutions Lord Preston played a part, so one assumes they have reason to suspect his killer of being from the criminal classes.”

“But you don’t?”

“There’s no denying that Preston’s dedication to finding a way to control London’s crime must have brought him into conflict with any number of rough, dangerous individuals. But the manner of his death suggests to me that his killer is someone more sophisticated. More…educated.”

“What makes you say that?”

Setting aside his drink, the rector leaned forward, his hands coming up together as if in prayer. “Are you familiar with the tradition of pitture infamanti ?”

“No.”

The Reverend nodded as if he had expected such ignorance. “It was basically a form of punishment in effigy once popular in the Italian city-states, mainly during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, although it didn’t completely disappear for another two hundred or so years. In those days, men of wealth and position valued their reputations above almost all else, and the paintings were designed to humiliate them. Hence the name pitture infamanti —defaming portraits or shame paintings. When the authorities wanted to punish someone who’d managed to evade capture, they paid an artist to paint the man hanging upside down. Since men of the upper classes were typically beheaded, being hanged was shameful enough, but to be hanged upside down was particularly dishonorable.”

Madame Blanchette had mentioned an Italian connection, Sebastian remembered, when he’d asked her about the meaning of Le Pendu . He took another sip of his brandy and felt its warmth spread slowly throughout his chilled body. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an example of such a painting.”

“That’s because they were frescoes—life-size portraits painted on the outside of the cities’ public buildings. So they weathered and eventually disappeared, or else they were whitewashed over when the authorities had some new miscreant they wanted to humiliate. It’s a pity, because, since the authorities wanted these portraits to be instantly recognizable, the artists they hired to paint them were amongst the best—Andrea del Castagno, Botticelli…even Leonardo da Vinci is believed to have been forced to do at least one. Painters were often reluctant to do them, for obvious reasons.” The Reverend thrust himself up from his chair. “I’ll show you.”

Tilting his head to one side, he ran a finger along the spines of the leather-bound books in a nearby case before pulling a heavy tome from one shelf and leafing through its pages. “Here,” he said, turning the open book around as he handed it to Sebastian. “This is a reproduction of a preliminary sketch for one that was done by Andrea del Sarto in red chalk on white paper.”

Taking the book, Sebastian found himself staring at an exquisitely rendered drawing of a man suspended upside down by a rope tied to one ankle. He was clothed in the doublet, full sleeves, and slashed and padded breeches of the early sixteenth century, his arms dangling below his head, the features of his face frozen in a hideous grimace for some three hundred years. This figure was caught in a wild, dynamic pose, whereas the hanged man shown in Le Pendu was static, almost dead. But the connection between the two images was easy to see.

“So who were the men punished in this way?” asked Sebastian.

“Sometimes they were murderers, frauds, or thieves. But most often they were traitors, men who were believed to have betrayed their fellow citizens or the ruling family. Those guilty of the worst treachery, particularly condottieri who switched sides, were typically shown hanging by one foot.” Carmichael pointed to the image. “Like that.”

“Can you think of a reason why someone would want to do this to Lord Preston?”

A bleak, troubled expression crept over the Reverend’s features. “Preston was a wonderful man, fiercely faithful to God, King, friends, and family. He dedicated his life to making London—and the world—a better place to live. His killer’s only purpose can have been to shame him.”

Sebastian handed the book back to the Reverend. “Did you know a man named Half-Hanged Harry McGregor?”

Mr. Carmichael closed the book and turned to slide it back into place. “The ex-convict who was bothering Preston, you mean? I know Bow Street was looking for him. Have they caught him?”

“He was found dead this morning, hanging in the same chapel on Swallow Street, although the rope was around his neck rather than one of his feet.”

The Reverend swung back around to stare at Sebastian, the skirts of his expensive cassock swirling around him. “Oh, goodness. How…bizarre.”

“You knew McGregor was following Lord Preston?”

“I did, yes; he mentioned it to me several times. It was a source of considerable aggravation to him, although I don’t believe he saw the fellow as a serious threat.”

“What about a woman named Angelique? Did Lord Preston ever talk to you about her?”

The Reverend nodded. “Yes. In fact, he was telling me about her just last…Friday, I believe it was.”

“Who is she?”

“Some Radical, from the sound of things. I gathered Lord Preston considered her quite dangerous. But beyond that I’m afraid I can’t tell you much.”

“Do you know why he considered her dangerous?”

“As I understand it, she is both wellborn and educated but has dedicated herself to working with the poor and, in the guise of ‘educating’ them, fills their heads with all sorts of inappropriate ideas and aspirations. That kind can be quite dangerous.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Sebastian. “Do you know if Lord Preston ever had anything to do with the tarot?”

“The tarot? Only in his attempts to suppress the charlatans who prey upon the gullible.”

“He prosecuted fortune-tellers?”

“Oh, yes. Particularly cartomancers.”

“Another dangerous lot.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Carmichael, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. “Tell me this: Do you think…that is to say, is there a chance that the other members of the Society might be in danger?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to be careful.”

“Oh, goodness,” said Mr. Carmichael, rising with him. “Yes, indeed. I appreciate your blunt honesty. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help.”

“Actually,” said Sebastian, “you’ve given me a great deal to think about.”