Page 57 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
“T he problem is, we can’t prove any of it,” said Sebastian, later. “No jury is going to take the word of someone like Bridget Daniels over that of such worthies as Sir Windle Barr and Lady Hester Farnsworth—even if Bridget were willing to testify, which she is not.”
“Can you blame her?” said Hero.
“No.” He went to stand at the library window, his fingers drumming on the sill. Dusk was falling, bringing with it a mist that crept up from the river to curl through the darkening streets and wrap around the flickering oil lamps.
“Watching him,” said Hero, “it’s telling that Barr went out of his way to attend evensong tonight and speak to Lady Hester. You already suggested to him that Jenny Gallagher might have been killed. And if he’s heard from Bow Street that there’s talk several of the young women found in the Thames might not have been suicides—and I suspect he has at this point—then he may be getting nervous. Or Lady Hester is.”
Sebastian turned to look at her. “I wonder if we can make them more nervous.”
“Why? What do you think they’ll do?”
“I’m not sure. But it might be interesting to find out.”
Sir Windle Barr was seated beside his drawing room fire, a glass of brandy cradled in one hand and a heavy leather-bound book open on his knee, when Sebastian was shown in.
“Lord Devlin,” he said, setting the book aside as he pushed to his feet. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Come in, come in; may I offer you some brandy?”
“Yes, please,” said Sebastian. “My apologies for intruding on you at home at this hour, but I won’t keep you long. I wanted your opinion of some information that has recently come my way.”
“Of course; only too glad to help,” said the magistrate, going to pour another brandy. He handed Sebastian the glass, then resumed his own seat, saying, “Sit down, please, and tell me what you’ve discovered.”
“It’s something that may help explain what happened to Lord Preston. It seems there is a belief in certain quarters that three men have been preying on London’s lower-class women. Killing them. Now, I don’t for a moment think that Lord Preston was actually doing anything of the sort, but there does appear to be increasing evidence that several women have been murdered and their bodies thrown in the Thames. So it’s possible that Lord Preston was killed because someone thought he was one of those responsible. We’re hearing that of these three individuals, one was approximately Lord Preston’s size, one is described as tall and thin, and the other is older and rather stout. All three are believed to be gently born, although there is some suggestion that the taller man may in fact be a woman in disguise.”
Barr sucked in a deep breath, his hand clenching around his brandy glass. Then he visibly relaxed and laughed out loud. “Good heavens. Wherever did you hear this nonsense?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. But we do believe it is reliable.”
“Indeed?” Barr drained his brandy. “And what does Bow Street have to say about this?”
“They’re the ones who suggested I speak to you,” said Sebastian, silently apologizing to the absent Sir Henry for the blatant lie. “You see, it’s believed that all three individuals involved are residents of Mayfair.”
“Oh, surely not.” Barr pushed to his feet and walked over to where the brandy carafe stood on a side table. He poured himself another drink, then turned back to Sebastian. “What I’m about to tell you is in the strictest confidence, you understand?”
“Of course.”
Barr settled in his chair again. “As it happens, I have been looking into a few things myself since our conversation the other day. It’s my belief that if someone has indeed been murdering these soiled doves—and that’s still an if , of course—then the killers are in all likelihood French republicans who’ve fled the Restoration of the Bourbon monarchy and are now here, working in alliance with our English Radicals. Their ultimate objective may be to use these murders to stir up the English poor, discredit the government, and eventually overthrow the British monarchy and our entire way of life.”
“Oh?” Sebastian took a slow sip of his brandy. “What makes you think this?”
Barr leaned forward and dropped his voice as if imparting a secret. “There is one woman in particular—a Frenchwoman—whom we’ve been hearing about. It seems her brother was a regicide, and she herself actively supported him in his murderous campaign before coming to England. We’ve recently learned that she’s here in London posing as a simple nun, and she has now been identified—just this evening, in fact.”
Sebastian had to work hard to keep his reaction off his face. “Do you mean Angélique?”
Barr relaxed back in his chair. “Ah, that’s right; I remember you were asking about her yourself a few days ago.”
“And you say you’ve identified her?”
“Not me personally. But we work closely with representatives of the French Crown in these sorts of things, and they have proven themselves to be quite effective in cleaning up the remnants of their revolution who’ve sought to cause problems over here. Ironically, it turns out she’s someone Preston long ago identified as a threat to our stability.”
“Do you know her name?”
“I do, although of course I’m not at liberty to divulge it. But I have every confidence that she’ll be taken care of soon.” Barr’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a hard smile as he glanced at the neoclassical clock on the mantel. “Quite soon.”