Page 35 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
W ith Tom off chasing down Jamie Gallagher and the sky above the city heavy with the threat of more rain, Sebastian ordered his carriage brought round. As they set off for Chelsea, he settled back against the plush squabs and crossed his arms at his chest, his thoughts in a dark place.
It had been—what? Three days? No, four, he realized, since he’d found Lord Preston Farnsworth dangling upside down in the dank ruins of that chapel off Swallow Street. And he felt no closer now to understanding what had happened to the man than he had on that first day.
Lord Preston had been a man liked and respected by such worthies as the Rector of St. George’s and the Chief Magistrates of both Bow Street and Great Marlborough Street. And yet he’d been heartily despised by everyone from his own estranged wife to the various members of the “lower orders” who had suffered from his determination to rid London of those he considered “undesirable elements.” So where lay the truth? Sebastian wondered. Had Farnsworth been an admirable man who dedicated his life to such worthy causes as ending the slave trade and making his city a safer place for women and children? Or was he a sanctimonious hypocrite who had made his wife’s life miserable and kept rooms where he secretly indulged his lust for the very kind of women he claimed to despise?
Sebastian was inclined to believe the latter. But was that because he had a constitutional dislike of crusading, self-anointed saints, or because he was desperate to ignore the evidence that pointed to his old friend as the obvious killer?
No, Sebastian finally decided; he wasn’t exactly ignoring it, but he couldn’t deny that he had discounted Hugh’s potential culpability more than he probably should have. For many men in Hugh’s precarious financial position, Tess’s dowry would be motivation enough for murder. Add to that a desire for revenge and the chance to finally marry the woman he’d long loved, and if Hugh were to be indicted, he’d have precious little chance of convincing any jury that he was innocent.
Bloody fool, thought Sebastian. Bloody, bloody fool.
?As the carriage turned in through the manor’s modest gateway, Sebastian could see Hugh standing at the edge of his shrubbery, deep in conversation with an aged man in a broad hat and farmer’s smock. But at the sound of the approaching carriage, Hugh turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the horses. For a moment he hesitated; then he said something to the farmer and walked forward to meet the carriage as it drew up before the small brick house.
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what you’re here to tell me?” he said as Sebastian opened the carriage door and hopped out without bothering to let down the steps.
“A guilty conscience, perhaps?”
Hugh’s nostrils flared on a quick, angry intake of air. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Sebastian turned to issue instructions to his coachman, then said to Hugh, “Let’s go for a walk.”
?They followed a narrow country lane that wound through trees still dripping from the recent rain.
Sebastian waited until they were out of earshot of the house before saying bluntly, “I’ve just been reminded that in addition to allowing Tess to remarry, Farnsworth’s death means she’ll now be able to recover her dowry—and I’m told her dowry was substantial. Why the bloody hell didn’t you say something about it?”
Hugh was silent for a moment, a muscle jumping along his jawbone. “What makes you so certain I simply wasn’t thinking about it?”
“How much is it?”
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty thousand pounds.”
Sebastian whistled. “You were thinking about it,” he said, and after a moment, Hugh nodded.
Sebastian drew up and turned to face him. “Is there anything else? Anything at all that you haven’t told me?”
“No. I swear.”
Sebastian studied his friend’s shuttered white face and wished he could believe him. “I hope to God you’re telling me the truth. When was the last time you saw Farnsworth?”
Hugh stared out over the misty sweep of his fields. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time. I generally tried to avoid the man as much as possible.”
“Why?”
Hugh looked at him. “What do you mean, why? Because whenever I saw him, I wanted to smash his face in and choke the life out of the bloody bastard. Why the hell do you think?”
Sebastian found himself giving his friend a crooked smile. “If anyone else asks you that question, I suggest you come up with a less incriminating answer.”
Hugh ran a shaky hand down over his face. “It looks bad, doesn’t it? You haven’t found anything—anything at all—that might explain what happened to him?”
“I’m not sure. It would help if I could talk to Tess. How is she?”
Hugh huffed a soft laugh. “Angry at you.”
“Still?”
“Yes. Mainly I think because she’s…afraid.”
It was a telling admission. “Afraid you’re going to be unjustly charged with Farnsworth’s murder? Or afraid because she’s not convinced that you didn’t do it?”
Hugh sucked in a deep breath, then let it out in a harsh sigh. “Both.”
They found Lady Tess seated beside the fire in the house’s small parlor, an embroidery frame lying forgotten on her lap, her gaze fixed in an abstracted way on the flickering flames on the hearth.
At the sight of Sebastian, she stiffened, but Hugh went to crouch down beside her and take both her hands in his. He spoke to her in low, urgent tones that Sebastian tried hard not to listen to. Her hands trembled in Hugh’s; then she nodded and looked over at Sebastian.
“What is it?” she said, her voice rough. “What do you need from me?”
Sebastian went to stand on the far side of the fire, his hat dangling from the fingers of one hand. “Do you know if Lord Preston maintained rooms somewhere? Secret rooms where he either kept a mistress or…” Sebastian searched for a gentler way to express it and finally settled on “took women?”
She stared at him blankly. “No. I mean, I’m not saying he didn’t. But if he did, I didn’t know about it.”
“Who would be likely to know?”
She thought about it a moment. “His valet, surely. But beyond that I can’t think of anyone. Most of his friends and colleagues were in the Society for the Suppression of Vice, and that’s not the sort of thing he would have been likely to share with them, now, is it?”
“Probably not. What about the chapel off Swallow Street where he was found? Do you know if he had any connection to it—either to the chapel or to the house that once stood there?”
“No. I’d never heard of the place until this happened.”
“Did Lord Preston fence?”
Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “No. Preston was never what you might call a sporting man. His idea of exercise was his after-dinner walks.” She threw a quick glance at Hugh, still crouching beside her. “Why do you ask?”
“Just looking for explanations.”
Sebastian saw her hands twist within Hugh’s. “What if there is no explanation? What if whoever did this is simply mad? You’d have to be mad to pose a body that way, wouldn’t you?”
It was a possibility that had occurred to Sebastian more than once, but he shook his head. “Farnsworth went to Swallow Street that night for some purpose. If we knew what that purpose was, it might help us figure out who killed him. You can’t think of any reason—any reason at all—that might have taken him there?”
“No. None. But then, it’s been six years since I had anything to do with him. He didn’t even live in St. James’s Square when we—when I—” She broke off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
“He didn’t?”
She shook her head. “He bought the house after he won the lawsuit against Hugh. He couldn’t have afforded it otherwise. Preston was never anywhere near as plump in the pocket as he liked to appear, and he isn’t—wasn’t—nearly as clever with investments as he liked to think he was, either. It’s one of the reasons he and Hester went after Quinton-Thomas—because they needed the money. He’d have lost my dowry long ago if Father hadn’t tied it up so tightly.”
“Any chance he could have been in debt?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
As far as Sebastian knew, no one had thought to look into Lord Preston’s finances as a potential explanation for his murder. After all, he was a Farnsworth; he lived in an elegant, unusually large house in St. James’s Square and devoted his time to furthering the aims of the Society for the Suppression of Vice and other worthy projects.
Aloud, he said, “Do you know if Lord Preston ever had anything to do with the tarot?”
“I know he hated anyone and everyone involved with that sort of thing. Fortune-tellers, astrologers, spiritualists—as far as he was concerned, they were all handmaidens and servants of Satan. The fires of Smithfield were stoked by men like Preston.”
“What about you? Have you ever had an interest in the cards?”
“What the devil are you suggesting, Devlin?” swore Hugh, pushing to his feet.
Sebastian kept his gaze on Tess’s pale face. “I ask because if you did, it might explain why someone posed Farnsworth’s body that way—to make you look like the killer.”
She shook her head. “I fooled around with it a bit before I was married—you know, attending séances, having my palm read, that sort of thing. But it was all for fun, and I wouldn’t say I did it more than others. And after we were married, Preston made his opinions on the subject quite clear. I wouldn’t have dared. As for now…” She gave a wry smile. “I don’t exactly go to fashionable parties these days, do I?”
“Why do you think someone posed his body like that?”
She shrugged. “To mock him, perhaps? I remember the card, but I can’t say I know what it’s supposed to mean. Do you?”
“As far as I can tell, it can mean a variety of things. Treachery. Betrayal…”
“So perhaps he betrayed someone. Someone he should have known better than to cross. He was always so arrogant, Preston. He thought he was smarter than everyone else. And that can be a dangerous delusion to have, can’t it?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian. “Yes, it can.”