Chapter 16 #2
The man paused, shears idle in his hand and doffed his cap. “He’s gone to look in on a burial plot out by the rectory, sir.”
That was a lie. There were no empty burial plots at the rectory. “Then perhaps you’ll direct us to The Bear Tavern.”
The gardener nodded towards the far boundary wall. “First left off Sydney Street, though it’s popular with gravediggers, and no place for a lady.”
They left the churchyard, but Gabriel paused at the gate.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to wait with Kincaid and his intrepid companion.”
“We agreed we’d remain close.” She held his gaze, the spark behind her eyes a forbidden promise. The same spark that had undone him once already. “And I’ll not miss another chance for you to play knight-errant.”
Temptation stirred. “I admit, I am rather partial to the role.”
“I could always start a commotion, so you can carry me out.”
“There are places I’d rather carry you.” His voice dropped a shade lower. “Rooms in our house no one else will ever enter.”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, the gesture so natural it felt like a prelude. “Then perhaps we might explore them on our return home from the theatre tonight.”
He pictured the possibilities, never more grateful for the cavernous house. His mind lingered on shadowed corridors, the hush of hidden rooms, all the places he might have her to himself. Want simmered beneath the surface, but he kept his composure and instructed Kincaid to follow.
They entered The Bear to the scrape of chairs and the murmur of voices. Ale soured the air. A few labourers sat hunched over tankards, caps pushed low, eyes lifting just long enough to mark the newcomers before turning back to their drink.
The sexton was easy to spot: too idle to be a mourner, too clean to be a gravedigger, too glassy-eyed to be sober.
“Nesbit.” Gabriel strode up to him, refusing to waste another minute.
“A private word, unless you’d rather the rector discover how you’ve spent your morning.
” He silently counted to three, jaw clenched.
“Now, Nesbit, before I drag you out. Don’t make me raise my voice again, not in the presence of my wife. ”
The fellow turned too quickly and nearly slid from his chair. He blinked at Olivia through bloodshot eyes and slurred, “What’s this about?”
“It’s about missing records, a magistrate expecting answers, and finding you here, drunk, instead of doing your duty.”
The mention of the magistrate had Nesbit lurching to his feet, though he swayed as he walked to the door. Outside, he was quick to make a host of excuses for his presence in The Bear.
“I was only resting my legs. A man needs a moment to wet his whistle.” He wiped his brow, looking anywhere but at Gabriel. “I only stayed because the landlord said he’d got a message for me.”
“You’re neglecting your duties. You’ve not visited the burial ground near the rectory for months.” It was too odd to ignore. Why leave that plot in such disrepair when it lay so close to the rectory? “I demand to know why.”
Nesbit shifted his feet. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Gabriel didn’t blink. “Try me.”
“There’s ghosts out there.”
“Ghosts?”
“Aye. Some of the men say they’ve seen things. Shapes moving between the headstones. Strange groans at night. And the rector, he’s worried about footpads and the like, causing trouble.”
“I lived in the cottage next door for a time and saw no criminals working in the area,” Olivia said. “And certainly no ghosts.”
Perhaps they’d seen the man in the beaked mask.
The sexton opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
Gabriel removed gold coins from his pocket and held them stacked between his thumb and finger. “Five sovereigns if you tell the truth. If not, you’ll be taken in as an accessory to grave robbing. Someone broke into the mausoleum.”
“It ain’t a mausoleum,” Nesbit muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s where men meet, not mourners. Mostly after dark. I’d wager there are no bodies in that tomb.”
Gabriel let two sovereigns fall into the man’s palm. “Why do you say that?”
Nesbit pressed his lips together and cast another glance towards the tavern.
Gabriel eyed the remaining coins. “There are three more if your story is worth hearing.”
A moment passed before Nesbit nodded. “Something the old sexton said. He was told not to tend the graves. And he saw men meeting there at night, bringing things and hiding them beneath false gravestones.”
Gabriel’s pulse stirred. At last, something that resembled honesty. Or a tale a half-sotted man might conjure for coin. Whether fact or invention, it was more than they’d had an hour ago.
“What about the lady who lives there, Mrs Hodge?” Olivia said. “She assured me it was safe. Just stories, she said. And no cause for alarm.”
“She would say that. Some of them go into her cottage and don’t leave till morning.”
So that explained the cups on her table, Gabriel thought. No wonder she’d insisted on speaking to Nesbit herself.
“If you ask me,” the sexton said, lowering his voice, “they’re footpads, using the graveyard to stash stolen goods. Happen the rector is afraid to confront them and turns a blind eye. That said, I’ve not seen anyone there these last few weeks.”
As he rambled about the rector and the overgrown graves, several things struck Gabriel. Nesbit was remarkably free with his information. And footpads did not keep records, gather at night by appointment, or use mausoleums.
Hang a few thieves and no one asked questions. A convenient excuse, should the fraternity need to allay suspicion.
“That’s all for now.” Gabriel had heard enough. “For your sake, I trust you’ve told the truth.”
“I’ve told you what I’ve seen and heard,” Nesbit muttered. “Make of it what you will.”
Gabriel let the remaining coins fall into Nesbit’s palm, not as a kindness but a warning. “Return to your duties. I may have further questions, and I’ve no wish to scour taverns looking for you.”
He waited until Nesbit had slouched off towards the church, then handed Olivia into the waiting carriage and instructed Kincaid to head for Covent Garden.
“You don’t believe a word Mr Nesbit said, do you?” Olivia straightened her skirts and held the strap as the carriage lurched forward. “If it’s footpads they fear, why did the rector pretend he needed to trace the families of those buried there?”
“He may have been searching for the stolen goods,” Gabriel said, “but we both know there’s more to this than thieves hiding their bounty.”
“Are Reverend Clay and Mrs Hodge being paid for their silence,” she said, “or accomplices in something larger?”
“We’ll ask Daventry to have his men watch them. They might lead us to something useful.” He studied her, briefly wondering what he used to think about before her—before them. “On the subject of clues, you changed when the verger asked if there might be a mistake with the name.”
She tilted her head. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you.”
“What else have you noticed?”
That she spoke his name like a breath when she wanted more of him. That when he’d moved inside her, she had looked at him with longing, not shyness or fear.
“You’re more relaxed around me. More tactile since we were intimate last night.” Her fingers hadn’t simply rested in the crook of his arm on the way to the tavern; they had drifted over his bicep.
“And you, Gabriel,” she said softly, “I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve touched my back. Or how often you’ve looked at my mouth today.”
“You are … difficult to ignore.”
He’d been studying her for months, through crowded rooms and entire recitals, seeing nothing but her. Answering a call he couldn’t quite explain.
“And you’ve always had a way of drawing my attention. It seems neither of us is particularly good at hiding how we feel.” The subtle purr in her voice stirred the hair at his nape. “Perhaps this is what happens when lonely people seek companionship.”
It was a damn sight more than easing loneliness.
Or was he imagining she felt the same?
He was fluent in suspicion, not sentiment.
He could read a man’s lies, but not a woman’s heart.
Was he alone on this journey? Expecting too much from someone who had practically been forced to marry him?
It was a sobering thought. One that sat heavy in his chest. One he didn’t wish to explore. Not yet.
And so he turned the conversation back to the case. “What was it that piqued your interest at the church?”
She wasn’t surprised by the change of topic. “Hathaway. The surname of the couple. Shakespeare’s wife was Anne Hathaway. The link to Julius Caesar. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Lord above. He’d been too busy watching her to see what was right in front of him. “It’s certainly not a common name, so perhaps it’s a sign we’re meant to follow.”
Daventry agreed when they put the theory to him in his Hart Street office. “You’re right to visit the theatre tonight. There’s every chance your father planned this before his death.”
Gabriel nodded. It certainly had the makings of a Shakespearean plot. “But he couldn’t have known I’d agree to help his daughter, that she’d find the mausoleum, or have the foresight to search for the hidden clue behind the miniature.”
“Beware the Ides of March,” Daventry muttered. “I’m sure you have a copy of Julius Caesar at home, likely a rare edition. Have you looked there?”
Gabriel inwardly grumbled. Daventry could make an intelligent man feel like an imbecile. “Before today, we had only one reference to the play. Besides, her father never visited my house.”
A pang of doubt struck him. Many men had visited the house in the past. The rooms were rarely empty. Justin Lovelace had been a frequent guest, free to roam as he pleased.
“We’ll search the libraries upon our return home,” Olivia said.
He liked the way she said home, as if it were a comfort, not a burden.
His parents had called it The Park.
Their guests, Sodom and Gomorrah.
He had always thought of it as hell.
“We hoped you’d post a man at the graveyard, sir, and have him watch the cottages. Maybe even the rectory.”
“I’ve had a man patrolling the area for the past two days. On the surface, the only offence Mrs Hodge seems guilty of is being a snoop. Three times in one night, she took a lantern and a swordstick and walked the cemetery grounds.”
Olivia sat forward. “Alone?”
“Yes. Always alone.”
“And the rector?” Gabriel asked.
“Makes regular house calls as you’d expect, and often stays late at St Luke’s. A man with a cart collects him and takes him home. And he never leaves the rectory at night.”
Gabriel exhaled, his patience wearing thin. “Did you have any luck with the undertaker’s cloth? Any news of the body stolen from the watch-house?”
Daventry sat back, drawing a hand through his thick, ebony hair. “I can tell you this. Those involved operate at the highest level. The absence of credible information says more than any report ever could.”
“Then you have nothing to tell us?” Gabriel hoped the agent felt as useless as he did.
“The cloth found at the grave was deliberately placed. Undertakers haven’t used fabric of that kind for years.
There’s no record of Mrs Hodge owning the cottages.
And my men have”—he paused, choosing the polite phrasing—“used every lawful method to persuade the known resurrectionists to confess to the crime at the watch-house. All to no avail.”
“Who does own the cottages?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t know. There’s no paperwork.”
In his dealings with Daventry, Gabriel had never seen the man stumped. It did not bode well.
“I checked the maid you hired from the registry, and there’s nothing suspicious there.” Daventry hesitated before offering a redeeming detail. “There is one thing. A woman matching Mrs Hodge’s description frequented the bookshop opposite your old address in Clerkenwell.”
Gabriel muttered a curse. “She’s been watching you for some time.” He felt it then—the cold calculation of it. While he’d been listening to Olivia recite verse, Mrs Hodge had been gathering information. “Can we not confront her?”
“With what?” Daventry said, sounding a damn sight calmer than Gabriel. “Visiting a bookshop? Taking a late-night walk?”
After a shared exhale, Gabriel said, “There is something strange we should consider.”
“I’m listening,” Daventry replied.
“The fact that I knew exactly where to find Olivia.” He paused. Breaking a confidence didn’t sit well with him. “But I imagine Gentry will accept that patient confidentiality doesn’t apply here.”
Daventry frowned. “What are you saying? Gentry told you Miss Woolf had moved to Chelsea?”
“He was far more specific. Mrs Hodge is one of his recent patients and happened to mention her new neighbour. Details that would mean something to me personally. Her love of graveside poetry. Her distinctive red hair. And a habit of dressing in grey to avoid attention.”
Olivia drew a sharp breath. “Then she knew who I was. She meant to expose me. She sent you to World’s End so the villain could dispose of us both.”
“Still, without proof of intent, Gentry’s statement is merely gossip,” Daventry replied. “That said, she found the body in the cottage. We could use that as an excuse to question her again. I’ll have her brought to Bow Street tomorrow. Sir Basil will support the decision.”
“I cannot help but think she is the key to this.” If she was not the architect, she was at least the messenger.
They moved on to Nesbit and what he’d revealed.
“Never underestimate the power of money when a man has none,” Daventry said. “The only way to know if he’s lying is to visit the mausoleum and check the tombs. Let’s meet there tomorrow. There’s no need to seek permission.”
Olivia shifted nervously. “Still, would it not be wiser to inform the magistrate? There is doubt over my involvement, and I would rather Sir Basil hear it from us.”
“You have nothing to fear.” He’d drag the magistrate to hell and back before letting him put her behind bars. “I won’t see you spend a night in gaol.”
“The fewer people who know of our movements, the better,” Daventry said. “Constables and men of the watch are easily bought.”
Olivia’s lips thinned. “Does it not frustrate you, sir, this fight for justice when half the world is corrupt?”
Daventry pondered the question. “It’s not justice we’re dealing with. It’s politics. And on the bright side, if we uncover a plot to destabilise the government, the King will grant you favour.”
“Favour?” Olivia sounded half shocked, half amused.
“He may see that you married for necessity,” Daventry said, “and consent to an annulment.”