normally held a burial’s jaw closed, his mouth had fallen open in a gaping, hideous yowl, but where once had been eyes were now strange, paperlike wisps.
“Old fly pupae,” said Gibson, when Sebastian looked up in question.
Sebastian cleared his throat and overcame the urge to draw the covering back up over that horror. “I understand this one was stabbed in the back with a dagger?”
“That’s right.” Gibson limped over to retrieve an object from the bench and held it out. “This.”
The blacked blade was long and thin, cast in one piece with the handle, then hammer-forged to produce a diamond blade cross-sectioned without any sharpened edges. A stabbing weapon, it was designed not to cut, but to penetrate deeply.
“A fine weapon,” said Sebastian, running his thumb along the delicate floral scroll of acanthus leaves and flowers that decorated the handle. “Renaissance, perhaps?”
“I’d say so, yes. Italian.”
Sebastian brought his gaze back to the withered cadaver at their feet. “What I want to know is, what the hell was our gentleman in velvet and lace doing down in that crypt in the first place?”
“I don’t know. But whatever it was, he obviously wasn’t alone.”
Chapter 8
After allowing his awed tiger a suitable amount of time to gape at the mummified corpse in Gibson’s dissection room, Sebastian drove to St. James’s Square, where a vast mansion known as London House served as both the London residence and the official chambers of the Bishop of London. A thick layer of straw had already been laid on the street outside of Number 32; the blinds were drawn at all the windows, and every opening had been hung with black crepe. When Sebastian rang the heavy iron bell, a sepulchral-looking servant ushered him into a darkened entry.
A hushed voice behind him said, “Lord Devlin, I take it?”
Sebastian turned to find a lean, flaxen-haired cleric regarding him from the doorway of the small chapel that lay just to the right of the entrance. “Yes.”
The cleric stepped forward in a waft of incense. “I am Dr. Simon Ashley, the Bishop’s chaplain. The Archbishop has asked me to render you whatever assistance is necessary to expedite your endeavors to make sense of this dreadful tragedy.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian.
The Chaplain laced his fingers together and bowed. Somewhere in his late thirties or early forties, he had a fine-boned, delicate face and the pale complexion of a man whose life was lived indoors. To the uninitiated, the position of chaplain might seem a lowly office. It was not. Bishop Prescott had once served as chaplain to the Bishop of Winchester, while the current Archbishop of Canterbury had been chaplain to the Bishop of Durham. Serving as a Bishop’s chaplain was an important step up the ecclesiastical ladder.
“I assume you’ll wish to begin with—” The Chaplain broke off, his thin nose twitching.
“It’s the crypt,” said Sebastian, letting his gaze drift around the entry with its gleaming marble floors, its soaring wall panels, its rows of heavy oils framed in gilt and hung with more black crepe. Yards and yards of black crepe. “I’m told the odor lingers.”
“Yes, well . . .” The Chaplain cleared his throat and ges tured with one hand toward the stairs. “The Bishop’s official chambers are this way. If you’ll come with me?”
Sebastian followed the black-robed man up the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the vast house. “The Bishop was here yesterday?”
“Most of the day, yes,” said the Chaplain, pausing on the first floor to throw open the doors to a set of apartments to the left of the stairs. “He had a number of appointments. We weren’t scheduled to move to Lambeth Palace—the Bishop’s summer residence—for another fortnight.”
These rooms, like those below, were in shadow, the blinds drawn fast. But Sebastian’s eyes were unusually well adapted to the dark. Pausing just inside the entrance, he let his gaze wander over the wainscoted anteroom, its gilded, velvet-covered benches and unlit branches of wax candles in gleaming brass sconces. Beyond the anteroom lay a second, smaller chamber with a broad desk. Sebastian had taken two steps toward it when the Chaplain cleared his throat again.
“You’ll understand, of course, that ecclesiastical affairs are often of a, shall we say,
Sebastian looked around. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, the Archbishop has delegated to me the task of going through the Bishop’s papers. I can assure you that if I find anything that appears relevant to his death, I will of course pass it on to you.”
“In other words, the Archbishop would rather I refrain from rifling through the Bishop’s drawers? Is that what you’re saying?”
The Chaplain gave a nervous titter, but didn’t contradict him.
Sebastian wandered the rooms, his hands clasped behind his back. The Chaplain trailed at a distance of six or seven feet, a handkerchief pressed surreptitiously to his nose. But there was little enough for Sebastian to see. As an administrator, Prescott had obviously possessed a passion for neatness; the surface of his desk was clean and polished, every drawer carefully closed. If the Bishop had any skeletons in his life, he’d kept them tucked away, out of sight.
“What about the Bishop’s private apartments?” said Sebastian.
“They’re upstairs. This way.”
The Bishop’s private chambers on the second floor were more relaxed and informal, for it was here that Prescott had passed his leisure hours. A riding quirt and a pair of gloves rested beside a snuffbox on the gleaming surface of the inlaid round table at the center of the room, as if their owner had just stepped out and would return in a moment. Near the hearth, a book lay open across the arm of an overstuffed chair. Sebastian glanced at the title.
He turned in a slow circle. Most of the walls not taken up with windows were covered by vast floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Running his gaze over the titles, he was surprised to see the works of Cicero and Aristotle, Plato and Seneca, nestled beside the more predictable volumes on Aquinas and Augustine.
“An interesting collection,” said Sebastian.
“The Bishop began his career as a classics scholar at Christ’s College, in Cambridge.”
“He had no family?”
“A nephew only. His wife passed away some eight or nine years ago. There were never any children.”
“Was he close to his nephew?”
“Very. Sir Peter was like a son to him.”
Sebastian swung around to look back at the Chaplain. “The Bishop’s nephew is Sir Peter Prescott?”
“That’s right. You know him?”
“We were at Eton together.” Sebastian remembered Sir Peter Prescott as an ebullient, good-natured boy with ruddy cheeks and a ready laugh that hid a quiet streak of mule-headed obstinacy. Aloud, he said, “At exactly what time did Reverend Earnshaw reach London with news of the discovery in the crypt?”
“Reverend Earnshaw arrived shortly after five. But as he was closeted with the Bishop in private, the details of his conversation with the Bishop were unknown to us.” The Chaplain’s thin nose quivered with indignation at what he obviously considered a personal slight. “Even when the Bishop ordered his carriage for later that evening, he remained uncharacteristically secretive as to the exact nature of his errand.”
Sebastian frowned. “When did Earnshaw leave?”
“Some twenty minutes after his arrival.”
“Yet the Bishop himself didn’t set out for Tanfield Hill until—what? Seven?” Tanfield Hill lay an hour’s drive to the west of London. “Why the delay?”
The Chaplain sniffed. “Again, the Bishop did not take me into his confidence. I do know he had an important appointment scheduled for six. Presumably, he was reluctant to cancel it.”
There was a simple opening cut into the wall beside the hearth. Going to stand in the doorway, Sebastian
