Who Buries the Dead (15 page)

“D
r. Sterling?
Dead?
” Anne Preston stared at Sebastian with parted lips, her nostrils pinched, her eyes wide with horror. If it was an act, it was a good one.

He had come upon her walking in the weak, fitful sunshine in her garden, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her head bowed as if she were lost in thought.

“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian. “Would you like to sit?”

“No,” she said, although he noticed the hand holding her shawl clenched into a tight fist, and her chest rose and fell jerkily with her agitated breathing. “He didn’t die naturally of old age, did he? Tell me truthfully,” she added when Sebastian hesitated.

“No.”

She swallowed, hard. “Did the killer cut off his head too?”

When Sebastian remained silent, she let out a soft moan and whispered, “Oh, dear God; he did, didn’t he?”

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to sit?” said Sebastian.

She shook her head fiercely.

“At least he died quickly,” said Sebastian, although the truth was, he had no idea how long the aged physician had taken to die. The answer to that question would presumably come from Paul Gibson’s postmortem.

They turned to walk together along a sunken, mossy brick path, the hem of her mourning gown brushing the plantings of lavender and rosemary beside them.

“He was a good man,” she said, her voice quivering. “I know he could seem cranky and irascible and opinionated. But beneath it all he was gentle and caring and . . . harmless. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“Did you see him last Sunday when he came to visit your father?”

“Only as he was leaving.”

“Do you know why he came?”

“No.” She kept her gaze fixed on the weathered wooden gazebo at the end of the path. “I asked Father if he was ill, but he said no. He said Dr. Sterling had only stopped by to talk about old times.”

“How did your father seem after the physician left?”

She looked over at him, her brows pinched together with confusion. “I’m sorry; I don’t understand.”

“Was he pleased to have visited with an old acquaintance? Or upset—perhaps even angry?”

She stared out over the ancient garden toward the new row houses of Sloane Street. “He did seem a bit . . . preoccupied. Even a bit angry. But I don’t know why.”

“He didn’t say anything—anything at all—that might indicate what the two men discussed?”

“No. But it was shortly after that he called for a hackney and went off for a few hours.”

“Did he do that often? Call for a hackney, I mean, rather than take his own carriage.”

“Sometimes, yes. Often, he’d simply walk into the City, if the weather wasn’t too bad.”

“He liked to walk?”

“Yes.”

“Did he often walk at night?”

“Oh, no; only as far as his pub.” A faint smile touched her lips, then faded into something sad and painful. “He was accosted by footpads once as a young man. And while London is considerably safer these days than it was in the last century, he still worried.”

It fit with what Knightly had told him. But it made Preston’s behavior that fatal night all the more troublesome. “You still can’t think of why he might have gone to Bloody Bridge that night?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Had he said anything to you about his plans to purchase several new items for his collection? Some Stuart relics?”

“No.” They’d reached the gazebo at the end of the path, and she turned toward him. “I’ve had the constables here again, asking about Captain Wyeth. They think Hugh did it, don’t they? They think he killed my father.”

“They certainly consider him a strong suspect, I’m afraid.”

“But I told you, Hugh would never have killed Father! Never.”

“Yet they did quarrel.”

She sucked in a quick breath. “Hugh told you about that, did he?”

“Yes.”

A faint hint of color touched her cheeks. “I . . . I’m sorry I tried to deceive you.”

She certainly looked contrite. Yet would she have admitted the deception had she not realized he’d learned the truth?

He doubted it.

He said, “Captain Wyeth also told me that you and he are considerably more than friends.”

Her chin came up before she could stop it, and Sebastian knew he’d read her right. She said, “We are, yes. But Father didn’t know that.” She gazed at him with wide, still eyes, as if she could somehow will Sebastian into believing her. “I swear it.”

He raised one eyebrow in polite incredulity. “You ‘swear’ it, Miss Preston?”

To his surprise, her lips trembled, and she turned away from him, her eyes blinking rapidly, one fist coming up to press against her mouth.

“Oh,
God
!” she said with a desperation he suspected was all too real. “You must believe me! Hugh did not do this!”

“It might be easier to believe you if you tried being a tad more honest.”

She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes swimming with unshed tears. “I’m sorry! It’s just . . . I’m terrified Hugh is going to hang for this. And he didn’t do it!”

So certain?
thought Sebastian. But all he said was, “I’m told your father swore he’d disinherit you if you married Captain Wyeth. Did he issue that threat to you?”

“He did. And I told him I didn’t care. I told him there’s more to life than wealth and a family’s position in society.”

“What was his response?”

Her eyes flashed with remembered wrath and indignation. “He said I was too young to know what I was talking about.”

“When was this?”

She wiped the heel of her hand across her wet eyes. “Saturday evening.”

“And then what happened?”

“He . . . left.”

“Is that when he went to confront Captain Wyeth?”

She nodded. “But Hugh didn’t kill him. You must believe me.” She sniffed rather loudly. “Hugh told you about Father’s quarrel with Basil Thistlewood over the Duke of Suffolk’s head, didn’t he?”

“He did, yes.”

“Did you speak to Thistlewood?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He says he didn’t kill your father.”

“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?” She leaned toward him earnestly. “It was not their first confrontation, you know. About a month or so ago, Thistlewood acquired a rosary supposedly made from some old saint’s bones. He was extraordinarily proud of it. Only, when Father inspected it, he challenged its authenticity. Thistlewood was furious—beyond furious. Swore if he heard Papa was going around telling people the thing was a fake, he’d kill him.”

“You mean the St. Anthony of Padua rosary Thistlewood has on display?”

“Yes; that’s it.”

“And what was your father’s reaction?”

“He laughed in Thistlewood’s face.”

“Yet this was, as you said, a month ago.”

“Yes. But don’t you see? If Thistlewood was already furious with Father because of the rosary and then realized Father had bested him over Suffolk’s head, it might well have driven him to murder.”

“Perhaps. Only, what possible reason would Thistlewood have to kill Dr. Douglas Sterling?”

She stared at him. It was obvious the question hadn’t occurred to her. “I don’t know! But Hugh had no reason to kill Dr. Sterling either.”

“So who did have a reason to kill both men?”

She pushed the short curls away from her forehead in an exasperated gesture. “I don’t know!”

Sebastian studied her pale, strained face, with its small, delicately molded nose and trembling mouth, and he knew an upsurge of frustration and irritation mingled with no small measure of sympathy.

Anne Preston was so desperate to convince him—and Bow Street—that Captain Hugh Wyeth did not kill her father, she’d say anything.

The problem was, Sebastian suspected she was even more desperate to convince herself.

S
ebastian knew he could in all likelihood discount the vast majority of what Anne Preston had told him. But on the off chance there was something to her accusations, he decided to pay another visit to Basil Thistlewood.

He found the curiosity collector in a lean-to workshop attached to the rear of his Cheyne Walk establishment, a leather apron tied over his old-fashioned clothes. A half-constructed display case stood on the workbench before him.

“Thought you’d be back,” said Thistlewood, looking up for only a moment before returning to his task.

Sebastian let his gaze wander around the surprisingly tidy space, with its rows of well-oiled tools and neat stacks of fine wood. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“Ain’t found Preston’s killer, have you?”

“No,” said Sebastian, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “You didn’t tell me you had another conflict with the man just a few weeks ago.”

Basil Thistlewood kept his focus on the thin strip of wood he was measuring. “You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone hereabouts that Preston didn’t have more than one run-in with. The man was opinionated and quick to take offense.”

Sebastian found himself smiling. In his observation, the description could be applied to Thistlewood as easily as Preston. “Tell me about the rosary.”

Thistlewood grunted and walked over to select another length of wood from his stack. “Always trying to show off, he was. Acting like he was the big expert because he went to Cambridge and I didn’t. I weren’t born yesterday, you know. Grew up in the business, I did.”

“Preston questioned the rosary’s authenticity?”

“He did. ’Cept he only decided it was questionable after I refused to sell it to him. If it weren’t authentic, then why’d he want to buy it from me? You answer me that.”

“I understand you were rather upset by his claims.”

“Course I was. Who wouldn’t be? Questioning my judgment and knowledge like that? Cast aspersions on the authenticity of everything in my collection, it did.”

“Did it?”

“Of course it did!” Thistlewood pointed one end of the narrow strip of wood at Sebastian. “I can tell you right now, there’s more than a thing or two in
his
collection that I wouldn’t have in
mine
. Do you have any idea how many folks have stirrups said to have been used by Richard III at Bosworth Field? The man would’ve needed to be an octopus to have used half of them.”

“Did you tell Preston that?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“That’s when he turned ugly. Called me an impudent jackanapes, like he was some high ’n’ mighty lord of the manor, and me no more than a medieval serf tilling his lordship’s fields.”

“And?”

“I told him—” Thistlewood broke off, his jaw sagging open in a ludicrous expression as he realized once again where his runaway mouth was leading him. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly up and down, and said more calmly, “A man says things sometimes in the heat of the moment he don’t mean.”

“Things like, ‘I could kill you’?”

“I may’ve said some such thing. Can’t rightly recall it now.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ever hear of a man named Douglas Sterling?”

The sudden shift in topic seemed to confuse the coffee shop owner. “Who?”

“Dr. Douglas Sterling.”

“Can’t say I have. Who’s he?”

“An aged physician who lived in Chatham Place. Someone killed him last night. Cut off his head.”

Thistlewood carefully set down his strip of wood with a hand that was suddenly far from steady. “An old man, you say? Why would someone want to kill him?”

“Perhaps because he met with Stanley Preston less than twelve hours before Preston was killed.”

“And now he’s dead too?”

“Yes.”

Thistlewood shook his head. “Worrisome, ain’t it?”

Sebastian studied the curiosity collector’s mobile, almost comical face. “Have you heard about the recent discovery out at St. George’s, Windsor Castle?”

“No.” An eager gleam crept into Thistlewood’s watery eyes. “Has there been some new find?”

“There has. Although I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to go into the details.”

Thistlewood nodded. “Heard they’ve been doing some digging in the crypt. Not surprised they run into something. When they was doing some work a few years back, they found a woman and child wrapped in lead. Obviously wellborn, they were, though nobody ever did figure out who they were. I got a look at ’em, and if you ask me, they dated back to Saxon times—maybe even late Roman. Wouldn’t surprise me if there was an older church on that very site.”

“How did you happen to get a look at them?” asked Sebastian.

Thistlewood gave a sly smile and winked. “Knows folks, I do.”

“Ever hear of a man named Diggory Flynn?”

“Don’t think so, no. He dead too?”

“Not to my knowledge. He followed me yesterday evening, after I’d paid a visit to Priss Mulligan’s shop in Houndsditch.”

Thistlewood made a sucking sound with his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Told you she weren’t somebody you wanted to cross.”

“She claimed she hadn’t seen Stanley Preston for a month or more.”

“Huh. She lies for a living, that woman; don’t ever forget it. She got a new shipment in just last week, she did. And Preston was always one of the first she let know about it.”

“A new shipment from the Continent, you mean?”

“Aye. Told you she was in thick with smugglers, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” Sebastian touched his hand to his hat. “You’ve been very helpful.”

The curiosity collector’s wrinkled face broke into a wide smile. “I try. I do try.”

Sebastian stood beside the Thames, his gaze on the swollen brown waters of the river spreading out before him. The newly budding elms that edged Cheyne Walk cast dappled patterns of light and shadow across the greening grass, and the strengthening spring sun felt warm on his shoulders. But the air was cold and damp.

Have I seen you before?
Priss Mulligan had said.
You look more’n a bit like that rifleman keeps a tavern just off Bishopsgate. Got those same nasty yellow eyes, he does.

Sebastian was only too familiar with Jamie Knox, a onetime rifleman who owned the Black Devil near St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate. The resemblance between the two men—one an earl’s heir, the other the son of a Shropshire barmaid—was as uncanny as it was inexplicable.

Those unfamiliar with the Earl of Hendon might simply assume that Knox must be one of the earl’s by-blows. But Sebastian knew better. Knew that Knox was no more Hendon’s son than was Sebastian himself.

He narrowed his eyes against the fitful sunlight glinting off the water, felt the breeze off the river, icy against his face. He didn’t want to reopen the old wounds, didn’t want to confront the unanswered questions associated with the mysterious rifleman. But the ties between Jamie Knox and the world of smuggling were murky but indisputable.

It was past time to pay a visit to the Black Devil.