Chapter 38
The butcher’s name was Silas McDougal, and Hero interviewed him that afternoon at a crude stall near Smithfield Market.
A big, brawny man with black hair and a wild, full beard, he told her a story that was already painfully familiar, of endless trips to the pawnbrokers until there was nothing left to sell, of a proper shop lost when he couldn’t make the rent, of a wife and three children sent to live with family elsewhere.
But then, as she was still scribbling his responses in her notebook, he surprised her by saying, “You ever read much Roman history?”
She looked up. “Some. Do you enjoy history?”
He nodded. “Been readin’ it more and more. About men like Brutus, Cassius, Cato…how they fought back against Julius Caesar and what he was tryin’ to do. Those men were real heroes, weren’t they?”
“They certainly risked their lives for what they believed in,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
He stared off down the ancient, crowded lane with its decrepit collection of tumbledown lodging houses, seedy pubs, and tiny, grime-smeared shops.
“It’s what they’re afraid of, ain’t it? Liverpool and Sidmouth and the rest of them, I mean.
Did you know they hang more men, women, and children here in London than in any city in Europe?
By far. And there’s more private and public prisons here, too.
Guess it takes a heap of work, keepin’ John Bull under control.
Just think about it: spies, constables, whips, sabers, shackles, gallows, gibbets, Botany Bay…
All to keep us in our ‘proper place.’ But the day of reckoning has got to be coming soon.
” He brought his gaze back to her face. “Don’t ye think? ”
Hero closed her notebook. “These are indeed turbulent times.”
Haunted by what she’d been hearing, Hero returned to Brook Street to find Devlin standing at the edge of the terrace, his head bare, the wind flapping the hem of his greatcoat, his outthrust hands braced against the stone banister before him as he gazed out over the dismal, wet garden.
“You saw Alexi?” she said, going to stand beside him.
He glanced over at her, his face solemn. “I did, yes.”
She waited, and when he was ready, he told her what he had learned.
For a long time she simply stared unseeingly at the garden, her heart pounding with a sick combination of shock, anger, and outrage. She said, “For some reason, I didn’t think those men could have done anything more despicable than what we’d already heard. But I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
She watched a robin come in to perch on a branch of holly, the wind ruffling his feathers as he seemed to stare back at her.
“They tried to kill Diamond’s horse to get back at him for spoiling their fun in Chalk Farm Tavern, but when that didn’t work, they decided to violate his sister instead.
” She gave a disbelieving shake of her head.
“Who would do something like that?” She glanced over at him.
“You think they went after Alison Cross, too?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. She dared to stop them that night as well, remember?”
“And the fifteen-year-old girl Alexi told you about—the one who died? How does she fit into this?”
“It’s hard to say without knowing who she was, but I suspect something similar was behind that, too.”
“It’s all about revenge, isn’t it? Both what those men did to Jenna and what’s being done to the men now.” She paused. “What I don’t understand is, why would whoever is killing the men start killing the women, too?”
Devlin pushed away from the banister and turned to face her.
“I think we might be looking at two different killers. One—the first killer—has been going after Keebles, Toole, and their friends in revenge for something they did. He could be the brother, father, husband, or lover of a woman those men attacked, but he could also be someone else entirely, someone getting back at them for one of the many other nasty things we know they did. But for whatever reason the original killer started stalking those men, one of them is now afraid that an investigation into his friends’ deaths is going to turn up the truth about what they did to those women.
So he’s killing the women to make certain they never get the chance to talk about it. ”
“At this point, that can only mean either Bayard or Bridgewood,” she said quietly. “If Emmanuel is dead—or had no part in what was done to those women—then they’re the only two left alive.”
“Or it could be both Bayard and Bridgewood, working together.”
“But why stage the bodies to look like ancient Celtic sacrifices?”
“I don’t know why the original killer was doing that, but I suspect the second killer adopted it as a strategy to make us think the murders are all the work of the same person.”
A sudden gust of wind sent a whirl of dried leaves scuttling across the terrace.
Hero let her head fall back, her eyes narrowing as she watched the heavy gray clouds bunching overhead.
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, how many times those men did that—went after some innocent woman as a way of getting their revenge on a man who had angered them.
What a sick, perverted attitude toward women they must have, to do something like that. ”
“It happens all the time in war.”
She looked over at him. “It’s what Sir Samuel advocated, isn’t it? In that letter he wrote to the Morning Chronicle about the American War?”
“It is, yes.”
She fell silent, her gaze dropping to her clenched hands.
“What is it?” he asked, watching her.
She looked up. “How common is it? That attitude, I mean.”
He met her gaze and held it. “More common than most people want to believe.”
A short time later, they were turning back toward the house when they heard the clatter of hooves, the rattle of a carriage drawing up, and a woman’s familiar, imperiously raised voice.
“That sounds like Amanda,” said Hero.
Sebastian’s hand tightened on the handle of the French door that led to the dining room. “It’s Amanda.”