must already have the next one selected.”
Sebastian blew out his breath in a harsh sigh. “And Bow Street doesn’t believe any of it.”
Sebastian studied his reflection in the mirror, then leaned forward to add a touch more ash to his hair, blending it in until he gave all the appearance of a man just beginning to go gray.
He wore a decidedly unfashionable coat and sturdy breeches of a cut that would give his aunt Henrietta an apoplexy if she were to see them, for they’d come not from the exclusive shops of Bond Street but from a secondhand clothing dealer in Rosemary Lane. There were times when Sebastian’s aristocratic bearing and the trappings of wealth gave him a decided advantage. But there were other times when it served his purpose better to pretend to be someone else.
He was just slipping a slim but deadly knife into a sheath in his right boot when Tom came hurtling into the dressing room, bringing with him the scent of the rain that had been threatening all morning.
“There’s somethin’ you might want to know about that captain in the ’Orse Guards, that Captain Quail you asked me to trail. I think he mighta run into debt. Seems ’is wife threatened to leave ’im if ’e didn’t spend more time with ’er. And seein’ as ’er da is the one with all the blunt, that’s why ’e’s been sticking pretty close to ’ome.”
Sebastian kept his attention on the task of tying his dark cravat. “Keep looking into it when you have the chance. There’s no doubt the man’s hiding something. I’m just not certain it’s related.”
Tom eyed Sebastian’s unfashionable rig. “What’s this fer, then?”
Sebastian adjusted his modest shirt points. “Greenwich.” He turned away from the mirror. “How would you like to take a ride on a hoy?”
“Gore,” said Tom on a breath of pure ecstasy as the hoy slid past the Tower of London and the docks beyond, past merchantmen lying heavy in the water with their cargoes of sugar and tobacco, indigo and coffee, their masts thick against the cloud-filled sky.
Sebastian stood at the rail, the moist wind cool against his face as he watched the tiger dart from one side of the boat to the other, dodging coiled lines and scattered crates and some half a dozen fellow passengers. Sebastian smiled to himself. “Ever been to Greenwich?”
Tom shook his head, his eyes wide as the hoy slipped past the massive bulk of India House and, beyond that, the docks and warehouses of the West India Trading Company on the Isle of Dogs.
“We should have time to take a look at the Queen’s House and the Naval Academy, if you’re interested.”
“And the Observatory?”
Sebastian laughed. “And the Observatory.”
Tom squinted up at the rusty red-brown canvas flapping in the wind. The hoy was spritsail rigged, with a topsail over a huge mainsail and a large foresail. Its flat-bottomed design made it perfect for the shallow waters and narrow rivers of the Thames estuary it plied. “This cove ye want me to nose out about—this Captain Edward Bellamy—what you expectin’ to find?”
“I’m hoping for something that might link either the captain or his son to Carmichael, Stanton, and Thornton.”
Tom screwed up his face. “It don’t seem likely. A clergyman, a ship’s captain, a banker, and a lord?”
“You’d be surprised at the threads that can bind one man to the next, across all levels of society. Or one woman to the next.”
“You want I should listen to the jabber about Mrs. Bellamy while I’m at it? If there is one?”
A line from Donne’s poem kept running through Sebastian’s head.
Sebastian settled back against the rail. “I think that might be a good idea.”
Captain Edward Bellamy lived in a sprawling white-framed house trimmed with dark green shutters and set in expansive gardens overlooking the river.
Slipping into the demeanor of Mr. Simon Taylor of Bow Street, Sebastian climbed the short flight of steps to the front door and worked the knocker. His peal was answered by a slip of a towheaded housemaid who looked to be no more than fourteen or fifteen. She started to deny both her master and mistress, but hesitated when Sebastian removed his hat and said loftily, “Mr. Simon Taylor, from Bow Street. Please announce me.”
The little housemaid opened her eyes wide and scuttled off.
Captain Bellamy proved to be a tall man, well over six feet and robust, despite his sixty-plus years. A life at sea had given him a weathered, deeply grooved face and left his flaxen hair liberally streaked with white. His stunned grief at the death of his son could be read in every feature.
He received Sebastian in a spacious sitting room overlooking the gardens and the river beyond. With him sat a small, olive-skinned woman with dark hair and liquid brown eyes, her pretty, unlined face streaked with tears. Looking at her, Sebastian at first assumed her to be the murdered man’s sister, but Bellamy introduced her as his own wife.
“My apologies for intruding on you at such a time,” said Sebastian, bowing low over her hand.
“Plees, sit down,” she said in Portuguese-accented English.
“Brandy?” offered the Captain in a gruff voice, going to lift the stopper from a crystal decanter on a nearby table.
Sebastian took a seat on a graceful settee covered with green-and-cream-striped silk. “Thank you, but no.” He let his gaze drift around the room. It was elegantly furnished with heavy mahogany tables and glass-fronted cases filled with everything from Chinese jade carvings and delicate ivory statues to Murano glass from Venice. Captain Bellamy had obviously prospered in his voyages.
“The constable who was here this morning said someone would be calling later,” said Bellamy, splashing a hefty measure of brandy into a glass for himself. “But I must admit I hadn’t expected to see you so soon.”
“Bow Street is most anxious to come to a better understanding of this dreadful series of killings.”
Bellamy paused with his glass raised halfway to his lips. “Series of killings? What other killings are you referring to?”
“The recent murders of Barclay Carmichael and Dominic Stanton.”
Bellamy took a long, slow swallow of his drink. What little color he’d had seemed to drain from his face. “What makes you think my son’s death is in any way related to the deaths of those other young men? My son was stabbed on the docks. What happened to young Carmichael and Stanton was an abomination.”
“Whoever killed your son left a mandrake root in his mouth. Mr. Stanton was found with the severed hoof of a goat in his mouth, while Mr. Carmichael was found with a page torn from a ship’s log. There’s also another young man, a student of divinity at Cambridge named Nicholas Thornton, who was found with a papier-mache star in his mouth. We believe all four killings are related in some way.”
Bellamy downed the rest of his brandy in one swallow and turned to pour another drink with a hand that was not quite steady. “I heard what happened to Carmichael and Stanton, but not Thornton. When was that?”
“Last April.”
“And he was butchered? Like the others?”
“Not exactly. Certain of his internal organs were removed.”
