Page 30 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
T he Public Office on Great Marlborough Street, Westminster, lacked the power and prestige of the better-known Bow Street, but its neighborhood was considerably more refined.
Or at least, much of it was.
One of seven such establishments created by the Middlesex Justices Act of 1792, the Great Marlborough Street Public Office was situated just below Oxford Street in what had previously been an impressive nobleman’s house. Its current Chief Magistrate, Sir Windle Barr, was a well-fed, graying widower somewhere in his late fifties with a self-satisfied air of authority and such impressive jowls that his small eyes, nose, and mouth seemed scrunched together in the center of his face. A firm believer in the superiority of the ways of the past, he still favored the style of frock coat that had been fashionable in his youth, with a modest fall of lace at his throat and a powdered wig he sometimes wore even when not on the bench.
The magistrate was in his chambers, seated behind a broad, somewhat messy desk, when a harried clerk ushered Sebastian into His Honor’s presence. Looking up, he set aside his pen, his padded leather desk chair creaking as he leaned back. “Thought you’d probably make it here sooner or later.”
It was said in a way that reminded Sebastian that Swallow Street lay within Great Marlborough Street’s jurisdiction. And while the murder of such an important aristocrat as Lord Preston Farnsworth would inevitably have resulted in the Home Office passing control of the investigation to Bow Street, it obviously rankled with Sir Windle that Sebastian had gone directly to Lovejoy rather than having the courtesy to contact the Great Marlborough Street office first.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“Of course.” Sir Windle folded his hands together and rested them atop the rounded mound of his belly while looking at Sebastian expectantly. “So what can I do for you today, my lord?”
“I understand you handled some of the cases Lord Preston helped prosecute.”
“I did, yes.” He waved a soft, pudgy hand toward the papers on his desk. “In fact, I’m currently in the process of preparing a list of the individuals involved for Bow Street.”
Another list, thought Sebastian; Bow Street was going to be inundated with lists of potential suspects. “Is there anyone in particular on that list whom you suspect?”
Since the magistrate had not invited him to sit, Sebastian simply prowled the room, pausing to study first the ormolu clock on the mantel, then the titles of the books on the shelves in a way that brought an annoyed frown to the magistrate’s features. But it was too late by then for Sir Windle to correct what he obviously realized had been an ill-judged attempt to emphasize his authority and power.
The magistrate tightened his jaw. “Anyone in particular? Not really, although I do believe we could possibly be dealing with a killer from the criminal classes. I know Lord Preston’s sister does not agree with me in that, but, well, let’s just say Lady Hester sometimes allows her emotions to run away with her.”
Sebastian thought he’d seldom met a less emotional female than the dead man’s formidable sister, but all he said was, “What can you tell me about a publican named Lionel Sykes and a woman who calls herself Letitia Lamont?”
Sir Windle’s frown deepened. “Why those two?”
“Their names came up.”
“I don’t see why they would. Lionel Sykes is a failed former publican who had a habit of selling outside of hours and made some unwise decisions that eventually led to him losing his license. I have no idea what he’s been up to since then or if he’s even still alive. He certainly hasn’t been seen around here. As for Letitia Lamont, she’s currently locked up in the Bridewell and has been these last five months and more.”
“She’s a thief?”
“Amongst other things—‘other things’ basically translating into running a succession of nasty bawdy houses, the latest of which specialized in preying on ignorant, vulnerable girls fresh up from the country.”
“Where was that?”
“Her last house? Oxford Street, damn her hide.”
“And you say she’s now in the Bridewell?”
“She is.” Barr thrust out his lower lip in thought. “But women of her kind are frequently allied with henchmen who do their dirty work for them—‘bully men,’ they call them. So if you’ve good reason to suspect her, I wouldn’t let the fact that she’s in the Bridewell rule her out.”
“What about Harry McGregor? Were you familiar with him?”
“Half-Hanged Harry? I had some dealings with him long ago, but fortunately he tended to confine his activities to Southwark after his return from Botany Bay.” Sir Windle sighed. “Far be it for me to question the King’s judgment, but I’ll never understand why, if His Majesty was determined to save the devil from a second hanging, he didn’t order the man transported for life rather than a mere fourteen years. But,” he said, tipping his chair forward suddenly to rest his forearms on the surface of his desk, “at least someone’s taken care of that problem for us. I just wish they’d done it in a less spectacular fashion.”
“You don’t think McGregor’s death is related to Lord Preston’s murder?”
“No, I don’t. Just the work of someone with a sick sense of humor. And no, I don’t think Half-Hanged Harry killed Farnsworth, either. Why would someone like Harry take the time to pose his victim’s body in such an outlandish fashion—even if he knew something about the tarot, which I sincerely doubt. Can’t see it at all.” The magistrate sighed again. “Lord Preston was a good, selfless man who dedicated his life to fighting the forces of darkness and chaos that have threatened this city for far too long. In a sense you could say he was a victim of his own goodness.”
“Are you also a member of the Society for the Suppression of Vice?”
“Me? No. As magistrate I have a different role to play in the struggle to make our capital a safe place. But I appreciate what they do, and I’ve been working with Robert Peel, Sir Nathaniel, and Lord Preston to craft a new police bill. Ironic, isn’t it, that his murder should serve as such a profound illustration of just how badly this city needs an organized, centralized police force.”
Sebastian wasn’t convinced that a uniformed police force modeled on the one Robert Peel was envisioning could have prevented Farnsworth’s death. He said, “What about a woman named Angelique? Did you ever hear Lord Preston mention her?”
“I don’t believe so, no. Who is she?”
“I’ve no idea. Do you know if Lord Preston had any enemies beyond those from what he considered the ‘criminal classes’?”
“Can’t think of anyone, really, except those such as Quinton-Thomas who were opposed to his proposals. And I can’t see even Quinton-Thomas bashing in Lord Preston’s head.” He hesitated, then frowned. “Of course, there is that fellow who ran off with Lady Theresa a few years ago. Chandler was his name; Hugh Chandler. And while I’m not quite as single-minded about it as Lady Hester, the truth is that Bow Street could do worse than focusing on him. The fellow had to pay through the nose for what he did; that must surely rankle. And if I remember correctly, he was in the 25th Hussars, so it’s not like he’s a stranger either to killing or to—” Sir Windle broke off as if he had only just remembered something, although Sebastian knew it was all for show. “But then, you were in the 25th, too, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian. “Yes, I was.”