Chapter 3 #2
Lovejoy studied the geometric design incised on the wolf’s flank.
“It does look as if it might be a reproduction—or perhaps a re-creation—of something Celtic, does it not?” He handed the carving back to Sebastian.
“Lost no doubt by one of the participants in the heathen ritual held here a few weeks ago on All Hallows’ Eve—or ‘Samhain,’ as these ‘Druids’ have taken it calling it. ”
“Probably,” said Sebastian, tucking the carving back into his pocket.
Hopefully.
The two men fell silent as they watched the workers from the deadhouse rest their shell beside the remnants of the bonfire and gingerly set about lifting the stiff, blackened corpse onto it.
“Your nephew is fortunate not to have also fallen victim to this killer.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, and left it at that.
Dawn came late that morning, the rising sun wreathed in a mist that gradually dissolved into a steady rain.
Sebastian stood at the windows of his library in Brook Street, his gaze on the wet, windswept pavement outside, a glass of brandy cupped in one hand.
He had stripped off his greatcoat, coat, waistcoat, boots, and cravat, but the scent of the fire and its gruesome contents seemed to linger about him still.
He had not yet made it to his bed.
He took a sip of his brandy and listened to the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs, then turned as his wife, Hero, appeared in the doorway.
A brilliant, dark-haired, handsome woman, she wore a soft blue wool morning dress with a colorful paisley shawl draped around her shoulders.
At close to six feet, she was nearly as tall as Sebastian and built on generous lines.
They had been married for four years, had two children of their own and a third child they were raising, and he loved her with a desperation that sometimes scared him.
“How bad was it?” she said.
“Bad.”
She came to stand beside him, her gaze, like his, on the falling rain. “I’ve been hoping Bayard either made the whole thing up or was in some way exaggerating. But it’s true? Marcus Toole was murdered? Set on fire?”
“It’s impossible to say for certain at this point, but it certainly looks that way—assuming the body in the fire was actually Toole, which is still only an assumption. He was burned beyond recognition.”
“Dear God.”
She slid her arms around his waist, and he held her close against him.
He sometimes wondered if he’d be able to continue doing what he did without this woman, without her strength, her calm courage, and her love.
He said, “Bayard tells me another of his friends, Gilbert Keebles, was murdered just a couple of weeks ago, while we were in Hampshire.”
She leaned back so she could meet Sebastian’s gaze. “He thinks the two deaths could be related?”
“He’s convinced they are—that someone is deliberately targeting his friends. And him, of course.”
“It sounds ridiculous, but at the same time it would be a rather strange coincidence for two friends to be murdered within weeks of each other simply by chance.”
“It would be. Which I suppose means one of the first things I need to do is find out more about the death of this Gil Keebles.”
Hero looked thoughtful. “His mother, Lady Keebles, was a lifelong friend of my mother, so I’ve known her as long as I can remember. I can try calling on her this afternoon, if you’d like.”
“You don’t have an interview scheduled?” For some years now, Hero had been writing a series of articles for the Morning Chronicle profiling the lives of London’s poor.
It was a project that never failed to provoke the ire of her powerful father, Lord Jarvis.
But Hero was one of the few people in the kingdom undaunted by the thought of incurring Jarvis’s wrath.
She shook her head. “Only this morning.”
“Did you know him? Gilbert Keebles, I mean.”
“I did, but not well. He was an only son, born late in his father’s life when his parents had given up hope of ever producing a male heir, and quite spoiled and full of himself as a result.
He was a general, you know—the father, I mean.
Knighted for some feat of brilliance or valor in the American War, although I don’t know that I ever heard exactly what it was. ”
She fell silent, and for a time they simply stood side by side, watching a costermonger make his way up the street, his head bowed against the cold rain.
And then she put into words the fear that had been eating at Sebastian all night, although he had never voiced it.
“Is it possible…I mean, do you think the tale Bayard told could be a lie? That he killed his friend?”
Sebastian turned to meet her gaze and hold it. “I wouldn’t put it past him; would you? And given how drunk he was, I can see him killing his friend in an argument, then passing out and utterly forgetting what he’d done when he came to.”
She chose her words carefully. “It would devastate Hendon if he were to discover his own grandson is a murderer. And if he were then forced to watch Bayard hang—” She broke off and shook her head, unwilling to put the thought into words.
When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper.
“If the killer is Bayard, what will you do?”
“I can’t let him get away with murder. Not even for Hendon’s sake.”
“No. But…would Hendon forgive you, do you think? If you were responsible for his grandson being convicted and hanged?”
In the silence that followed, Sebastian was aware of the painful pounding of his own heart.
Then he said, “I know it would grieve him profoundly. But would he hold it against me? I honestly don’t know.
” He cupped a hand behind her neck, drawing her close enough to bury his face in her hair.
“I just hope to God we don’t need to find out. ”