Chapter 28
Dudley Fenton was carefully oiling the wooden carvings on the pulpit in his brother’s church when Sebastian came to lean against a nearby marble column, his arms crossed at his chest, his gaze on the recently expelled scholar. “I need you to tell me the significance of wolves in Celtic folklore.”
The younger man looked up, his hand stilling at its task, his mouth falling open as he stared at Sebastian. “Wolves?”
“That’s right; wolves.”
Fenton dipped his rag in the pot of boiled linseed oil at his feet, then rubbed thoughtfully at the cross carved into the front of the pulpit.
“Well, we can’t really know for certain, obviously.
But I get the impression they regarded wolves almost like the representatives of the moon here on earth.
I mean, wolves seem to have stood for many of the attributes that people have typically associated with the moon for thousands of years, things like intuition, instinct…
our ability to communicate with the gods.
I’ve read that, in Iberia, they were seen as the embodiment of traits we like to associate with warriors—things like strength, courage, nobility, wisdom.
Even as late as the Middle Ages, if you look at the Irish myths of that time, you see that wolves were generally portrayed as helpful guardians. They were protective.”
“So they weren’t seen as evil?”
“No. It was typically the later Christians who came to portray wolves as evil, as a symbol of darkness. It’s why they were finally hunted to extinction here and in Ireland.
But before then, wolves might have been portrayed as wild and fierce, but they were still admired, especially for the strength of the wolf family. ”
“The pack.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian drew the wolf carving from his pocket.
“Remember this? I’ve now had three different people refer to Marcus Toole and his friends as a ‘pack.’ A young woman I recently spoke to compared them to a ‘pack of wolves,’ and while it took me a while, I finally remembered your saying they acted like a ‘pack of wild dogs’ when you encountered them at Chalk Farm Tavern. ”
Fenton let his rag plop back into the pot at his feet.
“Well, they were acting like a pack—the way they circled me like they were predators; it was as if they were feeding off each other, egging each other on.” Reaching out, he took the carving in his hands, his head bowed as he stared down at it.
When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper.
“You think that’s why this was left up there on Primrose Hill, near where Toole was killed?
Because those men reminded whoever is murdering them of a pack of wolves? ”
“It’s one explanation, isn’t it?”
Fenton nodded.
Sebastian said, “What I don’t understand is why it was dropped a hundred or so feet from his body.”
Fenton looked up. “You think I can explain it? I can’t.”
“You heard that the innkeeper out at Chalk Farm Tavern was murdered last night?”
“I heard.” Fenton’s voice cracked. “Why would someone do that? Kill those three men and then kill her? She stood up for me—stopped them when no one else did. Why would someone who hated those men kill her, too? She was everything the Celts thought wolves stood for: strong, brave, and protective. So why kill her?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.”
He held up the carving. “You think this might explain it? Because three people who tangled with those men referred to them as a ‘pack,’ and someone dropped a carving of a wolf near where one of them was killed?”
“I suppose it depends on whom the wolf was meant to represent,” said Sebastian, taking the carving back into his own hands. “The killer? Or his victim? And in which tradition? The wolf as a symbol of all that is good and noble? Or as a representative of the forces of darkness and evil?”
The sense that he must be overlooking something—something vital—drove Sebastian that afternoon to the sprawling Park Lane home of the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne.
Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, sister of the current Earl of Hendon, the dowager was one of the grandes dames of Society, with a well-deserved reputation for knowing—and remembering—every intricate relationship, every juicy tidbit, every scandal that had rocked the ton for the last sixty years.
She was one of Sebastian’s favorite people, and he still called her Aunt, although both now knew their relationship was considerably more distant.
She was crossing the town house’s elegant marble-floored entry hall when her butler opened the door to Sebastian.
Now in her mid-seventies, the Duchess had her brother’s stout build, broad, fleshy face, and brilliant blue eyes.
Always stylish, she wore a fashionable gown of lilac wool with an exquisite Kashmiri shawl draped over her shoulders, and drew up abruptly at the sight of him.
A housemaid rushing behind her with a bucket and mop shrieked and nearly ran into her; a footman carrying an upholstered wing chair from one of the reception rooms quickly swerved to one side, while a fussy little man hectoring a waiter staggering under a heavy tray swerved to the other.
“Heaven preserve us,” said the Duchess, one hand coming up to tighten around the quizzing glass that dangled from a gold chain around her neck. “Not now, Devlin! Have you forgotten I’ve a rout in a matter of hours?”
He stepped to one side as a workman carrying a potted palm tried to squeeze past him. “Is that tonight?”
“Yes, it is tonight. And you and Hero said you’d attend.”
“I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.” He smiled. “I promise. Unless you’d prefer I come back tomorrow morning? Early tomorrow morning.”
A spasm of pain crossed the Duchess’s features. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you, you unnatural child?” She sighed and turned to lead the way to the library. “Very well. But I warn you: You have five minutes. Not a second more.”
The library was so stuffed with piles of chairs, tables, sofas, rolled-up rugs, lamps, and crates of breakables items removed from the reception rooms that there was no place to sit.
Sebastian leaned his hip against an inlaid Italian table, crossed his arms at his chest, and said, “I’m interested in what you can tell me about Gilbert Keebles, Marcus Toole, and Phineas Upcott. ”
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Nothing to their credit, I’m afraid.
All three were—technically—eligible bachelors, destined to inherit tidy estates, with Toole and Upcott set to come into their fathers’ titles as well.
And yet you’ll find few hostesses in town who would ever have considered inviting one of them to a party. ”
“Why?”
“Bad ton.”
It was a damning insult, to call someone “bad ton.” While “good ton” implied someone who was not only gently born but also stylish, socially at ease, fashionable, and popular, “bad ton” meant something far more damning than gauche or frumpy; it suggested an unsavory odor of scandal, poor manners, and dishonorable conduct.
“Why?” said Sebastian.
She shrugged. “I can’t tell you anything that isn’t common knowledge.
They were arrogant, rude, and casually cruel.
If I were to guess as to why they were killed, I’d say it’s because they made the mistake of picking on the wrong person, but I’ve no idea who that might be.
” She paused, then said, “Do you think Bayard is in danger?”
“He certainly thinks he is, although he won’t tell me why.”
“Then more fool him.” She glanced at the small gold watch she wore pinned to her bodice. “Now if—”
“What about the men’s families or fathers? What can you tell me about them?”
She shrugged. “I know little of Sir Lawrence Upcott. He came into his title shortly after he returned from the American War, retired to the family’s seat down in Berkshire, and has rarely been up to town since.”
“He was in the Army?”
“He was, yes; cavalry, I believe. As for General Peyton Keebles, his exploits are well-known. He spent most of his time abroad but still managed to father an avalanche of girls on his brief sojourns home before he finally got his son. He was an arrogant, self-obsessed, mean little man, and I doubt anyone misses him—least of all his wife.”
“What about Sir Samuel Toole? Did he serve in the American War as well?”
“He did, yes. He was a second son, you know, so he was making a career of it. Then his elder brother died, so he came home and sold out.”
Sebastian pushed away from the table to gently rest his hands on the dowager’s shoulders and kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Aunt; I’ll let you get back to your rout preparations.”
She stayed where she was, a troubled frown settling over her features. “You think their service in the American War is significant?”
“I have no idea. But it might be.”
Sebastian went next to Westminster. The light was already fading rapidly from the cold, grim day, and he found Hendon just leaving Downing Street.
At the sight of Sebastian, the Earl paused at the kerb, and whatever he read in Sebastian’s face led him to say, “You’ve discovered something, have you? ”
“Possibly,” said Sebastian as they turned onto Parliament Street. “I need you to tell me what you know about the military service of General Peyton Keebles, Sir Lawrence Upcott, and Sir Samuel Toole.”
Hendon cast him a sideways glance. Sebastian thought he might ask why, but all he said was, “Well, let’s see…
If I remember correctly, Keebles shipped out to the colonies somewhere around 1774 or ’5.
He was part of Cornwallis’s first, unsuccessful attempt to capture Charleston, then joined General Howe up in New York.
He particularly distinguished himself at the Battle of Brandywine and was active in Pennsylvania, then went south again. ”
“He was with Sir Henry Clinton when we finally captured Charleston?”
“He was, yes.” Hendon cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You’re familiar with what happened at Waxhaw Creek?”
“I am, yes.”
Hendon nodded. “Dreadful business, that. He was also at the Battle of Cowpens, before being wounded and captured at the Siege of Yorktown.”
“That’s when he returned to Britain? On parole?”
“Yes. Needless to say, he came home to great acclaim and was knighted. Although then some junior officer who was wounded and captured at Cowpens sent an anonymous letter to the Morning Chronicle harshly criticizing him. It was dismissed at the time as biased—the result of resentment and jealousy—and blame for the disasters settled on Cornwallis and Clinton.”
“Any idea who wrote the letter?”
“As far as I know, it was never discovered. Keebles then stood for Parliament, won handily, and dedicated himself to opposing any attempt to abolish the slave trade. He was actually in the midst of giving a speech on the subject, calling it ‘mistaken philanthropy,’ when he had an apoplectic fit and died. Right there on the floor of the Commons.”
“Fitting. What about Upcott?”
Hendon shook his head. “I don’t actually know much about his service. I don’t believe he was in long.”
“But he was in the American War?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And Sir Samuel Toole?”
“I believe he sailed for America sometime after Keebles. He was an aide-de-camp to General Clinton and saw action in both New York and the Carolinas, but his career wasn’t particularly distinguished.
It’s best remembered for a letter he wrote home and had published.
Basically, it criticized what he called the British tendency toward ‘false humanity.’ He thought the best way to restore our dominion over the colonies would be to lay waste to the land and ‘extirpate the present rebellious race,’ basically through the liberal use of plunder, pillage, rape, and slaughter.
‘Let the wretches feel what a calamity war truly is,’ as he put it. ”
“I’ve known men like that,” said Sebastian. “They think the best way to convince an enemy to surrender is to violate their women and burn their houses, show the men they can’t protect their families.”
Hendon nodded. “It’s the same philosophy Banastre Tarleton used against the southern colonies.”
Sebastian looked over at him. “Keebles and Toole both served with Tarleton?”
“They did, yes. But…surely you can’t think the fathers’ activities in the American War have anything to do with what’s happening now to their sons.”
“You find that far-fetched?”
Hendon thought about it for a moment. “I’ll admit it hadn’t occurred to me, but…” He blew out a harsh breath. “Bridgewood was in the Carolinas as well, you know.”
“He was?”
“Mmm. Not for long, but I know he was there. He was a second son, same as Toole. Didn’t come into the title until ’98 or ’99.”
“Did you ever hear of anything they did that might have inspired someone to seek revenge?”
“Something besides Waxhaw Creek, you mean?” Hendon thought about it a moment. “I can’t think of anything. But knowing them…well, let’s just say it’s possible.” Hendon paused again. “If you’re right, I suppose we should be thankful that Martin Wilcox never served.”
“You’re certain he didn’t?”
Hendon nodded. “Not a day. Although…”
“Although?” prompted Sebastian.
“He did have extensive investments in various shipping interests that played a part in the war.”
“Were any of those interests involved in the slave trade?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Why?”
“Just a thought,” said Sebastian.
Leaving Whitehall, Sebastian went in search of Sir Lawrence Upcott.
But Upcott had already left for home, taking his dead son’s body with him.
Sebastian then spent more time than he had to spare trying to run down Lord Bridgewood.
He was leaving White’s in St. James’s Street when Sir Samuel Toole planted himself in front of Sebastian, stopping him.
The Baronet’s face was red and puffy, his starched shirt points sweat-stained and wilting, his breath reeking of brandy.
“What the bloody hell do you want with Bridgewood?” he demanded. “Bow Street knows exactly who’s behind these killings, and the only thing you’re doing by going around pretending like it’s all some big mystery is to muck things up.”
Sebastian wasn’t going to argue with a grief-stricken father any more than he was going to badger the man about his military service. “Do you know where Bridgewood is?”
“Any idiot can see it’s the Radicals behind it all!” sputtered Toole as if Sebastian hadn’t spoken. “They want to burn this country down the way the Jacobins destroyed France, and these killings are the start of it.”
“Why would Radicals want to kill a simple tavern keeper?” said Sebastian before he could stop himself.
“To shut her up, of course. She was working with them to get at my son.”
Sebastian forced himself to swallow the obvious retort. “Would you happen to know where I might find Lord Bridgewood?”
Toole eyed him suspiciously. “He’s dining with Jarvis and Sidmouth before going to some duchess’s rout. Why? What the devil are you up to now?”