Chapter 11 #2
Sebastian had to admit the scenario made a certain amount of sense. “So you don’t think Keebles’s death has anything to do with what happened to Marcus Toole up on Primrose Hill?” he said.
“No, I don’t.”
“Did Gil Keebles have any enemies?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Quarrel with anyone—besides this highwayman—recently?”
“No.”
“And you can’t think of any reason anyone would want to kill either man?”
Theo blew out an exasperated breath. “I keep telling you, no.”
“What about a former militiaman with a coffeehouse near Spa Fields?”
Theo stared at Sebastian a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “Him? You can’t be serious.”
“You, Toole, and Keebles did have some sort of a run-in with him recently, didn’t you?”
“I suppose you could call it that. The man’s an impertinent, bloody Radical.” Theo’s eyes danced with silent laughter. “We decided to teach him the wisdom of displaying a proper degree of deference to his betters.”
“Were Bayard and Upcott there, too?”
“They were.”
“What about Emmanuel Royston-Jones?”
“No.”
“Do you recall the name of the coffeehouse?”
“No; sorry. You surely can’t think that impudent arse had anything to do with what happened to either Keebles or Toole?”
“Probably not.” Sebastian pushed to his feet. “Thank you for your time. If you should happen to think of anything that might be at all relevant, you will let me know, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
Sebastian started to turn away, then paused to look back at the younger man. “You’re not afraid that whoever killed your two friends might try to kill you, too?”
Theo laughed. “You’re thinking of Upcott.
He’s so terrified at the thought he might be next that I’m surprised he’s managed to leave his house.
But to answer your question, no; I’m not afraid.
I find it doubtful that Gil and Marcus were killed by the same man, and even if they were, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself if someone should decide to come after me. ”
“If you see them coming.”
“I’m a very careful man.”
“What a pity your friends weren’t,” said Sebastian, and saw the other man’s eyes narrow with a surge of raw anger he made no attempt to conceal.
Sebastian was in White’s oak-paneled vestibule, shrugging on his greatcoat, when the door from St. James’s Street opened and Lord Sidmouth walked in with Lionel, Fourth Baron Bridgewood.
They drew up just inside the door, with Lord Bridgewood leaning over to say something in an undervoice to his companion. The Home Secretary cast a quick, frowning glance at Sebastian, then continued on without his friend.
“Do you have a moment, Devlin?” said Theo’s father, walking over to him.
A tall, fleshy man in his late fifties, the Baron had a full, pleasant face, pale blue eyes, and fading fair hair he generally wore powdered and pulled back into a queue, as he had in his youth.
Sebastian knew him through Hendon as a typical High Tory who took his responsibilities in the House of Lords seriously.
“It’s a miserable day out, I know,” Bridgewood was saying.
“But I thought perhaps we could go for a walk. That is, if you don’t mind? ”
“Of course,” said Sebastian, reaching for his hat.
The older man waited until they’d walked down the club’s front steps and turned toward Piccadilly before saying bluntly, “I’m told Bayard Wilcox came to you last night after he found Marcus Toole in that fire.
And then you then went out to Primrose Hill with him and saw the scene yourself. Is that true?”
“It is, yes.”
Bridgewood kept his gaze on the traffic at the top of the hill.
“You’ve made something of a study of this sort of thing, haven’t you?
Murder, I mean. So tell me: What do you make of it all?
Two young friends murdered within weeks of each other?
One stabbed and drowned, one set on fire like a bizarre reenactment of some ancient human sacrifice?
I’ve just been talking to Sidmouth, and I was at Bow Street before that, and, well, let’s just say I have a feeling they’re not telling me everything. ”
“At this point, I’m afraid there really isn’t much to tell,” said Sebastian.
Bridgewood was silent for a moment, his normally cheerful face taking on a haggard look as he digested this. “Do you think my son is in danger?”
“Theo doesn’t seem to think so.”
“He’s young. The young never believe they’re going to die, do they?
If they did, that would be the end of wars, wouldn’t it?
It’s always the old men like me who get to stay safe at home while we send the young ones off to fight and die.
If they knew what they were getting themselves into, how many do you think would go? If they had a choice?”
“Probably not many.”
Lord Bridgewood’s lips parted, then closed again before saying, “You didn’t exactly answer my question, you know. Do you think my son is in danger?”
Sebastian chose his words carefully. “I suppose that depends on why Toole and Keebles were killed. Do you know if Theo has any enemies?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” said Bridgewood. “The thing is, when it comes right down to it, how much does any father actually know about his son’s activities?”
“True,” said Sebastian. “Have you seen Sir Samuel Toole today?”
Bridgewood sighed. “I have, yes. And to be frank, I’m worried about the man; I swear he’s aged ten years in the last ten hours. Marcus was his only son, you know. As Theo is mine.”
“And Sir Samuel has no idea why anyone would have wanted to kill Marcus?”
“No, none—let alone kill the lad in such a brutal way. I mean, how much do you need to hate a man to set him on fire? It’s…savage.”
“Did you know Marcus Toole and Gilbert Keebles?”
“I did, yes—known them since they were lads. Fine young men, both of them. Not saying they were saints, mind you. But then, who wants a saint for a son, eh? Not me. It’s not like I was a saint when I was younger, if you know what I mean?” He cocked his head and winked. “Were you?”
“No.”
Bridgewood nodded, his gaze following a dark-haired Cyprian in a fur-trimmed red velvet pelisse who’d paused to admire her reflection in a shop window before giving a little twirl and moving on.
“Theo has been wanting to take rooms here in St. James’s Street, same as Toole and Upcott.
But every time he brings it up, m’ wife cries and carries on so that he drops the idea.
He’s a good son, not wanting to distress his mother; there’s no getting around that.
Truth is, I’ve been more than a bit annoyed with her over it.
I mean, a young man needs to spread his wings and fly, you know?
But now…well, I must admit it’s something of a comfort knowing he’s where I can keep an eye on him.
At least part of the time. Not that I would ever say anything like that to him, of course. ”
They’d reached the corner of Piccadilly with its heavy traffic of carts, carriages, wagons, and horses.
The Baron drew up and turned to face Sebastian, one hand coming up to catch the brim of his hat as the cold wind threatened to carry it away.
“Thank you for your honesty, Devlin. It’s reassuring to know you’re working on this, too.
I’ve always heard good things about Lovejoy, but this new Chief Magistrate…
” He pulled a face as he let his voice trail off.
“I’ve called Sidmouth friend for more than thirty years, so let’s just say I know exactly why Bow Street was handed to a man of Conant’s character.
He’ll do whatever the Palace tells him to do and, usually, that’s a good thing. But not always.”
“I’m told the Palace is very interested in having these murders solved, as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, Sidmouth says the same. Hopefully all my fears will prove to be misplaced. How is your nephew, by the way? After last night, I mean.”
“Frightened.”
“Hmm. Perhaps he has more sense than my son.”
“Or the sight of his friend engulfed in flames was an inescapably sobering experience.”
Bridgewood’s face tightened with the effort of controlling his emotions. “Do you think they’re in danger? Honestly. My son. Your nephew.”
“Honestly?” Sebastian met the older man’s stricken, desperate gaze. “Yes.”
“One can’t help but feel sorry for Lady Keebles, Lord Bridgewood, and Sir Samuel Toole,” Hero said that evening as she leaned against the doorframe of Sebastian’s dressing room and watched him rub wood ash into his hair. “But their sons don’t sound like very nice young men, do they?”
“No.” Sebastian turned away from his mirror to pull over his head a worn, yellowed shirt culled from the secondhand stalls of Rosemary Lane. “But then, what else could one expect of friends of Bayard?”
“So far,” said Hero, “we know they quarreled with a highwayman—a highwayman!—out at Chalk Farm, wrecked some coffeehouse up near Spa Fields, set fire to a German chemist’s house, and generally wreaked enough havoc that a Radical journal felt compelled to publish an article denouncing them.”
He looked over at her. “Do you have any idea which journal?”
“No, but I should be able to find out tomorrow. Have you managed to talk to Bayard since he sobered up?”
“Not yet. I sent a message to St. James’s Square suggesting he pay me a visit when convenient.” Sebastian reached for the folded response that lay nearby, its seal broken, and handed it to her. “This was his answer.”
“ ‘Devlin,’ ” she read. “ ‘Are you reluctant to call at St. James’s Square because my mother once instructed Crowley to refuse you admittance? If you will recall, I am now married and this is my house, not my mother’s.
Crowley is my butler, and he will admit whomever I tell him to.
Yours, etc. Wilcox.’ ” Hero looked up. “Well, it’s incredibly rude and juvenile, but also very interesting. Is the worm finally turning?”
“It does sound like it, doesn’t it?”
“I suspect Amanda is not pleased.”
Sebastian looped a black cravat around his neck and tied it in a casual knot. “No, indeed.”
Hero folded the message again, then stared down at it thoughtfully. “What if the two killings—Keebles’s and Toole’s—aren’t linked? What if the two men were killed simply because they were so despicable they’d managed to annoy two completely different people sufficiently to inspire them to murder?”
“That’s certainly a distinct possibility,” said Sebastian, reaching for a worn brown corduroy coat.
“But you don’t think so?”
“I don’t like coincidences.”
“Yet they do sometimes occur.”
“They do.”
She watched him shrug into the coat and frowned. “You will be careful, won’t you? This Chalk Farm Tavern sounds like a thoroughly disreputable place.”
“Oh, it is,” said Sebastian, slipping a knife into the hidden sheath in his boot.