Page 37 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)

Saturday, 24 August

T he inquest into the death of the man who had attacked Sebastian in Golden Square took place at nine o’clock the next morning in a small, stuffy room at the parish workhouse. His assailant had been identified as Joe Pots, a common thug well-known to the local authorities, and the inquest was a brief, perfunctory formality that attracted none of the popular interest that had swirled around Lord Preston’s inquest.

The verdict exonerating Sebastian of any wrongdoing came swiftly.

Afterward, Lovejoy joined Sebastian at a nearby coffeehouse. The rain had started up again, and Lovejoy shivered as he wrapped his hands around his cup of hot chocolate. “The pressure from the Palace to indict someone for the murder of Lord Preston is becoming more insistent,” he said. “I fear it won’t be long before Sir Nathaniel makes an arrest.”

Sebastian felt a heavy weight pressing on his chest. “So who is the Chief Magistrate planning to charge?”

Lovejoy cleared his throat and looked away.

“It’s Major Chandler, is it?”

Lovejoy nodded. “Unless something changes soon. Sir Nathaniel has suspected him from the very beginning. And unfortunately, the Major is the only viable suspect anyone has been able to come up with.”

“Because he has no alibi?”

“That and because he has a seemingly endless number of powerful incentives for murder.”

“What about Lord Quinton-Thomas?”

“We’ve verified that his lordship was at his club until shortly before nine o’clock that evening, at which point he walked home and went to bed. We’ve confirmed that chronology of events with both his club and his servants.”

Sebastian watched the steam rising from his hot coffee. “We’ve been assuming Lord Preston was killed shortly after he left his house at half past seven that evening, but we don’t really know for certain, do we? He could have been killed much later—as late as the following morning. Especially if he kept rooms someplace.”

“True.” Lovejoy drew a deep breath that flared his nostrils. “There was initially some talk of blaming Lord Preston’s murder on Half-Hanged Harry, but the surgeon’s report as to the lethal nature of the gunshot wound to the scoundrel’s chest would make any attempt to portray his subsequent hanging as a suicide ridiculous.”

“When is Harry’s inquest?”

“Half past twelve. Given the links between his death and Lord Preston’s, I suspect it will be a similar circus.”

“I think I’ll pass on this one,” said Sebastian, taking a cautious sip of his coffee. Fortunately, Bow Street had located some half a dozen men who’d seen and spoken to McGregor between nine and half past ten that night, in three or four different pubs, which eliminated the need for Sebastian himself to testify. “No luck finding anything about the ‘secret rooms’ Letitia Lamont talked about?”

“Not yet. Lord Preston’s man of business says he knows nothing about them but concedes it’s possible Farnsworth made the arrangements himself. In fact, he says his client did something similar in the past.”

“Interesting.”

“Indeed. His valet scoffs at the very idea of their existence. But if the rooms do exist, I find it doubtful the man wouldn’t know, and at this point I’m not inclined to believe anything he says. I’ve set one of the lads to watching him. With any luck, he may very well lead us to them.”

“Good idea. Word on the street is that Farnsworth liked to hurt women. Humiliate them. And that he wasn’t above using the threat of criminal prosecution to extort sexual favors. That suggests he had someplace to take them.”

“A week ago I would have been inclined to dismiss such allegations as nothing more than vicious rumors. But now…” He shook his head, his features strained as he stared out at the rain. “On top of everything else, we have another dead Frenchman.”

“Another? Who is this one?”

“An eighty-year-old émigré who has been most vocal in his criticism of the behavior of the Bourbons since the Restoration. Found dead in his bed this morning by his valet. Sir Nathaniel has decided the man obviously died in his sleep of old age, so there will be no autopsy.”

“More pressure from the Palace?”

“I fear so. According to the man’s valet, his master was worried about a possible threat from the Bourbons to someone he knew, a woman named Angélique.” He gave the name its French pronunciation. “But we’ve no idea who she is.”

“Angélique?” said Sebastian more sharply than he had intended.

Lovejoy looked up. “You know who she is?”

“It’s an unusual name,” said Sebastian, and left it at that.

There had been a time when Sebastian could have gone to a certain Irish actress for any badly needed information about the Bourbons and their various allies and enemies. But it had now been over a year since Kat Boleyn left London for the Continent; last he’d heard, she was in Vienna. And so, as Lovejoy hurried off to Half-Hanged Harry’s inquest, Sebastian turned his steps toward Golden Square.

Madame Blanchette was paused at a street stall, inspecting a pile of tarnished brass and silver candlesticks, when Sebastian walked up to her.

“Monsieur le vicomte,” she said, glancing at him sideways. “We meet again—although I can’t imagine what you think I might know about this troublesome dead nobleman of yours that I haven’t told you already.”

“So tell me about the assassin the Bourbons have sent here to London to kill those they don’t like,” he said in French.

“Ah. Lui. ” She kept her gaze on the jumbled pile of metal before her. “Unfortunately, when a royal family believe themselves anointed by God, it’s an easy step from there to the conviction that anyone who dares to criticize their dynasty is criticizing God.”

“And therefore can be killed without compunction?”

“When you flatter yourself that you’re doing God’s work, that does follow naturally, does it not?” She studied a delicate, beautifully made candlestick black with age and neglect. “McClellan is this man’s most important target, but he has others.”

“Such as an eighty-year-old émigré who didn’t actually die of old age in his sleep last night?”

She nodded. “There is also a woman. But I believe he doesn’t know exactly who she is.”

“You mean Angélique?”

Madame Blanchette looked up at him sharply. “What do you know of Angélique?”

“Nothing beyond her name and the fact that Lord Preston was also interested in her. Do you know where she is?”

“Me? No.” She asked the stallholder in English for the candlestick’s price, haggled with her a moment, then nodded. Returning to French, she said to Sebastian, “What is it you want from me?”

“The assassin’s name. Where to find him.”

She was silent for so long, slowly counting out her money and handing it to the woman, that he didn’t think she was going to answer him. She tucked the candlestick into her string bag, then said, “He calls himself No?l Cartier, although it is not, of course, his real name. As to where you might find him…the Bourbons have always been fond of Grillon’s and Grenier’s Hotels. But someone with your quarry’s disinclination to attract attention might prefer someplace quieter. Robinson’s, perhaps?”

He touched his hand to his hat. “Thank you.”

He would have turned away, but she put out a hand, stopping him. “You are worried about the Maréchal?”

“Not only about McClellan.”

Her eyes narrowed as she searched his face. “You will meet him someday,” she said softly. “But the time is not yet right.”

He felt his breath catch, so that it was with difficulty that he managed to keep his voice light as he said, “?’Someday’ as in ‘some future date’? Or did you mean to imply it won’t happen until after we are both dead?”

But at that she only laughed.