Chapter 19
“Herr Friedrich Accum doesn’t strike me as a man who could easily sustain a thousand-pound loss,” said Sebastian later, as he and Hero took advantage of a break in the rain to go for a walk with the boys in the park.
But since the boys had to stop and stomp in every puddle, they were making little progress.
He was thankful Guinevere had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms; otherwise the little girl would have been howling to get down and join her brothers.
“I had the impression it hurt,” said Hero, shifting the baby’s weight. “And he obviously has something of a temper, given that he chased the lot of them out of his house with a poker—and managed to get in a few hits, too.”
“Good for him.”
Hero met his smiling eyes. “My feelings exactly.”
His smile faded. “I wonder how much he knows about Celtic gods.”
Hero shook her head. “I can see Accum being pushed to murder someone in a fit of rage. But to methodically pick them off, one by one, and then pose their bodies in ways that echo ancient human sacrifices? That suggests something more than simple anger over an unsuccessful suit, don’t you think?”
Sebastian drew a deep, troubled breath. “It does, doesn’t it?”
They walked along in silence for a time, watching Patrick and Simon race each other to the next puddle.
Hero said, “I keep thinking about the awful things Bayard said to you about his marriage. If he felt that way, why did he agree to the wedding in the first place? It’s one thing for him to say his mother talked him into it, but I can’t begin to imagine how she managed to do so. ”
“Unless Fanny was already with child.”
Hero looked over at him. “Do you think she was?”
“I don’t know. She’s little more than a child herself. But it would explain it.”
“That poor girl.”
“I wouldn’t say she looks happy.”
“I can’t imagine being married to Bayard,” said Hero, wincing as Simon stomped hard enough to send muddy water flying up into Patrick’s face; Patrick laughed. She said, “You’re certain Bayard recognized that wooden carving?”
Sebastian nodded. “He’s seen it before, and the fact that I now have it worries him.”
“Interesting. I wonder why.”
“I have no idea,” said Sebastian, reaching out to take Guinevere as the baby stirred. “But it obviously wasn’t dropped on that hill by some neo-Druid celebrating Samhain. It’s tied—somehow—to what happened up there to Marcus Toole. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out how.”
The brief winter daylight was beginning to fade from the cloudy sky by the time Sebastian ordered his curricle brought round and set out for Bow Street.
It was only half past three, but the sun was already low on the horizon, dropping the temperature below freezing and filling the wet, miserable streets of the city with icy shadows.
Leaving his horses in Tom’s care, he was about to mount the public office’s shallow front steps when he encountered Sir Samuel Toole in the company of a roughly dressed, short, squat man with a scarf wrapped across the lower part of his face.
For an instant, the unknown man’s watery blue gaze met Sebastian’s.
Then the man bowed jerkily to Toole and walked quickly away.
Unlike many men of his age, Sir Samuel had long ago abandoned the powdered wig, frock coat, and knee breeches that had been de rigueur in his youth.
He wore fashionable knitted pantaloons and a fine black double-breasted tailcoat and had his hair cropped short.
But his open greatcoat was slipping off his shoulders, his silk waistcoat had been buttoned askew, and it looked as if he’d cut his face while shaving.
At the sight of Sebastian, he drew up abruptly, his fist clenching on his ivory-handled walking stick.
“Sir Samuel,” said Sebastian with a bow, pausing beside him. “Please allow me to express my sincere condolences on the death of your son.”
Marcus Toole’s father stared at him with an undisguised hostility Sebastian couldn’t begin to explain.
“If you’re thinking of meddling in this murder investigation the way you have in so many others, let me save you the bother by telling you straight out that your services are neither needed nor wanted.
Bow Street and I have already ascertained precisely who killed my son and his friends, and I have every expectation of seeing the villain remanded into custody and hanged.
And now, good day to you, sir,” he said with a curt nod.
Then he pushed past Sebastian to where a footman held open the door of the Baronet’s waiting black-bodied carriage. Breathing heavily, he stomped up the carriage steps, barked an order to his coachman, and drove off.
“So who does Sir Samuel think killed his son?” Sebastian asked Lovejoy a few minutes later as the two men settled at a table in a nearby coffeehouse.
By now the last traces of light had leached from the day, leaving the richly paneled room lit only by lamplight and the crackling fire on the wide hearth.
The magistrate looked pained. “Damion Pitcairn.”
Sebastian stared at him. “Pitcairn?” Born in Jamaica to a Scottish father and an enslaved African woman, Damion Pitcairn was a talented young violinist and composer attached to the opera. But he was also a brilliant, well-respected fencing master, and Sebastian had known him for some time. “Why?”
Lovejoy took a cautious sip of his hot chocolate. “It seems Marcus Toole and his friends had a run-in with Pitcairn down in Southwark several weeks before Keebles was killed.”
“That’s not good,” said Sebastian after a moment.
“Indeed. You know he’s a Spencean?” said Lovejoy. “Pitcairn, I mean.”
Sebastian hesitated, then nodded. The Society of Spencean Philanthropists traced its origins to a passionate reformer named Thomas Spence.
An advocate of such revolutionary notions as universal suffrage, the equality of the sexes, and society’s responsibility to care for orphaned children, the aged, and those unable to work, Spence had been imprisoned multiple times for “seditious libel” and on charges of high treason.
Thanks to the unhealthy conditions common in London’s prisons, he’d been dead now for two years.
But his movement lived on, closely watched by government spies and loathed by the likes of Lord Jarvis, the Prince Regent, and the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth.
Recently, the Spenceans had held what they called a “mass public meeting” on the outskirts of London at a place called Spa Fields near Clerkenwell.
The meeting had attracted over ten thousand people and produced a petition calling on the Prince Regent to do something to relieve the general distress caused by the ending of the French and American wars and the severe economic downturn that had followed.
But the Regent had refused even to look at their petition because, he said, they weren’t authorized to present one.
“Is that what Toole and his friends’ confrontation with Pitcairn was about?” said Sebastian.
“It may have played into it. Personally, I consider it a ridiculous notion, but that doesn’t mean people won’t listen to Sir Samuel.
Both the Palace and my colleagues at Bow Street are desperate to find someone to pin the killings on, and if they can blame someone tied to these Spa Fields meetings, so much the better.
You know they’ve another one planned for next week? On Monday.”
Mondays were always a good choice for this sort of thing, since artisans and craftsman had for centuries taken the day off: “Saint Monday,” it was traditionally called. Sebastian said, “I’d heard there was to be another but didn’t realize it was so soon.”
Lovejoy drew a grubby folded broadsheet from his pocket. “They appear to be quite…angry.”
Sebastian unfolded the page and found himself staring at a cheap handbill.
ENGLAND
Expects every Man to do his Duty!!!
The Next Meeting in Spa Fields will Take Place on
Monday, December 2nd. 1816
to receive the answer of the PETITION to the
PRINCE REGENT, determined upon
at the last meeting held in the same place,
and for other important Considerations.
THE PRESENT STATE OF GREAT brITAIN!
Four Million in Distress!!!
Four Million Embarrassed!!!
One and a half Million fear Distress!!!
Half a Million live in Splendid Luxury!!!
Death would now be a relief to Millions.
Arrogance, Folly, and Crimes
have brought affairs to this dread Crisis.
Only Firmness and Integrity can save the Country!!!
He looked up. “Prinny should have agreed to accept the petition they sent to him after the first meeting ten days ago. Even if he intended to completely disregard it, he could have given them the impression he was listening. That he cared.”
“Yes, it would have been wiser,” said the magistrate quietly. “Henry Hunt has agreed to speak again.”
Sebastian wasn’t surprised. A prosperous farmer turned political reformer, Henry “Orator” Hunt had become famous by using his prodigious talent for public speaking to champion the causes of what he called the “working classes.” His speech at the November Spa Fields meeting, delivered from the second-floor window of a tavern called Merlin’s Cave, had shocked many by attacking both the Whigs and the Tories, accusing the Whigs of cowardly complacency and dangerous complicity.
Lovejoy carefully refolded the tattered handbill.
“Incidentally, we spoke to the proprietor of the White Horse in Piccadilly. It seems some half a dozen of their customers—as well as the cook and the proprietor himself—fell ill after eating a stew they served Friday night, although others who consumed the same meal were fine. So it doesn’t sound likely that Upcott’s illness was the result of a deliberate attempt to keep him and Bridgewood away from Chalk Farm. ”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
Lovejoy frowned as he tucked the handbill back in his pocket. “Sir Lawrence Upcott is expected to arrive in London sometime tomorrow, but fortunately we were able to complete a thorough search of his son’s rooms this morning.”
“And?”
Lovejoy shook his head. “Nothing. I also asked Sir Samuel, once again, to authorize a search of his son’s rooms, but he’s still refusing.
Seems the idea of such an invasion of Marcus’s privacy is almost as revolting as the autopsy I ordered.
So I contacted Lady Keebles again, asking her to reconsider.
Not only did she refuse our request, but several hours later we received a directive from the Home Office ordering us to stop ‘harassing’ the bereaved parents. ”
Sebastian met his friend’s gaze. “Marcus Toole’s father is a longtime friend of Lord Sidmouth, isn’t he?”
“He is, yes,” said Lovejoy.
Sebastian took a slow sip of his coffee, but it was cold. “None of this sounds good for Pitcairn.”
Lovejoy met his gaze and nodded solemnly. “No. It’s not.”