broad shoulders.
“Well, that was interesting,” said Sebastian.
He followed the canal in St. James’s Park to a slight rise with a single black mulberry tree, where on a warm summer’s morning three months before the rising sun had shed its rays on another butchered young man.
Barclay Carmichael had been found with his ankles lashed together by a stout rope thrown over an arching branch of the mulberry. Hoisted high, his mangled arms dangling toward the grass, he’d been found at first light. Just like Dominic Stanton.
Two wealthy young men, thought Sebastian, one eighteen, the other seven-and-twenty. One the son of a powerful banker, the other the scion of one of England’s oldest families. Both bodies butchered and left as if on display in very public spaces.
Standing on the rise, Sebastian turned in a slow circle. From here he could see the Palace of St. James’s and the Houses of Parliament, the Old Admiralty Building and the Horse Guards Parade.
He found Sir Henry Lovejoy descending the steps of the Public Office on Queen Square. At the sight of Sebastian, the magistrate paused and made to swing around. “My lord. Please, come in.”
“No. I won’t keep you,” said Sebastian. “I just had a few questions I wanted to ask. I take it you’ve had the opportunity to speak with Lord Stanton?”
An indefinable quiver passed over Sir Henry’s normally bland features. “Yes. Unfortunately, his lordship was rather upset by the choice of surgeon for his son’s postmortem.”
“As well as by my possible involvement in the investigation into the circumstances of his death, I gather?”
Sir Henry blinked. “As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?”
Sebastian simply shook his head. “Where does his lordship say his son spent last night?”
“It seems the boy made one of a party of friends who rode down to Merton Abbey for yesterday’s prizefight.”
Bare-knuckle boxing was illegal and could, technically, be stopped by the magistrates, which is why the matches were typically held several hours’ ride from London. But the match between the Champion and his Scottish challenger, McGregor, had been the subject of such intense speculation there couldn’t be a magistrate in the area who hadn’t been aware of it.
“They set out from London for Merton Abbey as a group, just before eleven yesterday morning,” Sir Henry was saying.
“So what happened?”
“Mr. Stanton was expected home for a dinner party his mother was giving. He never arrived.” Sir Henry paused. “Lady Stanton is said to be hysterical.”
The bells of Westminster Abbey began to chime the hour, the rich notes floating out over the city. “Do you have the names of these friends?”
“Yes. Young Lord Burlington, Sir Miles Jefferies’s son Davis, and a Charlie McDermott. At the moment they’re gathered at a pub in Fleet Street. I was just on my way there to interview them.”
Sebastian squinted against the bright September sun. “Let me approach them first.”
He was aware of Sir Henry studying him. “I didn’t think you were interested in the case, my lord.”
Sebastian gave a grim smile and turned away. “I’ve changed my mind.”
The Boar’s Head on Fleet Street was one of those comfortable old pubs with dark paneled walls and low ceilings that reminded their patrons of winter evenings spent tucked away in the cozy Jacobin inns of Leicester and Derby, Northampton and Worcestershire. Sebastian supposed it was that warm familiarity that had made it an attractive refuge for three young men with bruised spirits and aching memories.
Ordering a pint of ale, Sebastian paused beside the low, ancient bar. The three friends huddled around a table in the corner, unaware of his presence. A somber group, they sat with shoulders hunched, hands cupped around pewter tankards, chins sunk in ambitiously tied cravats. Occasionally one would make a comment and the others would nod. No one laughed.
The eldest of the three, Davis Jefferies, was but twenty, a slight, incredibly gaunt young man who looked more like sixteen. To his left sat Charlie McDermott, another slim youth with the pale skin and flaming red hair of the far north. Only Lord Burlington, a baron’s son from Nottingham who’d come into his title as a child, approached Dominic Stanton in size and bulk.
Sebastian watched the men for a time, then walked over to their table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Three startled pairs of eyes turned toward him. “I’d like a few words with you gentlemen,” he said quietly, “if you don’t mind?”
The three exchanged hurried glances. “No. Of course not,” said Jefferies, stammering slightly. “How may we help you, my lord?”
“I understand you attended yesterday’s mill down at Merton Abbey.”
Jefferies hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“With Mr. Dominic Stanton?”
The redheaded Scotsman, McDermott, spoke up, saying in a rush, “I beg your pardon, my lord, but what is this about?”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “I’m wondering if you know of anyone Stanton might have angered lately. A gentleman annoyed by Mr. Stanton’s attentions to his lady, perhaps? Or perhaps someone he bested in a game of chance or a wager?”
The three were silent for a moment, thinking. Then Jefferies shook his head and said, “Dominic wasn’t much in the petticoat line. And he never could pick a winner—or run a bluff.”
“Was he in any way acquainted with Mr. Barclay Carmichael?”
“Are you roasting me? A bang-up Corinthian like Carmichael? No. We all admired him, but…that was it.”
Burlington spoke up suddenly. “You’re trying to figure out who did it, aren’t you?” The boy’s face was pale and puffy. When Sebastian looked into his soft gray eyes, Burlington glanced quickly away.
“Do you have any ideas about what happened to him?”
All three boys shook their heads, their eyes wide.
“Where did you gentlemen go after yesterday’s fight?”
“To the White Monk,” said McDermott. “Outside Merton Abbey.”
“Until when?”
“Just before midnight. But Dominic left long before that. His mother wanted him home for some dinner party she was giving.”
“So he left alone?”
Again, the three exchanged glances. It was Burlington who swallowed and licked his lips before answering. “He asked me to go with him. Said he didn’t want to ride back to London by himself. But I just laughed at him. Made fun of him. Told him he was acting like a shrieking little housemaid.” The boy’s voice cracked and he looked away again, blinking rapidly.
“What time did he leave?”
“About half past five, I’d say?” McDermott looked around the table for confirmation. The other two nodded their heads. “Yes. Half past five.”
“Driving himself in his curricle?”
“No. We all rode. Dominic has—had,” he corrected himself quickly, “a sweet-going little mare named Roxanne. Last I heard, she was missing, too.”
“What does she look like?”
“A dapple gray. With four white socks and a white blaze.”
Sebastian pushed back his chair, then hesitated. “You said Mr. Stanton was nervous. Was he often so?”
