It seemed at first improbable to Sebastian that the Bishop of London might be the shadowy reverend who ordered the crypt of St. Margaret’s bricked up all those years ago. Yet the more he thought about it, the less certain he became. The exact year of the closing of the crypt had been forgotten, and no one had bothered to inquire too closely into the Bishop’s own past.
Leaving the market at Smithfield, Sebastian turned his horses toward the West End, to London House in St. James’s Square.
He found the Bishop’s chaplain seated on the floor of the Bishop’s official chambers, surrounded by piles of paper and looking harried. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said, shifting a large stack of folders, “but now is not a good time.”
“Just one question,” said Sebastian, pausing in the doorway of the disheveled chambers. “Was Bishop Prescott ever the priest in residence at St. Margaret’s in Tanfield Hill?”
Frown lines appeared in the Chaplain’s forehead. “Why, yes, of course. Back in—” He broke off suddenly, his eyes widening as comprehension dawned. “Good heavens.”
“Exactly.”
They went for a walk in the Square, skirting the perimeter of the octagonal-shaped iron fence that railed off the vast circular pond in the center.
“I was under the impression,” said Sebastian, “that the Bishop began his career at Oxford.”
“He did.” The Chaplain clasped his hands together behind his back, the black skirts of his cassock swirling around his ankles as he walked. “He believed, initially, that his vocation lay in scholarship. But then he discovered he possessed an affinity for ministry. When the benefice at Tanfield Hill fell vacant, it was given to him.”
“St. Margaret’s is in the Prescott family’s gift?” More than half the livings in England were under the control of private landowners, who either gave them to a younger son or cousin, or sold them like an investment.
“Yes. Before Francis Prescott took it up, I believe it was in the possession of a distant cousin.”
“When exactly was this?”
“That Dr. Prescott was in residence at St. Margaret’s?” The Chaplain thought about it a moment. “From sometime in the late 1770s until the end of 1782, I believe.”
“So it would have been Prescott’s decision to seal the crypt at St. Margaret’s?”
The Chaplain blew out his breath in a long sigh. “I suppose it must have been, although I couldn’t say for certain without looking at the records.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. The Bishop was a man of God. A good, gentle soul, repulsed by violence. He could never have killed his own brother and then bricked up the crypt to hide the deed.”
Sebastian studied the Chaplain’s pale, troubled features. In his experience, most people were capable of murder, if pushed hard enough. And Sir Nigel certainly sounded like the kind of man who had pushed many men hard enough to goad one of them into murder.
“I was acquainted with him, you know,” said the Chaplain.
Sebastian glanced over at him in surprise. “You mean Sir Nigel?”
The Chaplain nodded. “I was only a child when he disappeared, but he was . . . most memorable. A huge man, loud and rather frightening, actually.”
“How did the two brothers get along?”
“Sir Nigel was . . .” The Chaplain hesitated, searching for the right words. He eventually settled on,” . . . a difficult man.”
“In what way?”
The Chaplain’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I see no point in speaking ill of the dead.”
“Even when one is dealing with murder?”
They walked along in silence for a moment, the Chaplain’s features set in troubled lines. After a time, he said, “Sir Nigel could be charming, even gracious. Yet he could also be quick-tempered, vicious, and vindictive. He was cruel to everyone, from his wife and servants to his dogs. The only creatures I ever saw him treat with any restraint and affection were his horses. As a child, I soon learned to avoid him whenever possible.”
“How did he get along with his brother Francis?” Sebastian asked again.
“Bishop Prescott was the youngest of five brothers and two sisters, with Sir Nigel the eldest. Given the large difference in the two men’s ages, I doubt there was much interaction between them.”
“But that would have changed, surely, when Francis Prescott took up the living at St. Margaret’s?”
“I suppose.” They had completed their circumambulation of the pond. The Chaplain glanced up at the crepe- hung facade of London House. “I wish I could help you more. But it was all so long ago.”
Sebastian nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been a tremendous help.” He turned toward where Tom was waiting with the horses, then paused to look back and say, “Did the Bishop ever talk much about his time at St. Margaret’s?”
“No. To be honest, I can’t recall ever having heard him mention it. I suppose that’s why I didn’t make the connection sooner.”
“You don’t find that unusual?”
The Chaplain frowned. “That he didn’t talk about it, you mean? At the time, I didn’t. But now that I think about it?” He let out a long sigh that left him looking suddenly older than his years, and considerably more likable. “It’s worrisome, yes. Very worrisome.”
Chapter 21
Sounds pretty simple to me,” said Gibson, his head bowed as he worked to carve a slice of meat from the serving of pork ribs on the table before him. “The Bishop obviously murdered his brother, then bricked up the crypt to hide the body.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” agreed Sebastian, leaning back in his seat. They’d come here, to an old inn near the Irishman’s surgery on Tower Hill, so that Gibson could grab something to eat. Sebastian wasn’t hungry. “By all accounts, Sir Nigel was unpleasant enough to provoke even a saint to murder. And while the Bishop might have been a far more pleasant individual than his brother, he doesn’t exactly sound even-tempered himself.”
Gibson glanced up. “Yet you’re not convinced. Why?”
“There are other possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“That Sir Nigel met with foul play on Hounslow Heath after all, and his killer shifted the body to the crypt to hide it, knowing the crypt was about to be sealed.”
Gibson’s brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. “Sounds like a risky thing to have done, if you ask me. There are nasty penalties for those caught lugging bodies around churchyards in the dark.”
“True. But those types are generally taking bodies
The surgeon gave a soft laugh. “Still. What if the workmen had decided to take one last look around the crypt before brick ing it up? The body would have been found thirty years ago.”
“At which point suspicion would have fallen on the priest in residence—namely Sir Nigel’s brother. Actually, when you think about it, it would have been a clever way for someone with a grudge against the Prescotts to get back at
“Except that the body wasn’t found.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“The problem with that scenario,” said Gibson, working on his pork with a surgeon’s thoroughness, “is that Sir Nigel was a big man—not an easy burden to shift when you’re dealing with a deadweight. If you ask me, he was killed in that crypt.”
Sebastian watched his friend’s flawless dissection of his pork ribs with something approaching awe. “Two men could have lifted the body. Two strong men.”
“They could have,” Gibson acknowledged.
