Hendon’s suspicious frown deepened. “The last I heard, Archbishop Moore was essentially at death’s door. Why, Jarvis is already maneuvering to line up the man’s replacement.”
“Well, ’e don’t look none too ’ale, that’s fer sure,” agreed Tom. “But I reckon that’s to be expected, given what’s ’appened.”
“What has happened?” said Sebastian.
“Why, someone’s done gone and murdered the Bishop of London. Last night, in the crypt o’ some church near ’Ounslow ’Eath!”
Chapter 3
In addition to a modest estate in Hampshire bequeathed him by a maiden great-aunt, Sebastian also kept an elegant little bow-fronted townhouse in Brook Street. His long-suffering majordomo, Morey, met him at the door with a grave bow. “The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Duchess of Claiborne are here to see you, my lord. In the drawing room.”
“Good God.” Sebastian handed the majordomo his riding crop, hat, and gloves. “It’s true then.”
Morey bowed again. “Yes, my lord. I took the liberty of offering to send up tea, but her ladyship refused.”
Sebastian climbed the stairs to the first floor two at a time to find his aunt Henrietta—a vision in purple silk and a towering turban—ensconced in one of the delicate chairs beside the drawing room’s bowed front window. A gray-haired, skeletally thin cleric with the pallid complexion of a man in the final stages of consumption sat opposite her. They were great old friends, his aunt and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Sebastian knew the Archbishop’s long illness and approaching death had caused her considerable distress.
“My apologies for coming to you in all my dirt,” said Sebastian, “but I understand the reason for your visit is urgent.”
Archbishop John Moore held out a thin, blue-veined hand that trembled visibly. “And I am sorry if we forced you to curtail your morning ride. You’ll excuse me if I do not stand.”
Sebastian bowed low over the Archbishop’s frail hand, then turned to kiss his aunt’s cheek. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“I’ve had all the tea I want this morning,” said Aunt Henrietta with an inelegant grunt. “What I need is brandy.”
Five years Hendon’s senior, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was one of the grand old dames of society. As solidly built as her brother, she had Hendon’s broad, fleshy face and the fiercely blue St. Cyr eyes. But she was looking decidedly drawn this morning, and it occurred to Sebastian that she was abroad so early because she’d yet to make it to her bed.
“You do have brandy, don’t you?” she said sharply when he hesitated.
Sebastian cast an inquiring eye toward Archbishop Moore.
“Brandy sounds like a marvelous idea,” said the Archbishop with a shaky smile.
Sebastian moved to the decanter kept on a side table near the hearth. “Brandy it is.”
“I assume by now you’ve heard of the death of the Bishop of London?” said Henrietta.
“Only moments ago.”
The Archbishop cleared his throat. “It appears someone bashed in his skull last night in the crypt of St. Margaret’s, in Tanfield Hill.”
Sebastian splashed brandy into three glasses and wondered what any of this had to do with him.
“The crypt has been shut up for decades,” said the Archbishop as Sebastian handed him a glass. “I gather the odors from the place had begun to interfere with the use of the church and raised concerns about disease. The decision was made to wall it off.”
Personally, Sebastian had always found the practice of stacking coffins in open crypts bizarre to the point of being barbaric, but he kept that observation to himself. He handed his aunt her brandy and said, “If the crypt was shut up, then what was the Bishop doing down there?”
“Some workmen accidentally broke through the bricked-up entrance yesterday and made an unpleasant discovery,” said the Archbishop. “Due to the potential for scandal, the Reverend thought it best to involve Bishop Prescott right away.”
Sebastian went to lean against the mantelpiece. “Scandal? Why?”
“Because of the body.”
Sebastian paused with his glass raised halfway to his lips. “The body?”
“The dead body in the crypt,” said his aunt, as if he were being deliberately obtuse.
Sebastian took a sip of his brandy and shuddered. He had something of a reputation for hard drinking and wild living, but half past seven in the morning was a little early to be drinking brandy, even for Sebastian. “I should imagine there are any number of dead bodies in the crypt of St. Margaret’s. It dates from—what? The twelfth century?”
“Actually, the crypt is even older than the church,” said the Archbishop. “It dates back to Anglo-Saxon times.”
“So, hundreds of bodies,” said Sebastian. “If not a thousand or more.”
Henrietta leaned forward, her brandy held delicately aloft in one hand. “The body the workmen discovered was not one of the burials, Sebastian. The man was obviously murdered down there.” She lowered her voice. “At some point before the crypt was sealed. He was found sprawled on the floor behind one of the columns.
Sebastian glanced from his aunt to the Archbishop beside her. “Excuse me, Your Grace, but . . . Why are you here, telling me this?”
“You know perfectly well why we’re here, Sebastian,” snapped his aunt. “We’re here because the Archbishop wants you to solve the murders.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she echoed indignantly. “What do you mean, why? Because you’re good at it, of course.”
Sebastian stood perfectly still. He’d been afraid this was coming. “I can understand that the local magistrate might find the matter overwhelming, but I should think Bow Street more than capable of dealing with the case.”
The Archbishop cleared his throat again. “I have already discussed the situation with Bow Street. Sir Henry Lovejoy concurs with my decision to bring you into the investigation. Bow Street is all well and good when it comes to dealing with the murder of a shopkeeper or merchant. But they simply don’t have the capability of handling an incident at this level of society, and they know it.”
Pushing away from the hearth, Sebastian went to stand beside the window overlooking the street below. It was true that in the last year and a half he’d found himself drawn into a number of murder investigations. Yet those murders had touched him personally in some way, or had involved victims who were otherwise unlikely to find justice. And each case had peeled another layer off his soul.
He said, “The last time I participated in a murder investigation, something like a dozen people ended up dead.”
“I can understand your reluctance to be drawn into this,” said the Archbishop in his soothing, father- confessor voice.
Did he? Sebastian wondered. Did he have any idea of the passions that swirled around murder? The secrets and lies, the rage and despair?
The Archbishop’s watery gray eyes narrowed. The man might be old and ill, but no one rose to become the most powerful churchman in all of England without being both intelligent and very, very astute. “Yet I wonder if you understand how critical it is to the well-being of the nation that this murder be solved, and solved quickly?”
When Sebastian kept silent, Moore continued. “It’s no secret that my days are numbered. The process is already under way to select my successor, which is as it should be. A lengthy hiatus in these situations is best avoided. As it happens, Bishop Prescott was a strong contender for the position. In fact, he was my personal favorite.”
