What Remains of Heaven

Hendon sighed. “Yorktown was undeniably a turning point. The King remained resolute, but the surrender of Cornwallis emboldened the peace party in Parliament to move against His Majesty’s Prime Minister, Lord North. In the end, it was actually North who convinced the King to send a delegation to America, to evaluate the situation at first hand—and, if possible, to open channels to the members of the Confederation Congress, urging them to accept some form of dominion status, with a separate parliament loyal to a common king.”

“Why the three of you—you, Sir Nigel, and Jarvis?”

Hendon shrugged. “We were young, and willing and able to undertake what was potentially a dangerous voyage. I was in the Lords, Prescott was a powerful voice in the Commons, and Jarvis . . . Jarvis has always been the King’s man.”

“How long were you there?”

“Not long. In the end, our mission was overtaken by events here in London. Shortly after our departure, the House of Commons voted against continuing to fund the war, North’s government fell, and Parliament empowered the King to negotiate for peace.”

“So what did you do?”

“When word reached us in the Colonies in May, we wound up our affairs and sailed for home the following month. As I remember it, Sir Nigel was particularly furious about the vote in the Commons. He was convinced the rebellion could still be put down if the King could only prevail upon Parliament to devote the necessary funding to the cause.”

“And you?”

Hendon sighed. “You know my opinion of Republican principles and radical philosophies. Before we left for America, I would have told you the rebellion had to be put down at any cost, that the very future of civilization depended on it. But . . .” His voice trailed off.

“But?” prompted Sebastian.

Hendon worked his jaw back and forth. “I wasn’t in the Colonies a fortnight before I came to the conclusion that any continued attempt to subdue the Americans by military force was futile. It’s my opinion that we could have kept troops in America for a hundred years, and we still wouldn’t have defeated the insurgency.”

The sun had come out, throwing splotches of light and shade across the path and surrounding grass as they turned to walk beneath a row of elms. Sebastian studied his father’s aged, troubled face. “And Jarvis? What was his opinion of the situation?”

Hendon shrugged. “Whatever his conclusions, Lord Jarvis kept his views to himself.”

They walked along in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Sebastian said, “The three of you arrived back in England in June?”

“July. We sailed from New York at the beginning of June. The passage took six weeks.”

“You’re certain it was July?”

Hendon snorted. “It’s not a voyage I’m likely to forget. The ship was dreadfully crowded with dozens of Loyalists fleeing the persecution of their countrymen, poor devils. There was one woman on board who’d watched her husband and fifteen-year-old son stripped, tarred and feathered, and then scalped, right before her very eyes. As for what the rebels did to the woman herself . . . Well, let’s just say it was enough to make me reconsider the wisdom and righteousness of abandoning so many of the King’s faithful subjects to the brutal rule of the mob.”

“The Loyalists on board were from New York?”

“Some. Others were from Massachusetts and Vermont. We even had the King’s former Governor of New Jersey aboard. I remember him particularly because he quarreled so violently with Sir Nigel.”

I once shared a voyage with your father, William Franklin had said. Sebastian’s step faltered. “Are you telling me William Franklin was on the ship with you and Sir Nigel?”

“That’s right. Benjamin Franklin’s son.”

Chapter 24

Hero Jarvis learned of the identification of Sir Nigel Prescott’s mummified remains in the same way as the rest of London: She read about it in the Morning Post. When she and her mother set off after nuncheon on a round of morning visits (amongst those of a certain class, morning visits, like breakfasts, were always held in the afternoon), they discovered that conversation in the drawing rooms of Mayfair revolved around little else.

“Sir Nigel?” said Lady Jarvis to their hostess. “Why, I remember when he disappeared.”

Hero looked at her mother in surprise. “You do?”

“Oh, yes,” said Lady Jarvis as her friend turned away to greet a new arrival. “It was right after he returned from that dreadful mission to the Colonies with your father and Lord Hendon.”

Hero set her teacup down with enough force to rattle it dangerously. “What? ”

“Mmm, yes.” Lady Jarvis lowered her voice. “There was quite a stir at the time in government circles. Seems Sir Nigel had discovered evidence of treason, in the form of letters written by someone styling himself ‘Alcibiades.’ The letters disappeared with Sir Nigel. It was all most mysterious. Not that your father told me about any of it, of course. But I overheard him talking to Lord North.”

Having chafed impatiently through the remainder of their social visits, Hero hurried home to find her father preparing to set forth for his clubs. “Your mission with Sir Nigel to the American Colonies,” she said, coming upon him in the library. “Tell me about it.”

Jarvis looked up from organizing some papers. “Wherever did you hear about that?”

“The whole town is talking about the discovery of Sir Nigel’s body,” she said vaguely.

Jarvis locked his papers in a desk drawer and straightened. “There’s not much to tell, really,” he said, and proceeded to give her a succinct rundown.

Listening to him, she found herself wondering, inevitably, what he was leaving out. She asked, “You never discovered the identity of this ‘Alcibiades’?”

“No.” He went to splash brandy in a glass. “What are you thinking? That Sir Nigel was killed by the traitor?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“I suspect it’s more than possible.” He set aside the crystal brandy decanter.

“Or you could have killed him.”

“Really, Hero, I am not responsible for every dead body that turns up in London.”

She gave an inelegant harrumph.

Her father said, “Why are you now interesting yourself in Sir Nigel’s death?”

“Perhaps I like puzzles.”

He took a slow sip of his brandy, his gaze on her face. “No. That’s not it.” When she remained silent, he said, “Do you plan to make a habit of this?”

She turned toward the door. “A habit of what?”

“Involving yourself in murder.”

She looked back at him. “Would you find that more or less objectionable than my more radical projects?”

He pulled a face. “I’m really not certain.”

The aged American rested on a weathered bench in a slice of sunshine that cut down through the ancient yews and elms of the vast churchyard of St. Pancras. He sat hunched forward, both hands wrapped around the handle of the walking stick he held upright between his knees, his eyes closed as if in sleep.

Sebastian had followed him here, to the sprawling burial ground on the outskirts of the city, after a conversation with the old man’s granddaughter. When Sebastian settled on the other end of the bench, Mr. William Franklin grunted and said, without appearing to open his eyes, “I figured you’d be back.”

Sebastian let his gaze wander over the jumble of moss-covered, ancient tombstones and sunken earth. The