When Maidens Mourn (11 page)

“You don’t sound so certain.”

Tennyson stared down at the glass in his hand. “Gabrielle was
always a very private person. Lately I’ve had the sense that our lives were diverging. But I suppose that’s inevitable.”

Sebastian went to stand beside the cold hearth, one arm resting along the mantel. “Do you know if she had any romantic connections?”

“Gabrielle?” Tennyson shook his head. “No. She’s never had any interest in marriage. I remember once when I was up at Cambridge and very full of myself, I warned her that if she didn’t get her nose out of books no man would ever want to marry her. She laughed and said that suited her just fine—that a husband would only get in the way of her studies.”

“So you wouldn’t happen to know the name of a French lieutenant she had befriended?”

“A Frenchman? You mean an émigré?”

“No. I mean a paroled French officer. She never mentioned such a man?”

Tennyson stared at him blankly. “Good heavens. No. Are you suggesting she was somehow involved with this person?”

Sebastian took a slow sip of his own brandy. “I don’t know.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“That’s very possible.”

Tennyson scrubbed a hand over his eyes and down his face. When he looked up, his features were contorted with agony. “Who could do something like this? To kill a woman and two children…”

“Your young cousins may still be alive,” said Sebastian. “We don’t know yet.”

Tennyson nodded, his entire upper body rocking back and forth with the motion. “Yes, yes; I keep trying to cling to that, but…” He raised his glass to drink, his hand shaking badly, and Sebastian thought that the man looked stretched to the breaking point.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wished either your sister or the children harm?”

“No. Why would anyone want to hurt a woman like Gabrielle—or two little boys?”

“Some enemy of the boys’ father, perhaps?”

Tennyson considered this, then shook his head. “My cousin is a simple clergyman in Lincolnshire. I’d be surprised if he knows anyone in London.”

Hero said, “Would you mind if I were to have a look at Gabrielle’s research materials, on the off chance there might be some connection between her death and her work at Camlet Moat? I could come to the Adelphi myself in the morning.”

He frowned, as if the possible relevance of his sister’s scholarship to her death escaped him. “Of course; if you wish. I’ll be leaving for Enfield at first light, but I’ll direct the servants to provide you with any assistance you may require. You can box it all up and simply take it, if that would help.”

“It would, yes. Thank you.”

Tennyson set aside his glass and rose to his feet with a bow. “You have both been most kind. Please don’t bother ringing; I can see myself out.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” said Sebastian, aware of Hero’s narrowed gaze following them as they left the room.

“It occurs to me there may be something else you felt reluctant to mention in front of Lady Devlin,” Sebastian said as they descended the stairs.

Tennyson looked vaguely confused. “No, nothing.”

“Any possibility someone could be seeking to hurt you by striking at those you love?”

“I can’t think of anyone,” he said slowly as they reached the ground hall. “Although in my profession one never—” He broke off, his eyes widening. “Merciful heavens. Emily.”

“Emily?” said Sebastian.

A faint suggestion of color touched the barrister’s pale cheeks. “Miss Emily Goodwin—the daughter of one of my colleagues. She
has recently done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife, although the death of her paternal grandmother has perforce delayed the formal announcement of our betrothal.”

“You may count on my discretion.”

“Yes, but do you think she could be in danger?”

“I see no reason to alarm her unnecessarily, especially given that the particulars of your betrothal are not known.” Sebastian nodded to Morey, who opened the front door. “But it might be a good idea to suggest that she take care.”

“I will, yes; thank you.”

Sebastian stood in the open doorway and watched the man hurry away into the hot night. Then he went back upstairs to his wife.

“And what precisely was that about?” she asked, one eyebrow raised, as he walked into the room.

Sebastian found himself smiling. “I thought there might be something he was reluctant to discuss in front of such a delicate lady as yourself.”

“Really. And was there?”

“No. Only that it seems he’s formed an attachment to some Miss Goodwin, the daughter of one of his colleagues, and now he’s hysterical with the fear that his sister’s killer might strike against her next. I suspect it’s a fear shared by virtually every father, husband, and brother out there.”

“You think it’s possible Gabrielle’s death could have something to do with her brother’s legal affairs?”

“At this point, almost anything seems possible.”

Tom squinted down at Hero’s map, his lips pursing as he traced the dotted line of London’s old Roman walls, which she had superimposed on her sketch of the city’s modern streets.

“Can you follow it?” asked Sebastian, watching him. He knew
that someone at some point had taught Tom to read, before the death of the boy’s father had driven the family into desperation.

“Aye. I think maybe I even know the place yer lookin’ for. There’s a tavern called the Black Devil about ’ere—” He tapped one slightly grubby finger just off Bishopsgate. “It’s owned by a fellow named Jamie Knox.”

Sebastian looked at his tiger in surprise. “You know him?”

Tom shook his head. “Never seen the fellow meself. But I’ve ’eard tales o’ him. ’E’s a weery rum customer. A weery rum customer indeed. They say ’e dresses all in black, like the devil.”

“A somewhat dramatic affectation.” It wasn’t unusual for gentlemen in formal evening dress to wear a black coat and black knee breeches. But the severity of the attire was always leavened by a white waistcoat, white silk stockings, and of course a white cravat.

“Not sure what that means,” said Tom, “but I do know folks say ’e musta sold ’is soul to the devil, for ’e’s got the devil’s own luck. They say ’e ’as the reflexes of a cat.
And
the eyes and ears of—”

“What?” prodded Sebastian when the boy broke off.

Tom swallowed. “They say ’e ’as the eyes and ears of a cat, too. Yellow eyes.”

T
he Black Devil lay in a narrow cobbled lane just off Bishopsgate.

Sebastian walked down gloomy streets lit haphazardly by an occasional sputtering oil lamp or flaring torch thrust into a sconce high on an ancient wall. The houses here dated back to the time of the Tudors and the Stuarts, for this was a part of London that had escaped the ravages of the Great Fire. Once home to courtiers attached to the court of James I, the area had been in a long downward slide for the past century. The elaborately carved fronts overhanging the paving were sagging and worn; the great twisting chimneys leaned precariously as they poked up into the murky night sky.

By day, this was a district of small tradesmen: leather workers and chandlers, clock makers and tailors. But now the shops were all shuttered for the night, the streets given over to the patrons of the grog shops and taverns that spilled golden rectangles of light and boisterous laughter into the night.

He paused across the street from the Black Devil, in the
shadows cast by the deep doorway of a calico printer’s shop. He let his gaze rove over the public house’s gable-ended facade and old-fashioned, diamond-paned windows. Suspended from a beam over the door hung a cracked wooden sign painted with the image of a horned black devil, his yellow-eyed head and barbed tail silhouetted against a roaring orange and red fire. As Sebastian watched, the sign creaked softly on its chains, touched by an unexpected gust of hot wind.

Crossing the narrow lane, he pushed through the door into a noisy, low-ceilinged public room with a sunken stone-flagged floor and oak-paneled walls turned black by centuries of smoke. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and ale and unwashed, hardworking male bodies. The men crowded up to the bar and clustered around the tables glanced over at him, then went back to their pints and their bonesticks and their draughts.

“Help ye, there?” called a young woman from behind the bar, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing with shrewd appraisal. She looked to be somewhere in her early twenties, dark haired and winsome, with a wide red mouth and soft white breasts that swelled voluptuously above the low-cut bodice of her crimson satin gown.

Sebastian pushed his way through the crowd to stand half turned so that he still faced the room. In this gathering of tradesmen and laborers, costermongers and petty thieves, his doeskin breeches, clean white cravat, and exquisitely tailored coat of Bath superfine all marked him as a creature from another world. The other men at the bar shifted subtly, clearing a space around him.

“A go of Cork,” he said, then waited until she set the measure of gin on the boards in front of him to add, “I’m looking for Jamie Knox; is he here?”

The woman behind the bar wiped her hands on the apron tied high around her waist, but her gaze never left his face. “And who might ye be, then?”

“Devlin. Viscount Devlin.”

She stood for a moment with her hands still wrapped in the cloth of her apron. Then she jerked her head toward the rear. “He’s out the back, unloading a delivery. There’s an alley runs along the side of the tavern. The court opens off that.”

Sebastian laid a coin on the scarred surface of the bar. “Thank you.”

The alley was dark and ripe with the stench of rotting offal and fish heads and urine. The ancient walls looming high above him on either side bulged out ominously, so that someone had put in stout timber braces to keep the masonry from collapsing. As he drew nearer, he realized the tavern backed onto the churchyard of St. Helen’s Bishopsgate, a relic of a now-vanished priory of Benedictine nuns. He could see the church’s ancient wooden tower rising over a swelling burial ground where great elms moaned softly with the growing wind.

He paused just outside the entrance to the tavern yard. The courtyard looked to be even older than the tavern itself, its cobbles undulating and sunken, with one unexpectedly high wall of coursed flint blocks bonded with rows of red tile. Sebastian could understand why a woman with Gabrielle Tennyson’s interests would find the site fascinating.

Someone had set a horn lantern atop an old flat stone beside a mule-drawn cart filled with hogsheads. The mules stood with their heads down, feet splayed. At the rear of the tavern the wooden flaps of the cellar had been thrown open to reveal a worn flight of stone steps that disappeared downward. As Sebastian watched, the grizzled head and husky shoulders of a man appeared, his footfalls echoing in the wind-tossed night.

Sebastian leaned against the stone jamb of the gateway. He had one hand in his pocket, where a small double-barreled pistol, primed and loaded, partially spoiled the line of his fashionable coat. A sheath in his boot concealed the dagger he was rarely
without. He waited until the man had crossed to the cart, then said, “Mr. Jamie Knox?”

The man froze with his hands grasping a cask, his head turning toward the sound of Sebastian’s voice. He appeared wary but not surprised, and it occurred to Sebastian that the comely young woman behind the bar must have run to warn her master to expect a visitor. “Aye. And who might ye be?”

“Devlin. Lord Devlin.”

The man sniffed. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he had a compact, muscular body that belied the heavy sprinkling of gray in this thick, curly head of hair. Far from being dressed all in black, he wore buff-colored trousers and a brown coat that looked in serious need of a good brushing and mending. His face was broad and sun darkened, with a long scar that ran down one cheek. Sebastian had seen scars like that before, left by a saber slash.

The man paused for only an instant. Then he hefted the hogshead and headed back to the stairs. “I’m a busy man. What ye want?”

The accent surprised Sebastian; it was West Country rather than London or Middlesex. He said, “I understand you knew a woman named Miss Tennyson.”

The man grunted. “Met her. Came sniffin’ around here a while back, she did, prattlin’ about Roman walls and pictures made of little colored bits and a bunch of other nonsense. Why ye ask?”

“She’s dead.”

“Aye. So we heard.” The man disappeared down the cellar steps.

Sebastian waited until he reemerged. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“I told ye, ’twere a while back. Two, maybe three months ago.”

“That’s curious. You see, someone saw you speaking to her just a few days ago. Last Thursday, to be precise. At the York Steps.”

The man grasped another hogshead and turned back toward
the cellar. “Who’er told ye that didn’t know what he was talkin’ about.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

The man grunted and started down the steep stairs again. He was breathing heavily by the time he came back up. He paused to lean against the cellar door and swipe his sweaty forehead against the shoulder of his coat.