“Some two years ago.”
The Irishman shook his head. “Too long. If she’d just left him, I could see it. But passions cool with time.”
“One might think so. Except that he still sounds surprisingly bitter to me. I get the impression Mr. Gordon nourishes republican sentiments that he believes Rachel York once shared. I’d say he’s as bothered by the blue blood of her recent lovers as anything else.”
The Irishman drained his glass. “So, who is her current lover?”
Sebastian reached for the bottle and poured his friend some more wine. “She seems to have been involved with an extraordinary number of gentlemen, at least on a superficial level. But the only one of any significance I’ve discovered so far is a Frenchman who was paying the rent on her rooms. An emigre by the name of Leo Pierrepont.”
“A Frenchman? That’s interesting. What do you know about him?”
“Not a lot. He’s a man in his late forties, I’d say. Came here back in ’ninety-two. He’s known as a good swordsman, but I’ve never heard anything to his discredit.”
“I put my money on the Frenchman.”
Sebastian laughed. “That’s because it’s the French who shot away the bottom half of your leg. Besides, he has an alibi: on the night Rachel was killed, he was giving a dinner party—or so he says. He could be making it up, of course, but it should be easy enough to check.”
“Unfortunate.” Gibson shifted in his seat, a grimace of pain flashing momentarily across his face as he moved his leg. “Neither sounds like a very promising suspect to me. Is that the best you can come up with?”
“So far. I was hoping Rachel’s body might give me some idea of what direction to look in next.”
Outside, the wind gusted up, buffeting the back of the house and eddying the flames on the hearth. Paul Gibson turned toward the fire, the flickering light playing over the thoughtful planes of his face. After a moment, he opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then finally said in a rush, “You know, there might be a way. . . . ”
Sebastian studied his friend’s averted profile. “A way to do what?”
“A way that I could get a look at Rachel York’s body. Do a thorough autopsy.”
“How’s that?”
“We could hire someone to steal the corpse tomorrow night, after it’s been buried.”
“No,” said Sebastian.
Gibson swung to face him. “I know some men who’d be willing to do it without—”
“No,” said Sebastian again.
His friend’s lips thinned with exasperation. “It’s done all the time.”
“Ah, yes. Twenty pounds for a long, fifteen for a half-long, and eight for a short—a long being a man, a half- long a woman, and a short a child. But just because it happens all the time doesn’t mean that I have to do it.”
The Irishman fixed him with a steady stare. “If she were given a choice, which do you think Rachel York would prefer? That her body be left to rot in its grave, or that the man who put her there be brought to justice?”
“Well, we can hardly ask her, now can we?”
Paul Gibson sat forward, his hands coming up, palms pressed together. “Sebastian, think about this: whoever this man was, he could kill again—in fact, he almost surely will kill again. You know that, don’t you? But as long as the authorities are looking for you, they’re not going to be doing anything to find him.”
Sebastian didn’t say a word.
Gibson flattened his hands on the scarred wooden tabletop and leaned into them. “She’s dead, Sebastian. The woman who was Rachel York is long gone. What’s left is just a shell, a husk, that once held her. In a month’s time, it’ll be rotting pulp.”
“That’s simple justification and you know it.”
“Is it? What we would do to her is no worse than what time will do to her. And there’s nothing you can do to stop that.”
Sebastian took a deep, bitter swallow of his wine. He told himself Paul was right, that catching Rachel’s killer was more important than preserving the inviability of her grave. He told himself her killer could, if free, kill again. But it was still wrong. He raised his gaze to his friend’s. “How soon can you set it up?”
Paul Gibson let his breath out in a quick huff. “The sooner the better. I’ll send a message to Jumpin’ Jack first thing in the morning.”
The Irishman’s dimple flashed, then was gone. “Jumpin’ Jack Cochran. A gentleman in the resurrection trade I have reason to know.”
“I won’t ask how you know him.”
Gibson laughed. “He got his name when one of the stiffs he was sliding out of its coffin suddenly sat up and started talking to him. Old Jack jumped out of that grave real fast.”
“You’re making that up,” said Sebastian.
“Not a bit of it. The lads he had with him were all for swinging a shovel at the man’s head and finishing him off right then and there, but Jack would have none of it. Hauled the fellow off to an apothecary, and even paid the bill when the unlucky devil died anyway.”
“I am filled with admiration for the man’s character,” Sebastian said with a grin, and rose to leave.
The Irishman’s face fell. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”
Sebastian shook his head. “I’ve put you in enough danger as it is, coming here. I’ve a room at the Rose and Crown, near Tothill Fields. They know me there as Mr. Simon Taylor. From Worcestershire.”
Gibson walked with him to the front door. “I’ll let you know when everything’s arranged.” He paused, his face thoughtful as he watched Sebastian button his scruffy topcoat up under his chin. “You do realize, of course, that we could go through all of this, and still not learn anything useful?”
“I know it.”
“You’re only assuming that the man who killed that poor girl was someone she knew. It might not be, you know. She could simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. You might never find who did it.”
Reaching out, Sebastian paused with his hand on the edge of the door and looked back at his friend. “No. But at least I’ll have tried.”
Gibson met his gaze, his face unsmiling and drawn with worry. “You could still leave.”
“And spend the rest of my life running?” Sebastian shook his head. “No. I’m going to clear my name, Paul. Even if I have to die trying.”
“You could die trying, and still not succeed.”
Sebastian settled his hat lower on his forehead and turned into the icy blast of the night. “It’s a chance I’m just going to have to take.”
Chapter 21
Golden lamplight pooled on gleaming wet pavement. The wind gusted up, sharp and bitter, and brought with it a rush of smells, of fresh paint and sweat-dampened wool and the thick grease of cosmetics: theater scents evocative of a time long past, when he’d believed—really
He’d been twenty-one that summer, not long down from Oxford and still drunk on the wonders of Plato and Aquinas and Descartes. She’d been barely seventeen, yet in her own way so much older and wiser than he. He’d fallen hopelessly, wildly in love with her. And he had believed, truly believed, that she loved him.
Ah, how he had believed. She’d told him she’d love him until the end of time, and he had believed. Believed
