Page 29 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)

D istraction can be a dangerous thing.

Perhaps if he’d been less preoccupied with his thoughts, Sebastian would have sensed the atmosphere of tense anticipation that now permeated the storm-darkened staircase, or heeded the faint warning sounds of cloth brushing against cloth and the quick, nervous intake of breath. But his thoughts were on the past, on a deeply buried private pain that had nothing to do with hanged men or self-congratulatory saints or ancient cards of divination.

He had descended the first set of stairs and was turning toward the next flight when they came at him, two roughly dressed men who charged up the staircase in a headlong rush. The man in the lead was lean and quick, with flashing dark eyes and olive skin and a knife held in a practiced grip at his side. His companion was larger, slower, and armed with a stout cudgel, his lips pulling back from his crooked yellow teeth in a rictus of determination as he lumbered up the stairs in his partner’s wake.

“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian as the first man lunged at him. Wrapping his hands around the banister, Sebastian levered his weight up and kicked out with both feet, catching the lead man in the chest to send him tumbling end over end back down the stairs.

Dropping to a crouch, Sebastian yanked his dagger from its sheath in his boot and came up just as the big man swung his cudgel. Sebastian jerked his head to one side, but not quite fast enough, the jagged wood of the club scraping the flesh beside his ear. With a guttural growl, the big man swung again, the hunk of wood whistling through empty air as Sebastian ducked. This time when Sebastian came up, he stepped in toward his attacker, the dagger flashing up to drive the blade deep into the big man’s chest. Sebastian saw the man’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth sag to spill a rush of blood.

“Pots!” shouted the man’s companion, staggering up from where he’d landed at the base of the stairs to charge back up again.

Sebastian tried to yank his dagger from the big man’s chest, only to have it catch on the cloth of the man’s stained fustian waistcoat. With a grimace Sebastian kicked out, his bootheel thudding against the big man’s stomach, the cloth of the waistcoat tearing as the knife came free and the dying man hurtled backward.

Still only halfway up the flight of stairs, the lean man tried to catch his friend, but the big man’s momentum sent him tumbling past.

His breath coming hard and fast, the lean man stared up at Sebastian and froze.

“Come on, you bastard,” swore Sebastian, dropping to a fighter’s stance, his knife dripping blood as he held it at the ready. “What are you waiting for?”

The man’s gaze flicked from Sebastian to his companion, now lying motionless in an ungainly sprawl on the tiles of the entryway below. Then he turned and bolted back down the stairs, his bootheels clattering on the uncarpeted treads, the hinges of the street door creaking as he threw it open wide and disappeared into the swirling rain.

Swiping one raised shoulder against the bloody side of his face, Sebastian walked slowly down the stairs, his knife still in his hand.

The big man lay on his back, one leg crumpled beneath him, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his chest a sheen of dark wetness as he stared up at Sebastian with unseeing eyes.

“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian again.

The sound of a door opening above jerked his gaze up to where Madame Blanchette appeared, leaning over the second-floor banister. She stared at him in silence for a moment, then shifted her gaze to the dead man at his feet.

Sebastian bent to wipe the dagger’s bloody blade on the dead man’s coat, then slipped it back into his boot. “Do you recognize him?”

“He’s not French,” she said.

Which was not, he noticed, exactly the same as saying she did not recognize him.

?“Interesting,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, his gaze on the dead man sprawled at his feet. “I wonder which killed him? The broken neck, or the knife wound?”

Sebastian swiped again at his stinging, still-bleeding face. “Does it matter?”

“Probably not.” The magistrate bent over, tipping his head first one way, then the other as he studied the dead man’s face. “I don’t recognize him. You say his companion called him Pots? Had you ever seen either man before?”

“No.”

“Any idea as to who might have sent them?”

“None.”

Lovejoy put a splayed hand on the small of his back as he straightened with a quickly concealed grimace. “Someone must feel threatened by whatever you’ve learned about the Swallow Street hangings.”

“I haven’t learned a bloody thing.”

Lovejoy looked over at him. “Perhaps you’ve discovered more than you realize.”

?Sebastian was pouring a pitcher of hot water into the washbasin in his dressing room when Hero came to stand in the doorway.

“Please tell me that’s not all your blood.”

“Not all of it. My face looks worse than it actually is.”

“You always say that.”

He laughed and set to work stripping off his waistcoat, cravat, and shirt while he provided her with a quick rundown of what he’d learned.

“It sounds as if Lady Hester might know something about who her brother was in the process of prosecuting,” he said, rinsing his face. “But since she’s decided Hugh is the killer and I’m somehow personally responsible for Bow Street’s failure to arrest him, I can’t see her volunteering the information I need. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she simply refused to see me.”

“I suspect she’ll see me,” said Hero.

He looked over at her in surprise. “You know her?”

“Not well. But she’s had a tendre for Jarvis for decades. Evidently, no one ever told her he likes his women small and very pretty.”

Sebastian dried his face. Carefully. “You can’t be serious.”

“I wish I weren’t. Watch her around him sometime. She becomes all fluttery. And simpers.”

Sebastian reached for a clean shirt. “I find that profoundly disturbing and yet somehow, at the same time, oddly endearing.”

“Endearing?”

“It makes her seem unexpectedly vulnerable. More human.” But not exactly likable.

Hero made an inelegant sound deep in her throat. “When my mother was alive, she used to say that if she were ever found murdered, we should consider Lady Hester the primary suspect.”

“Someone ought to warn the new Lady Jarvis,” said Sebastian as he finished buttoning his shirt and reached for a fresh cravat.

Hero gave a rude snort. “I think Cousin Victoria is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

?Lady Hester Farnsworth sat enthroned in a delicately carved Louis XV–style chair positioned beside one of her drawing room’s massive fireplaces. Even by Mayfair standards, the pastel-toned room was immense, its twin fireplaces faced with Carrara marble, the sparkling crystal chandeliers overhead from Vienna, the figured carpets from Persia. In accordance with the household’s state of mourning, black crepe draped every window, door, mirror, and gilt-framed oil painting. Lord Preston’s grieving sister wore an elegant long-sleeved afternoon gown of black silk crepe over black sarcenet made high at the neck with a collar of deep Vandykes. Her shoes were Spanish slippers of black queen silk with jet clasps; the cap of fine black Belgian lace pinned to her fair hair heightened the aura of delicate tragedy. She kept her eyes downcast as she listened to Hero’s polite expressions of condolence, her attention seemingly all for the task of pouring tea from a heavy silver pot into two delicate Sèvres cups.

“Your words are very kind,” she said, looking up with a faint smile when Hero had finished. She handed Hero one of the cups, then took her own and leaned back in her chair to fix her guest with a steady gaze. “But you do realize I am not so naive as to be unaware of the fact that you are here today as your husband’s emissary.”

“That doesn’t mean my condolences are insincere,” said Hero.

“No, of course not.” Lady Hester took a sip of her tea, then settled the cup and saucer on the inlaid Italian table at her side. “And while I am still firmly of the belief that Major Hugh Chandler is the person responsible for my brother’s death, I had an interesting visit earlier today from Mr. Carmichael, the rector of St. George’s, Hanover Square. He convinced me that the best way to expedite Bow Street’s investigation is by humoring this ridiculous determination to collect the names of those from the criminal classes who might conceivably have harbored ill feelings toward my brother. I am therefore in the process of compiling just such a list.”

Hero took a slow sip of her tea. “And is there anyone on this list who might be considered dangerous?”

“I suppose one might say there are several, in particular a former publican named Lionel Sykes and a lewd woman who calls herself Letitia Lamont, although one assumes that is a nom de guerre. Of course, it’s possible that one or even both of these individuals are still in prison; Lord Devlin would need to speak to Sir Windle.”

“Sir Windle?”

“Sir Windle Barr, Chief Magistrate at Great Marlborough Street. He handled both cases.”

Hero studied Lady Hester’s thin, aristocratic features, the delicately arched brows, pale blue-gray eyes, and thin lips. But the woman was giving nothing away. “Did Lord Preston consider either Sykes or Lamont a threat?”

“Hardly. My brother was not the type to give credence to the blusterings of rogues and miscreants.” She reached for her cup and took another sip. “I hope Lord Devlin is not such a fool as to be taken in by all the nonsense we’re hearing about this ‘Half-Hanged Harry.’?”

“You think it unlikely that McGregor could have been involved in what happened?”

Lady Hester’s lip curled in disdain. “Harry McGregor was a pathetic excuse for a man, filled with malice, perhaps, but fundamentally weak and stupid. Such a cretin could never have managed to get the better of my brother.”

“Did you know McGregor had recently been following him?”

“I did, yes; Preston mentioned it to me a week or so ago. He was annoyed but not unduly concerned—as I told Bow Street.” She set her cup down on its saucer with enough force that the china clinked together. “And yet this magistrate—not Sir Nathaniel, of course, but his subordinate, Sir Henry Lovejoy—seems determined to chase every will-o’-the-wisp that might possibly lead him away from the true perpetrator of this outrage. I actually had him here yesterday wanting to know who is now the heir presumptive to the dukedom. As if a Farnsworth could be so common as to stoop to murder for financial gain.”

“Who is the new heir?”

“Captain Michael Farnsworth, a second cousin once removed, currently serving with the army of occupation in the south of France.” Her nose crinkled. “Not precisely the caliber of man one might have wished to see step into my father’s shoes someday, I fear, but we should be able to bring him up to snuff.”

“No doubt,” said Hero, sparing a moment of pity for the unknown captain. “I wonder, do you know anything about a woman named Angelique?”

“Angelique?” Lady Hester frowned. “Is she a gypsy?”

“Possibly. What makes you think she might be?”

“Only that Preston was determined to remove them from the streets. Why precisely do you ask?”

“Her name came up.”

“If I ever heard him mention her, I do not recall it.” Lady Hester took another sip of her tea, then set it aside and rose to her feet. “And now I fear you must excuse me, Lady Devlin. My abigail was kind enough to offer to spell me by staying with Lord Preston for the last several hours, but I am determined to sit with him myself until dinner.”

“Of course,” said Hero, rising with her. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. And please accept my sincere condolences again on the loss of your brother.”

The Duke’s sister gave a regal incline of her head. “Thank you. He’s lying in the library, so I shall walk down with you.”

As they descended the broad, sweeping flight of stairs to the entry hall, Hero noticed that the door to the library now stood open. The heavy crimson velvet drapes at the room’s windows were drawn close and festooned with more black crepe, casting the room into a deep gloom relieved only by the banks of beeswax candles arranged at each end of a fine coffin. The coffin was, thankfully, closed, its surface piled high with mounds of heavily scented lilies and roses. And yet the stench of death was still inescapable.

“When is the funeral?” asked Hero.

“Saturday evening,” said Lady Hester, pausing at the foot of the stairs as if struck by a sudden thought. “Actually, it occurs to me that there is someone who threatened Preston quite recently—no more than a week or so ago.”

“Threatened him in what way?”

“She said that if it were up to her, his head would be on a pike.”

That sounded to Hero more like an insult than a threat, but all she said was, “Lord Preston was threatened by a woman?”

“A notorious woman. Calhoun is her name; Grace Calhoun. She owns a public house in Smithfield and another in Stepney. Both are of the sort vulgarly known as ‘flash houses.’ Have you heard of her?”

“I have, actually,” said Hero, and left it at that.

“Good. You’ll be certain to tell Lord Devlin, won’t you?” An unmistakable gleam of malicious amusement narrowed her ladyship’s eyes as her stately butler moved to open the front door for Hero. “And do give my regards to your dear father.”

?“You think she knows Grace Calhoun’s son is my valet?” said Devlin a short time later, when Hero told him of her conversation with the dead man’s sister.

“Oh, she knows, all right,” said Hero, stripping off her hat and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “I suspect it’s the only reason she said it.”

“Maybe,” said Devlin, thoughtful. “Or maybe not.”