Page 60 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)

“T his is going to be…complicated,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy sometime later, his hands braced on his knees as he leaned over to stare at Lady Hester’s pale, waxen face and then twisted around to gaze at the nearby bloody sprawl of Sir Windle Barr. The dead Frenchman lay out of sight, beyond the Great Hall’s shattered west wall.

“Yes,” said Sebastian.

Lovejoy straightened to look at him. “Whatever were you doing here at this time of night?”

“I was told someone I needed to talk to was here.”

“They set you up?”

“Not exactly.”

The magistrate frowned. “I think you need to explain.”

Wednesday, 28 August

Shortly before dawn, Sebastian awoke to the distant sound of barking dogs.

The bed beside him was cold. Turning his head, he could see Hero wrapped in a blanket and standing by the bedroom window, her gaze fixed straight ahead. In the light from the dying fire on the hearth he caught a faint glimmer of wetness left on her cheek by a single tear.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked softly, going to her.

She rested her head against his, her back snuggling into his chest, her hands coming up to rest on his arms as he slid them around her waist to hold her close. “I keep thinking about those poor young women…how desperate and terrified they must have been. What a cruel, brutal way to kill.” She fell silent for a moment, her chest rising and falling with her soft breathing. “They enjoyed it, didn’t they? Lord Preston, Sir Windle, and Lady Hester, I mean. They enjoyed killing those women. Frightening them. Hurting them.”

“I think so, yes.”

She cradled one of his hands between both of hers and brought it up to press her lips to his palm. “I could have lost you last night.”

“No,” he said, and she chuckled softly at his arrogance.

She kept her gaze on the mist-swirled darkness beyond the window. “If Barr was telling the truth when he said he hadn’t sent anyone to try to kill me, do you think it’s possible Lady Hester is the one who was behind what happened the other day in Brewers Green?”

Sebastian considered this. “I suppose it’s possible. But why would she go after you rather than me? She can’t have been a very good judge of character if she imagined an attack on my wife would somehow cause me to stop looking into her brother’s activities .”

“There have been times in the past—mainly when I was conducting my interviews, although at other times, too—when I have felt as if someone were watching me. I’ve never said anything about it because I assumed I was mistaken—that I was simply being fanciful. But now…now I wonder.”

He tightened his arms around her, holding her close. “You’re the least fanciful person I know.”

That made her smile. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply keep my worst flights of fancy to myself.”

Late that afternoon, Sebastian walked with Sir Henry Lovejoy along Whitehall toward Charing Cross. The day had dawned cool but clear, with only a faint, pleasant breeze blowing from out of the south.

“I had an awkward interview with Lord Jarvis this morning,” said the magistrate, his features carefully schooled into an unreadable mask.

“Oh?” said Sebastian. He himself had considered paying a visit on his father-in-law, then decided it would be better to wait until he felt less inclined to smash the big man’s face in. “And?”

“To be frank, I had the impression he was more disturbed by the Frenchman’s killing than by the deaths of Sir Windle and Lady Hester.”

“That I can believe.”

“Unfortunately, I suspect the Bourbons will simply send someone else.”

“Yes.”

Lovejoy sighed. “Incidentally, Lady Hester’s abigail tells us that Lady Hester did indeed possess several suits of male clothing she would occasionally don to disguise herself when leaving the house with her brother late at night. We’ve also begun searching Sir Windle’s home and office—discreetly, of course. So far the only thing we’ve found is this.” Reaching into a pocket, he drew forth a deck of cards with familiar green, white, and red-patterned backs. “According to one of his colleagues, Sir Windle took them from a cartomancer he arrested last spring.”

“And then used them to throw the blame for his own murders onto whoever had killed Lord Preston. He obviously didn’t realize how rare they are.”

“Indeed.” Lovejoy tucked the cards away. “Needless to say, the Palace has decreed that the public must never be allowed to know that the chief magistrate of one of our most prestigious public offices has been murdering young women in concert with a duke’s brother and sister.”

“So how does the Palace intend to explain that illustrious trio’s deaths? By blaming the Frenchman? How very convenient.”

“It is, isn’t it? Of course, rather than being acknowledged as a tool of the Bourbons, Monsieur Cartier will be recast as a rabid republican.”

“Of course. And Father Ambrose?”

“Will be released, hopefully by tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Sebastian. He was silent for a moment, his gaze on the bedraggled mess the weather had wrought on the Privy Garden beside them. “I wonder how many women they killed.”

Lovejoy shook his head. “I don’t see how we’ll ever know. How ironic that it may be Lord Preston’s sensational death that finally convinces Parliament to create the centralized police force he always wanted.”

Something about the way the magistrate said it caught Sebastian by surprise. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, too, isn’t it?”

Lovejoy looked vaguely troubled. “It is, yes…in principle. Except I must admit to having serious misgivings about the direction these more recent proposals are taking. I’m all in favor of replacing the current parish-based system of aged night watchmen with a central force of fit, healthy men. I’d also like to see the establishment of a criminal investigative division—something along the lines of what Vidocq has created in Paris.” The suggestion of a smile tugged at his lips. “Although I realize it’s something of a heresy to suggest that we use the French as a model. And unfortunately, that’s not what they’re talking about. Basically, they want to use their new police force to change the way the poor of this country live, outlawing everything from costermongers and Punch and Judy shows to street musicians and ballad singers. They have this idea that if they empower a phalanx of men in uniform to watch people—meaning poor people, of course—and arrest them for any and every minor moral infraction, then major crime will simply disappear.”

“You don’t agree?”

“No, I don’t. I can’t believe that allowing hardworking men to drink on Sundays or a blind man to earn money by playing his flute on a street corner is going to somehow lead to them deciding to break into other people’s houses to steal their silver.”

“Well, it’s definitely easier to arrest couples for kissing in dark corners than to chase down thieves who’ve looted a warehouse when you weren’t looking.”

Lovejoy sighed. “That it is. And as if all that weren’t bad enough, they’re also talking about taking away magistrates’ investigative responsibilities and turning the office into something strictly judicial.”

“So who would be investigating murders and thefts?”

“The assumption is that putting uniformed police on the streets and arresting people for the least little infraction will lead to such crimes magically disappearing.”

“And this idea came from a man who was quietly murdering any number of young women he’d arrogantly decided didn’t have the right to live.”

“Telling, I suppose,” said Lovejoy, his gaze drawn to the fading old houses and offices clustered around a nearby ancient courtyard known as Scotland Yard. “Have you by chance seen Major Chandler?”

“This morning, yes.” Hugh and Lady Tess had both come to thank Sebastian and, in Lady Tess’s case, to apologize. “He and Lady Tess are looking into buying a house in Italy. They plan to live there once the legalities surrounding the reversion of her dowry are completed.”

“Wise. I suspect many will continue to believe them guilty no matter what the official verdict is.” He paused. “The one thing I still don’t understand is why Barr killed Letitia Lamont.”

“I can only think that she must somehow have suspected what he and Lord Preston were doing and was unwise enough to say something to him after her release from the Bridewell.”

“Yes, that makes sense. But why go after Lady Devlin?”

“I don’t think Barr was behind that.”

Lovejoy drew up and swung to face him. “Then who was?”

Sebastian met his friend’s troubled gaze and shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

Friday, 30 August

On a gloriously warm, sunny afternoon two days later, Sebastian was descending the front steps toward his waiting curricle when he noticed Father Ambrose walking toward him, with Jamie reluctantly trailing a pace or two behind.

“We’ve come to thank you for all that you’ve done,” said the priest, pausing at the base of the steps. “To thank you, and to apologize for our failure at times to be as honest with you as we might have been.” He nudged the boy beside him. “Isn’t that right, Jamie?”

The boy hung his head and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m ever so sorry, sir.”

“Please, won’t you come in?” said Sebastian. “Have some tea, perhaps? Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

The French priest shook his head. “No. Thank you, but we don’t want to keep you.” He squinted up at the blue sky above. “It’s a rare fine day, yes?”

“Yes,” said Sebastian. “Rare, indeed.”

“Perhaps the rumors of our earth’s impending doom are exaggerated?”

Sebastian gave a soft laugh. “Hopefully. Are you quite certain you won’t come in?”

“No, we must be going.” Man and boy started to turn away; then the priest stopped, his hand coming up to his forehead. “Ah, I almost forgot: Have you heard anything more about the Maréchal McClellan?”

Sebastian felt an ache deep within his chest. “No. Why?”

The priest nodded, as if he had expected as much. “It’s my understanding he has gone to Egypt.”

“Egypt?”

Father Ambrose nodded again. “The pasha there, Muhammed Ali, is intent on modernizing his army and is looking to the veterans of our recent wars to assist him in that aim. By not joining Napoléon on his disastrous return from Elba, the Maréchal managed to preserve his reputation intact. I’m told the pasha is delighted to have him.”

Sebastian felt a rush of relief that caught him by surprise. “You know, you never did tell me how you happen to hear these things.”

But the French priest simply rested his forefinger beside his nose and winked.