Why Mermaids Sing

Why Mermaids Sing

THE SEBASTIAN ST. CYR MYSTERY SERIES

What Angels Fear

When Gods Die

WHY MERMAIDS SING

A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

C. S. HARRIS

For the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast,

who suffered so much, and are still suffering,

from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita

Acknowledgments

Why Mermaids Sing will always be, for me, my “Katrina book.” I began the first chapter just days before the storm slammed into my New Orleans–area home. In the dark months that followed, as we shifted from one place of refuge to the next and started on the long, hard road to reconstruction, there were many times when I seriously doubted the manuscript would ever see publication. I wrote this book in a Baton Rouge apartment, in a cabin by a lake in central Louisiana, in the back room of my mother’s house, and in the gutted office of my own half-built home. That I managed to pull it off is due to the many wonderful people who stood by me.

I am especially grateful to my editor, Ellen Edwards, and all the great people at NAL who were so supportive and understanding; my agent, Helen Breitwieser, who said cheerfully, “You can do it!” everytime I started losing faith; all the many friends who were there for us, including Jon, Ben, Bruce and Emily, Laura, Elora, and Charles; and my incredible, resilient, unbeatable family—my mother, Penny, Samantha, Danielle, and Steve.

Thank you all.

Chapter 1

SATURDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 1811, ON THE ROAD BETWEEN MERTON ABBEY AND LONDON

Fear twisted Dominic Stanton’s stomach, compressed his chest until his breath came shallow and quick.

He told himself he was being a fool. A fool and a coward. He was a Stanton, for Christ’s sake. In less then two months, he would be nineteen years old. Men his age—younger, much younger—went off to war. Yet here he was just a few miles outside London and he was acting like some silly girl from the village, about to pee his pants with fear every time the thunder rumbled or the rising wind rustled the oak leaves overhead.

A copse of mingled oak and chestnut closed around him. Dominic kneed his mare into a canter. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, but the heavy cloud cover and the thickness of the grove created their own eerie air of twilight. Over the keening of the wind, he could hear the faint clip-clop of a horse’s hooves coming from somewhere behind him. He wasn’t imagining it again, was he? He glanced over his shoulder at the empty road curving away out of sight. “Jesus,” he whispered.

It was his mother’s fault, he decided. She was the one who’d insisted he make it home in time for her stupid dinner party. If it weren’t for her, he’d still be back at the pub with Charlie and Burlington and the rest, calling for another round and talking over each blow and rally of the prizefight they’d all ridden down to Merton Abbey to watch. Instead, here he was riding back to London alone at dusk with a storm about to break.

Telling himself he was hurrying because he was going to be late, Dominic urged his mare on faster…and felt his saddle begin to slip.

Shit. Stupid ostler, forgetting to tighten the girth. Dominic reined in, his face slick with cold sweat. Casting another quick glance around, he hopped down from the saddle. His fingers were shaky, clumsy. Throwing the stirrup leather out of the way, he fumbled for the buckle and heard the rattle of harness, the clatter of wheels coming up behind.

He whirled around, his mare tossing her head and sidestepping nervously away from him. A horse and carriage loomed out of the darkness. “Oh my God,” whispered Dominic as the driver drew up.

Chapter 2

SUNDAY, 6:45 A.M., 15 SEPTEMBER 1811, WESTMINSTER

Sir Henry Lovejoy, chief magistrate at Queen Square, Westminster, stood at the edge of the Old Palace Yard. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, he forced himself to look at the mutilated body sprawled before him.

Dominic Stanton lay on his back, his arms flung wide, his eyes open to the misty sky above. Beads of moisture had collected on the boy’s light, softly curling hair, while the dampness left from last night’s rain had seeped into the fine cloth of his blue coat to darken it until it looked almost black. From the hips up, the body appeared unmarked except for the traces of blood on his cravat and the strange object shoved in his mouth.

What had been done to his legs was unspeakable.

“For God’s sake, cover him up again,” said Lovejoy, his stomach heaving.

The constable reached to flip the sheet of canvas back over the body. “Yes, sir.”

The early-morning fog rolling in from the nearby river felt cold and damp against Lovejoy’s face. Lifting his gaze, he stared up at the ancient soot-stained walls of the House of Lords beside them.

“Think it’s the same killer, sir?”

It had been just three months since they’d found another young man, a banker’s son named Barclay