Chapter 35
“Keep’em warm,” said Sebastian, pulling up in front of the Bow Street Public Office and handing Tom the reins.
Tom blew out a long breath through the gap in his front teeth and tried to look nonchalant. “I reckon maybe I’ll walk ’em around the block,” he said, casting an uneasy glance at the bustling entrance to the public office.
“One might almost imagine,” observed Miss Jarvis as Sebastian ushered her into the smoky, pungent din of the public office, “that your tiger finds the prospect of lingering too close to Bow Street a decidedly uncomfortable proposition.”
“One might,” Sebastian agreed. The public office was crowded with the usual assortment of beggars and pickpockets, constables and barristers. He collared a harried, bucktoothed clerk who tried to brush past them. “Miss Hero Jarvis and Lord Devlin to see Sir William.”
The clerk cast a dubious eye over their slime-smeared clothes, his thin nose twitching as the smell of oysters and hake and brill engulfed him. “I’m afraid Sir William has left strict instructions that he never be disturbed for an hour after—”
“If you think,” said Sebastian with that icy self-composure only the son and heir of an earl could achieve, “that Sir William will thank you for leaving Lord Jarvis’s daughter waiting in the common lobby of a public office, you obviously have not considered the matter.”
The clerk was a pale-skinned man with protuberant eyes and a short upper lip that refused to cover his pronounced front teeth. He swallowed convulsively, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down above his modest cravat. “Lord Jarvis’s d—” He broke off, his eyes bulging even more. “Please follow me,” he said, tripping over his own feet in his haste to lead them up the stairs to the private apartments overhead.
He escorted them to a small anteroom, then paused. “If you’ll just wait here,” he whispered, extending both hands out palm flat in a gesture reminiscent of someone quieting a congregation. The man should have been a cleric, Sebastian thought, instead of a clerk. “I’ll tell Sir William you’re here.”
“Why do I get the impression Sir William makes it a habit of slipping away from his duties every afternoon for an hour’s nap?” said Miss Jarvis as she watched the clerk creep through the door to their left.
“I suspect you’re—” He broke off as a wailing shriek arose from the far side of the door. “What the devil?”
Miss Jarvis reached the door before him, pushing it open without ceremony. The room was small, a cross between an office and a storage room overflowing with untidy files. The clerk stood just inside the door, his mouth now opening and closing silently on his large front teeth.
Sir William half sat, half lay in an awkward pose in a padded chair behind a battered oak desk, his eyes wide and staring, his jaw slack, his head lolling at an unnatural angle.
Sebastian expected Miss Jarvis to scream. Instead she said calmly, “Good heavens, someone’s broken his neck.”
Jules Calhoun’s nose twitched. “What is that smell?”
“Fish.” Sebastian tossed his coat to one side and stripped off his waistcoat. “I need a bath.”
“It’s coming, my lord,” said the valet, picking up the offending coat with one crooked finger and heading for the door.
“Oh, and, Calhoun?”
The valet turned. “My lord?”
“Somewhere in this city are two whores who formerly graced the parlor of the Orchard Street Academy. One, named Hessy Abrahams, hasn’t been seen since Wednesday of last week. The other, Hannah Green, arrived at the Magdalene House with Rose Fletcher but fled before the fire. She may or may not have gone to ground in the Haymarket. I need to talk to both of them—if they’re still alive.”
“If they’re alive, I’ll find them, my lord,” said Calhoun, and bowed himself out.
Scrubbed clean of the last lingering traces of Billingsgate, Sebastian prowled the West End, from the clubs of St. James’s to the pleasure haunts of Covent Garden. He was looking for the malaria-plagued hussar captain from Northamptonshire named Patrick Somerville, and finally ran him to ground in the Crown and Thorn, a tavern near Whitehall popular with both military men and sporting young men from the country.
“Any luck yet locating your missing friend?” asked Sebastian, pausing beside Somerville’s table, where he sat with his chin sunk against his chest and shoulders hunched as if against the cold.
Somerville looked up and shook his head. “We haven’t found a trace of him.”
Pulling out a chair, Sebastian signaled a passing waiter and ordered two more pints. “I understand you served in Africa,” he said casually.
“Yes, Egypt,” said Somerville. “As well as the Sudan and Cape Town.”
“I spent some time in Egypt myself, but I never went below the Sahara.”
They spoke for a time of Africa and the Americas, slipping easily into that camaraderie known to soldiers everywhere. Sebastian took his time bringing the conversation around to the Fairchilds. “You grew up in Northamptonshire, I take it?” he asked casually.
“Wansford.” Reaching into his pocket, Somerville tipped the contents of a rice-paper packet of white powder into one palm. He licked it clean, then gulped his beer as a chaser. “Quinine,” he said when he became aware of Sebastian watching him.
“With a little added kick of arsenic?”
The man gave a wry grin. “It’s a winning combination. Africa would be lost to us without it.”
