“Lord Devlin,” said the aging exquisite, resplendent in a silk evening cape and chapeau bras. “If you’ve come to join in the fleecing of this poor repentant sinner, you’re too late. I’ve decided to retire for the evening while my estates are still unencumbered.”
There was a chorus of good-natured ribaldry from his friends. Sebastian said, “Bad round of luck at the tables?”
“Let’s just say, not the kind I care to continue.” Quillian cast a critical eye toward the night sky. “This dreadful rain has finally ceased, has it?”
“So it seems.”
“Good. Walk with me a ways, my lord?”
“You find yourself suddenly inspired by a desire for my company, do you?” said Sebastian as the two men left the club.
Quillian swung his ebony walking stick back and forth between two limp fingers. “Hardly. But I am curious to hear how the investigation into the murder of Bishop Prescott is progressing.”
“Really? And what is your interest in the matter?”
Quillian sniffed. “I know perfectly well I have been identified as a suspect. I’m hoping to hear you’ve begun to focus your inquiries elsewhere.”
“Quite the opposite, actually.”
Quillian’s hand tightened on the silver head of his walking stick, freezing it in midswing. “And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve discovered the identity of the mysterious benefactor who was funding Reverend Earnshaw’s construction work on the church of St. Margaret’s.”
“Oh. That.” Quillian twirled his walking stick in a graceful arc that set it once more to swinging back and forth.
“Yes. That.”
They continued in silence for a moment, their footfalls echoing in the dark, wet street. Sebastian said, “It does rather beg the question:
“I suppose it does, doesn’t it?”
Sebastian gave a soft laugh. “I take it you knew Sir Nigel had been murdered in the crypt of St. Margaret’s and left there to molder all these years?”
“Knew it? Hardly. But I had developed a theory, yes.”
“You think Francis Prescott killed his own brother for the inheritance? An inheritance he then lost when his nephew was born?”
“It seems the obvious conclusion.” Quillian glanced sideways at him. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Quillian grunted and kept walking.
Sebastian said, “What were you hoping to accomplish?”
“I should think that would be rather obvious. If I were correct—if Sir Nigel’s moldering body was lying in that crypt—then suspicion would naturally fall upon the priest responsible for sealing off the crypt in the first place.”
“Bishop Prescott.”
“Bishop Prescott,” agreed the Baron.
“The idea being to keep the Bishop so busy defending himself against the ensuing accusations of fratricide that he would have no time to continue pushing his Slavery Abolition Act through Parliament?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Seems a bit of a long shot.”
A tight smile split the aging exquisite’s face. “I am a gambler.”
Sebastian said, “True. Although it occurs to me that the odds would shorten considerably if you knew for certain that Sir Nigel was indeed moldering down in that crypt.”
“I hardly see how I could have known that. Unless, of course, you’re suggesting I killed Sir Nigel and left him there myself?” Quillian pulled a face. “It’s an interesting theory; I’ll give you that.” He walked on a few paces, then said, “The thing is, I had no reason to kill Sir Nigel. I barely knew the man. Dreadful bad ton, you know.”
“You were both members of the Hellfire Club, were you not?”
The exquisite’s eyes narrowed. “My dear lord Devlin, the Hellfire Club was hardly exclusive. It counted
“Not in its inner circle. What were they called?”
“The Apostles,” said Quillian. He sighed. “Much as it pains me to admit it, the truth is that I myself was not actually a member of that exclusive inner circle. At the time, I was but a poor second son just a few years down from Oxford and struggling to make my way in the world.”
“Really? Doing what?”
Lord Quillian drew up beside a couple of lounging sedan-chair bearers who immediately scrambled to their poles. “Oh, this and that,” he said, waving one white-gloved hand through the air in a vague gesture. “Now I fear I find I have exceeded my tolerance for the night air.” His walking stick clenched in one fist, he stepped nimbly into the chair. “Good evening to you, my lord.”
A cool gust of wind fluttered the lapels of Sebastian’s evening coat and buffeted him with the odors of the city, the pungent scents of wet paving and hot lamp oil mixing with a faint, inescapable whiff of sewage. He stood for a moment watching the sedan-chair bearers heft their burden and start off at a trot.
Then he turned toward Brook Street, his solitary footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night.
TUESDAY, 14 JULY 1812
The next morning, Hero was in the library, surrounded by piles of books and papers, when her father walked in the door.
“Good God. At it again, are you?” He picked up a bound copy of dispatches and frowned. “What’s this?”
She set aside her pen. “I’m compiling a list of all the men who were in the Foreign Office or close to the King thirty years ago.”
Jarvis’s eyes narrowed with amusement. “Looking for Alcibiades, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Think he murdered your Bishop, as well as the Bishop’s brother?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Really? I think he’s dead.”
“Because you never found him?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you think Francis Prescott was murdered in the same crypt as his brother?”
“Maybe someone has a sense of humor.”
“I don’t see anything the least bit funny about it,” said Hero indignantly.
Jarvis frowned. “I know. That’s what worries me.”
Sebastian was looking over a report from his estate agent when a polite knock sounded at his front door. The day had dawned fine and clear, and he’d thrown open the windows to a warm breeze and the scent of fresh bread baking in the shop down the street. He heard a murmur of voices in the entry, and a moment later Morey ushered Sir Henry Lovejoy into his presence.
“Sir Henry,” said Sebastian, rising to his feet. “An unexpected pleasure. Please have a seat.”
His round hat gripped tightly in both hands, the little magistrate gave a jerky bow and cleared his throat. “Thank you, but no. I can’t stay long.”
Sebastian watched Sir Henry reach into an inner pocket and withdraw a packet of worn, yellowing papers. And he knew, from the little magistrate’s somber demeanor, that his world was about to change forever.
“I visited the Board of Trade yesterday,” said Sir Henry. “No ship named the
