Chapter 5
Sebastian cleaned up, then tried to grab a few hours of sleep. But thoughts of Hendon and Bayard, and the prospect of the choice Sebastian might ultimately be forced to make, haunted him until he finally gave up.
Walking downstairs, he found Hero seated at the small round table near the drawing room windows, her head bowed as she looked over the questions she was planning to ask in her interview.
On the carpet at her feet sprawled their year-old daughter, Miss Guinevere St. Cyr, playing with a stuffed rag doll; on the far side of the room, the two dark-haired little boys, Simon and Patrick, were laughing as they trailed a length of yarn for the big, long-haired black cat that lay curled up on the hearth, ignoring them.
The boys were close in age and so similar in looks they might have been twins, although they were not.
Only the younger boy, Simon, was Sebastian’s son.
Patrick was an orphan, the son of a mysterious tavern keeper who’d looked enough like Sebastian to be his brother—and died because of it.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” Sebastian said to Hero as he sank to his haunches beside his daughter.
“I’m just waiting for Claire to get back from the apothecary’s. And I’ve been hoping the rain would stop soon. But it doesn’t look like it, does it?
“No.” To Guinevere, he said, “Good morning, young lady. Is that a new doll? I don’t believe I’ve met her before. She’s quite lovely.”
“Claire made it,” said Hero as Guinevere, solemn-faced, held the doll out to her father.
“Why, thank you,” he said, taking it. “You’re very generous. And look: She has lovely blond hair and bright blue eyes, just like you. Except of course hers are made of yarn. And she has no fingers.”
“I suspect someone would try to eat them if she did,” said Hero, closing her notebook.
He looked up, laughing, just as a polite knock sounded on the front door below.
“Any idea who that might be?” she said.
“No. None.”
A moment later, Morey appeared at the entrance to the drawing room. “A young gentleman to see you, my lord; a Mr. Phineas Upcott.” The majordomo hesitated, then added, “He says it’s about last night. I’ve put him in the library.”
Sebastian exchanged silent glances with Hero. “I’ll be right down,” he said, then added, “And you’d best bring us some tea. I’ve had all the brandy I want at this point.”
“Do you know him?” said Hero quietly after the majordomo had bowed himself out.
Sebastian handed the doll back to his daughter and pushed to his feet. “I’ve met him once or twice. He’s a friend of Bayard.”
Sebastian found Phineas Upcott standing before the fire in the library, his gaze on the crackling flames, his hands clasped behind his back.
A fair-haired, slightly built man of less than average height, he wore a coat with a nipped-in waist and buckram-wadded shoulders, which combined with his shirt’s absurdly high starched collar to suggest a tendency toward dandyism.
At Sebastian’s entrance, he jerked around, showing a pale, fine-boned face and wide, frightened blue eyes.
“Mr. Upcott,” said Sebastian. “How may I help you?”
The younger man took a step toward him, then drew up abruptly.
“I heard—that is to say, I understand that—well, you are planning to investigate what happened on Primrose Hill, aren’t you?
To Toole, I mean. You do that sort of thing, don’t you?
Chase down murderers? M’ father always says it’s a queer hobby for an earl’s son to take up, but—” He broke off, flushed, then pushed on.
“What I mean to say is, I understand you’re quite good at it, and—”
He broke off again as Morey appeared with the tea tray, settled it on the table near the front windows, and then withdrew.
“Have a seat, please,” said Sebastian, walking over to the tray. “Tea?”
Upcott sank into one of the chairs beside the fire, his hands clasped between his spread knees. “Yes, please.”
Sebastian reached for the first cup and began to pour. “Marcus Toole was a friend of yours?”
Upcott nodded solemnly. “Since our first days at Eton. He was the best of fellows!”
“You do realize this entire conversation could be premature? We don’t yet know for certain that the body recovered from Primrose Hill is actually Toole’s.”
“But we do! You haven’t heard? Theo says Sir Samuel—Marcus’s father—identified him this morning.
Marcus had a chipped tooth, you see, from getting hit in the mouth with a flying cricket bat when we were at Eton.
” Upcott tapped the tip of one forefinger to his upper left incisor.
“It was quite distinctive. I think Sir Samuel recognized Marcus’s signet ring, too, but what really sealed it was that tooth; there could be no mistaking it. Theo was just telling me about it.”
Sebastian handed the younger man his cup. “Theo?”
“Thank you,” Upcott said automatically, taking the cup with hands that were noticeably shaking. “Theo Bridgewood, Lord Bridgewood’s heir.”
“Ah, yes,” said Sebastian, pouring his own tea.
He was only vaguely familiar with the younger Bridgewood, but Lord Bridgewood himself was a well-known, outspoken crony of the reactionary Home Secretary, Henry Addington, First Viscount Sidmouth.
“I take it Theo Bridgewood was also a friend of Marcus Toole?”
“Yes, of course. We’ve all been great friends forever.”
“Do you have any idea what my nephew and Marcus Toole were doing up on Primrose Hill last night?” asked Sebastian, raising his own cup to his lips.
“Me? No, no idea at all. Last I heard they were heading out to Chalk Farm Tavern. Bridgewood and I were supposed to go with them, you know, but, well, we must’ve eaten something at that pub we went to the night before that disagreed with us because…
” He broke off in embarrassment. “Let’s just say neither of us was in any shape to go anywhere, if you know what I mean? ”
“Wilcox and Toole weren’t with you at this pub?”
“Oh, they were. But they’ve both got the strongest stomachs you ever did see.”
“And what pub was this?”
“The White Horse, in Piccadilly.” Upcott paused. “To tell the truth, I was thinking how lucky Toole and Wilcox were—to have not got sick, I mean. But in the end I reckon it would have been better if we’d all been hit, wouldn’t it?”
“So it would seem,” said Sebastian, taking another sip of tea. “Did you ever hear Toole express any interest in the Druids?”
“Druids?” Upcott’s eyes widened. “I shouldn’t think so. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Primrose Hill.”
“Oh,” said Upcott faintly, frowning in a way that suggested he was unaware of the neo-Druid fascination with the place.
Sebastian drew the wooden wolf from his pocket. “Ever see this before?”
Upcott glanced at it, then shook his head. “Don’t think so, no. What’s it got to do with anything?”
“Perhaps nothing,” said Sebastian, slipping the carving back into his pocket. “Have you spoken to Bayard this morning?”
“Bayard?” Upcott was surprised into a ragged laugh. “No one ever sees Bayard till after one, even under the best of circumstances. Never an early riser, Bayard. Ever.”
“True,” said Sebastian. “So tell me this: Who do you think killed Toole? Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
“Enemies? Toole? God, no. He was an easygoing, bang-up fellow, always laughing, and up to every rig and row in town.”
“Is there perhaps someone he quarreled with recently?”
Upcott was silent for a moment, as if considering this. “Well…I suppose there was that fellow out at Chalk Farm Tavern.”
Sebastian took another sip of his tea. “What fellow out at Chalk Farm Tavern?”
“He was quite the rum character—on the ‘bridle lay,’ as they say.”
Sebastian stared at him. “Are you telling me Marcus Toole tangled with a highwayman?”
Upcott nodded. “Stupid thing to have done, if you ask me. Aggravated the hell out of the fellow.”
“When did this happen?”
“Couldn’t say exactly. A month or two ago? Something like that.”
“Was Gilbert Keebles also there that night?”
“He was, yes.” Upcott licked his dry lips. “You heard he was murdered, too? Keebles, I mean. Just a couple of weeks ago.”
Sebastian watched the other man’s face. “Do you know why?”
“No. It doesn’t make any more sense than what happened to Toole.” Upcott’s voice broke. “You are going to try to figure out who’s doing this and stop them, aren’t you?”
“You think both of your friends were killed by the same man?”
“They must have been, surely. I mean, it’s the only thing that makes sense, isn’t it?”
“Bayard said something last night about Keebles and Toole being part of a group of six friends. Keebles, Toole, Bayard, and you make four, and I assume Theo Bridgewood is the fifth. So who is the sixth?”
“Well, I suppose he must’ve been including Emmanuel—Emmanuel Royston-Jones, that is. Although the truth is, we don’t see much of him anymore.”
“Is there anyone else?”
“Not really. It was always just the six of us—until recently, like I said, when Emmanuel started going his own way.”
“When was this? That Royston-Jones ‘started going his own way,’ I mean.”
Upcott shrugged. “I dunno. Some months back.”
“Any particular reason?”
“That he stopped doing things with us? Not that I know of.” But the younger man’s eyes slid sideways when he said it, and Sebastian knew it for a lie.
“To tell the truth, he never quite fit in with the rest of us, you know? I mean, his grandfather was a lumper, and his mother’s Irish!
” Upcott’s lip curled in derision. “And while I know her father was an earl—the Earl of Glenraven, of course—he was dead broke, and it’s only an Irish peerage, besides. ”
“In other words, almost worse than nothing,” said Sebastian dryly.
“Very nearly,” agreed Upcott, completely missing his tone.
Sebastian set aside his cup. “This highwayman you were telling me about—do you remember what he looked like?”
Upcott screwed up his face with the effort of thought. “I think maybe he was a bit on the tall side, but frankly, I don’t remember him all that well.”
“Do you recall his name?”
The younger man shook his head. “It may’ve been something like Sid, but I could have that wrong.”
“Dark haired? Fair?”
Upcott kept shaking his head. “Sorry. I’ve never been one for remembering names or faces.” He tightened his grip on his cup. “But if it is that highwayman who’s doing this, you will catch him, won’t you? Catch him and see that they hang him before he can kill anyone else?”
“If it is him.”
“But who else could it be?”
Sebastian watched the younger man carefully. “What exactly was the quarrel with this highwayman about?”
“Some trifle.” Upcott pursed his lips and looked away. “Can’t say as I recall exactly.”
“Seems an odd thing for someone to do—kill not one but two men over a ‘trifle.’ Even if he is a highwayman.”
A faint flush crept into the younger man’s cheeks. “I hear this one used to be in the Army—the cavalry. They say he came back from the wars not quite right.”
“Interesting.”
As if becoming aware of the fact that he was holding an empty teacup, Upcott quickly set it aside as he rose to his feet.
“I’ve taken up far too much of your time.
Thank you for agreeing to see me. And you will remember what I said—about the fellow out at Chalk Farm? You will look into him, won’t you?”
“Have you told Bow Street about him?”
“Bow Street?” That quick rush of color drained from the younger man’s face.
“I haven’t, no. I thought…Well, it seemed best to let you handle it.
It’s all a bit awkward, you know. That is to say, it wouldn’t be good if word of any of this were to get back to my father.
So you will keep it to yourself, won’t you? ”
Sebastian studied the younger man’s tense, anxious face. “If I can. For now.”
“Why did he want to see you?” said Hero, coming to stand in the doorway after Phineas Upcott had taken himself off.
“I could be wrong,” said Sebastian, pouring himself a second cup of tea as he watched Upcott stride away toward Bond Street, “but I think his main purpose was to set me after a highwayman named Sid who frequents Chalk Farm Tavern.”
“A highwayman? You can’t be serious.”
Sebastian set aside the teapot with a soft thump. “I wish I weren’t.”