Chapter 36
Shortly after midnight, a warm wind blew in from the south, whistling through the eaves and turning the snow first to sleet, then to rain, so that by morning the white wonderworld of the previous day had turned into a slushy mess.
Shortly after breakfast, Sebastian was in the nursery, playing a rousing game of bilboquets with the boys, when a message arrived from Bow Street. The body of a young woman had been discovered floating in the duck pond out at Chalk Farm.
It was Jenna Diamond.
He found Sir Henry Lovejoy standing at the muddy banks of the old farm’s pond, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his greatcoat, the damp wind flapping his coat’s hem as he stared out over the gray, sullen water.
The rain had melted most of yesterday’s accumulated snow, but the day was still cold and damp, with a heavy leaden sky that seemed to bear down on the dreary, soggy countryside.
The pond was small, probably no more than a hundred and fifty feet across, its shallows thick with the dead stalks of cattails and reeds.
A stand of oaks rose on the far side of the water, their bare branches silhouetted against the gloomy sky.
As Sebastian approached, he could see what was left of Jenna Diamond lying on her back at the edge of the pond’s wind-ruffled waters.
Her simple muslin gown was water-logged and muddy, but the features of her face looked surprisingly composed and calm, as if she were at peace.
He hoped she was.
“This is ugly,” he said, drawing up beside the Bow Street magistrate.
Lovejoy sighed. “Indeed it is.” He bowed his head, his gaze on the dead woman at their feet.
“One of the ostlers says he saw her walking across the yard at around half past seven this morning, but no one else reports having seen her again until about an hour later when one of the cowherds spotted her floating face down amongst the reeds. He jumped in to drag her out and tried to revive her, but by then it was too late.”
“Any strangers seen hanging around?”
Lovejoy shook his head. “We’re still interviewing the staff and people from the surrounding farms, but so far without any luck.
” The magistrate fell silent, his eyes narrowing as he stared out over the wet winter landscape.
“What if there is no logical explanation for how this killer selects his victims? What if whoever is doing this is simply mad?”
Sebastian was aware of the same rising fear, the panicky sense that they were never going to stop this killer because, despite the mirage of a hidden motivation, there was in fact no rational reason behind his selection of his victims. Nothing to tell them who he was or why he was doing this beyond happenstance and whatever sick, twisted pleasure he derived from killing.
When he remained silent, Lovejoy looked over at him and said, “Do you have any explanation? Have you discovered anything at all?”
Sebastian had to force himself to look again at the dead woman’s pale, waxen face.
She was so painfully, heart-wrenchingly young.
And yet everything she might once have become had now vanished, leaving her eyes to dry and flatten and her body to shrink in death as they watched.
“Not really,” he said hoarsely. “Nothing that explains this. She was little more than a child. A child.”
Lovejoy nodded, his features grim as he hunched his shoulders against a damp gust of wind. “Which Celtic god did you say liked its human sacrifices to be drowned?”
“Teutates.”
“This can’t be a coincidence.”
Sebastian watched the strengthening wind flatten the nearby stand of dead reeds and whip up the gray surface of the silent pond into a choppy froth. “No. No, it can’t.”
Sebastian returned to Brook Street sometime later to find Hero out with the boys and Bayard awaiting him in the library.
He’d cleaned himself up since Sebastian had last seen him three—no, four days ago now, Sebastian reminded himself.
His nephew wore pale yellow pantaloons, a burgundy-and-white-striped silk waistcoat, and an extravagantly tailored blue coat with a nipped-in waist. He sat sprawled in one of the leather chairs beside the fire and had helped himself to a glass of brandy.
“Where the devil have you been?” he demanded when Sebastian walked in the door. “I’ve been bloody waiting forever.”
“And it’s not even one o’clock yet,” said Sebastian, going to pour himself a glass of wine. “What’s happened to rouse you from your slumbers at such a barbaric hour of the day?”
Bayard frowned. “Happened? Nothing’s happened.
” He drained his glass, then set it aside and rose to his feet.
“I’ve come to thank you for your efforts to sort out all this nonsense, and to apologize for having involved you in such a sordid affair in the first place.
But now that Bow Street is handling things, you will give it up, won’t you? ”
Sebastian paused with his wineglass raised halfway to his lips. “I beg your pardon?”
“The business of chasing after this killer. It was damned stupid of me to have involved you in this whole sorry situation in the first place. Can’t imagine why I did it, except I suppose I was too bosky to think straight.
But there’s really no need for you to continue meddling in things now, is there? ”
Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of wine. “Did Amanda put you up to this?”
“Mother?” A faint flush touched the younger man’s full cheeks.
“No. It’s just that, well, it’s right what she’s always said, you know.
It’s not seemly having such a close relative chasing after criminals like a bloody Bow Street Runner or something even more common.
So I’m here to say thank you for your help, but you can leave off worrying about it. ”
Sebastian took another sip of wine as he studied his nephew’s oddly sweaty face. “What are you afraid I might discover, Bayard?”
Bayard gave a hollow-sounding laugh. “What? What a ridiculous notion. What would I be afraid of?”
“I don’t know yet. But whatever it is, I will discover it. You do know that, don’t you? So you may as well come clean now and tell me what it is.”
“I told you, there’s nothing! You need to give up this nonsense and go back to overseeing the drainage of your fields, or breeding cows, or reading Plato, or whatever it is you normally do to pass the time. Just stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!”
Sebastian went to stand with his back to the fire, his gaze still on his nephew’s face. “Did you know that another young woman was murdered out at Chalk Farm Tavern this morning?”
“No. Was she? How very odd.”
“Odd. That’s one word for it. You can’t think of a reason why the same person who killed your three friends might also want to kill two of the women who worked at a tavern you liked to frequent?”
“I don’t know that I’d say we ‘frequented’ it, exactly. I mean, we went there a few times; that’s all. What makes you think these women’s deaths have anything to do with what happened to Toole and Keebles?”
“And Upcott.”
“Yes, yes; of course. Upcott, too. My point is, lots of rum characters hang around that tavern, you know. No reason to think this new woman’s death has anything to do with us. I mean, only Toole was killed out there, remember?”
“Do you know Emmanuel Royston-Jones is missing?”
“Of course I know he’s missing!”
“What do you think has happened to him?”
“How the bloody hell would I know?” said Bayard, his voice rising in pitch. “You think I can explain this? I can’t!”
“You know something,” said Sebastian, keeping his own voice even. “That’s why you’re here, now, trying to get me to back off. Because the thought of me discovering whatever is behind all this frightens you even more than the danger of being this killer’s next victim.”
A malevolent look came into Bayard’s face, stretching the flesh taut over his cheekbones. “You’re not bloody listening to me! You need to butt out of all of this. Do you understand? Forget I ever asked for your help. I don’t want you pursuing this anymore!”
“Unfortunately for you, Bayard, I’m not a hireling. And that means you can’t fire me.”
Hot, angry color darkened the younger man’s face.
“You’re just doing this because you don’t like me.
That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve never liked me, the same way you never liked my father.
It’s jealousy, I suppose. You might be the heir to an earldom while I’m simply a baron, but I’m a baron now, while all you have is a courtesy title.
And it’s all you will have as long as the old man is alive, and he doesn’t show signs of going anywhere soon, does he?
As long as he hangs on, all you’ve got to live on is what he gives you plus whatever paltry income you can scrape out of that wretched little estate of yours down in Hampshire, and it really burns your arse, doesn’t it?
Knowing how many tens of thousands of pounds my father’s investments bring me every year. ”
Sebastian couldn’t help himself; he laughed out loud.
“You think that’s funny?” screamed Bayard, spittle flying from his mouth.
“You think I’m still the ‘nasty little boy’ you’ve despised since I was ten?
That’s right; I heard you call me that one time when I was down from Eton for the holidays.
Well, I stopped being a ‘little boy’ a long time ago.
You think you can mess with me? Treat me like this?
You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” He snatched up his hat from where he’d tossed it and went to wrench open the door, pausing only to twist around and shout, “You hear me? You don’t know! ”
Sebastian stood where he was as his nephew stormed from the room, heard him swear at Morey as the majordomo moved to open the front door.
Had he once said such a thing about Bayard as a boy?
Sebastian wondered as he listened to his nephew stomp down the steps.
He couldn’t remember the incident, although it didn’t surprise him.
There had always been something worrisomely “off” about Bayard.
But that didn’t lessen the deep regret Sebastian felt for the pain he had obviously caused the child Bayard had once been—a pain that still festered deep within him as a man.
He was aware of the sound of the children’s laughter coming from the street outside, of Hero’s cheerful voice as she called out a greeting to Bayard.
Bayard ignored her.
“What’s wrong with Bayard?” said Hero, coming to stand in the library doorway as the boys raced up the stairs with Claire. “He looks in a rage about something.”
Sebastian walked over to pour himself another glass of wine. “He came to tell me that Bow Street has the search for his friends’ murderer well in hand, so that my services are no longer required and I need to stop disgracing the family by acting like some lowly Runner.”
“Functioning as Amanda’s agent, is he?” said Hero, untying the ribbons of her hat and tossing it aside.
“That’s what I thought at first.”
She looked over at him. “But now?”
Sebastian shook his head. “I think he’s afraid I might discover something—something he evidently sees as more of a danger than this killer.”
“How is that even possible? Unless…” She paused.
“Unless?”
“Unless he now knows who the killer is and realizes the man’s actually not a threat—not a threat to Bayard personally, I mean.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” said Sebastian, taking a thoughtful sip of his wine.
He was aware of quick footsteps on the pavement outside that turned to run up the front steps and rap the knocker.
They heard Morey move to open the door again, heard a murmur of voices.
Then Morey appeared at the entrance to the library with a folded note on a silver salver.
“From Paul Gibson, my lord,” he said, holding it out.
Puzzled, Sebastian broke the message’s seal and unfolded the single page as Morey bowed himself out.
“What now?” said Hero as Sebastian glanced through the brief note.
“It’s not exactly from Gibson,” he said, handing the note to her.
Lord Devlin,
I know something about the young girl whose body Bow Street just delivered here that you should be aware of. Something that might explain what’s been happening.
A. Sauvage