Chapter 45
Sebastian saw Kate’s eyes widen, saw the blood spill from her suddenly parted lips. He caught her as she crumpled.
“Bloody hell,” he swore, lowering her gently to the floor.
He was aware of the patter of footsteps running away, toward Fleet Street.
The urge to give chase was strong, but he tamped it down as Kate stared up at him with frightened, pain-filled eyes.
He could feel her life’s blood soaking through the cloth of her gown to run down his arm, see the light in her eyes already beginning to dim.
“You’re wrong,” she whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t kill Alison and Jenna.
Why would I?” A spasm of raw agony convulsed her features, and she sucked in a quick, shallow breath.
“Keebles and Toole, yes. But not…not Upcott. Not Wilcox. Wanted to, only…” She coughed up a stream of bright red blood. “Someone beat us to them.”
He lifted her head and shoulders higher, trying desperately to keep her from drowning in her own blood. “And Emmanuel Royston-Jones?”
Her head shifted from side to side in denial. “He never…never did us anything.”
“ ‘Us’ being the three of you? You, Jenna, and Alison?”
“Not Jenna. Alison…” Her breath wheezed. “Alison and I.”
“Except there were three of you on that bridge. You, Alison, and who else? Ciana? Sasha? Tell me.”
Her hand came up, the fingers clutching fiercely at the front of his greatcoat. “Promise me…promise me you’ll get him. Bridgewood. Must be…must be him doing…doing it all.” Her breath rattled in her throat. “Promise…”
“Whoever it is, I’ll get them,” he promised.
But by then, she was gone
“Poor woman,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, his features set in troubled lines as he stared down at Kate Price’s crumpled form.
The small printshop was now ablaze with lantern light; more lanterns flickered in the darkness outside as Lovejoy’s constables searched the lane and knocked on doors in the hopes of finding someone who had seen…
something. “I assume the shooter was aiming at you and hit her by mistake?”
Sebastian stood beside him, his throat painfully tight as he shook his head. “I think he killed the person he came to get.”
Lovejoy looked up, his eyes narrowing in a frown as he studied the shattered window and the narrow lane beyond. “A rifle, I assume?”
“Actually, it sounded like a pistol.”
“You’re certain? Not an easy shot, surely, with a pistol?”
“Not easy, no, but possible. My guess is the killer came here intending to quietly kill Kate Price and pose her body like his other victims, but changed his mind and decided to shoot her when he saw her talking to me.”
“But why? What has she to do with the other killings?”
Sebastian sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain.
“How much did you tell Sir Henry?” said Hero later as Sebastian set about washing Kate Price’s blood from his hands and face.
He poured hot water from his dressing room pitcher into the basin, then leaned over and cupped his hands to splash his face.
“I told him Kate confessed to killing Keebles and Toole but swore she had nothing to do with the other murders. But given that I couldn’t betray Alexi’s confidences about Rosamund Price, it doesn’t make a lot of sense.
I’ll be surprised if either Sir Nathaniel Conant or Sidmouth believes any of it.
Much easier to blame the Radicals and use it as an excuse to hang a few troublemakers. ”
Hero was silent for a moment, watching Sebastian lather his face and hands and rinse them carefully. Then she said, “Kate was dying; why would she deny killing Upcott and Wilcox unless it was true?”
He reached for a towel. “The convenient explanation would be to protect the unknown third killer, who could be Sasha, or Ciana, or someone else we don’t even know about.
But that doesn’t really make sense. She freely admitted they’d murdered Keebles and Toole, so why deny killing the other two?
” He tossed the towel aside. “And think about this: We know from Jigger that Keebles simply fell in the Thames, and Toole could easily have landed in that fire when he was shot. Yet, in every killing since then, the body has been deliberately staged to look like an ancient form of human sacrifice: Alison and Upcott were hanged from wood, while Jenna was drowned.”
“Except Bayard wasn’t posed; he was simply stabbed.”
“Except Bayard,” he agreed, reaching for a clean shirt. “In Bayard’s case, the killer could have been interrupted. With Kate, I think he panicked when he saw me talking to her and decided to shut her up as quickly as possible. Who knows what contrived scenario he had planned? Fire, probably.”
Hero watched Sebastian pull the shirt over his head.
“It’s Theo, isn’t it? He killed everyone except Keebles and Upcott.
He realized that any investigation into his friends’ deaths had the potential to uncover their nasty way of getting back at anyone who angered them, and Rosamund Price’s death means they could potentially be found guilty for murder.
So he panicked. He killed Alison and Jenna—and Rosamund Price’s aunt, Kate—so they won’t be able to tell anyone what Theo and his friends had been up to.
And he killed Phineas Upcott because the man was so nervous, Theo was afraid he might accidently betray them.
Keebles’s drowning and the bonfire that burned Toole gave him the idea to stage his own killings to look like Celtic sacrifices, so that way all the deaths would appear to be the work of the same murderer.
And because Theo spent the night when Toole was killed clutching his chamber pot with his valet hovering at his elbow, he would seem to have an alibi. ”
“That works except for one thing: Why kill Bayard?”
“For the same reason as Upcott.”
“Perhaps. Although the last time I saw him, Bayard seemed to have himself relatively under control.” Sebastian reached for a clean cravat. “At least for Bayard. And Theo Bridgewood himself is obviously terrified that he’s going to be the killer’s next victim.”
She frowned. “You’re quite certain?”
“I suppose it could be an act, but I doubt it.”
“So who does that leave? The unknown third woman from the bridge, who has now decided for some inexplicable reason to start killing everyone, including her friends?”
He looped the cravat around his neck. “Or Emmanuel Royston-Jones.”
“Assuming he’s still alive.”
Sebastian met her gaze. “Assuming he’s still alive.”
Monday, 2 December
The next morning, Sebastian settled at the desk in the library, his hands pressed flat on the blotter.
He sat for some time gazing at the big, long-haired black cat curled up asleep on one of the chairs by the fire.
Then he pulled a sheet of paper before him, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and made a list of names down the left side of the page, in a column:
Victims:
Gilbert Keebles, Marcus Toole
Alison Cross, Jenna Diamond, Kate Price
Phineas Upcott, Bayard
Emmanuel Royston-Jones???
On the other side of the page, he made a second column:
Murderers???
Adam York, Damion Pitcairn, Dudley Fenton, Friedrich Accum, Sid Diamond
Ciana O’Leary, Sasha Stone
Theo Bridgewood, Emmanuel Royston-Jones
He stared at the two columns for a long, long time. Then he added:
Lord Bridgewood, Sir Samuel Toole
He was drawing a circle around the last two names when he heard the front door fly open with a bang. Looking up, he heard Morey’s hiss, then Tom catapulted into the room, his hat clutched in his hands and his breath coming in quick pants.
“Gov’nor! Wait till ye hear this! Ye was right about that slyboots, Castle.
Turns out ’e’s been workin’ with Bow Street all along.
Sent more’n one poor flat up the steps t’ the nubbing cheat, ’e ’as.
Seems ’e and a friend was taken up fer forgery, but ’e agreed t’ sing against ’is mate.
So the mate was hanged, and our Castle, ’e now dances t’ whatever tune Stafford and Conant decide t’ play. ”
“You’re certain?”
“No doubt about it at all. And listen t’ this: ‘E’s got ’imself on the committee that’s been plannin’ these big meetings up at Spa Fields.
Seems ’e’s in real thick wit that feller Thistle or whatever ’is name is.
But there’s others on the committee as don’t trust ’im at all, on account of ’ow ’e’s always tryin’ t’ stir things up, gettin’ men drunk and eggin’ ’em on t’ say things like they want a revolution or they think it’s past time t’ be puttin’ heads on pikes. ”
Sebastian set aside his pen. “The second Spa Fields meeting is today?”
Tom nodded. “At noon. And get this: The government done already called out the Life Guards and the Ninth Dragoons, too. I hear tell they’ve closed all the gates at the Tower, pulled up the drawbridge, and loaded the cannons.
They’ve even got soldiers stationed at Newgate and the bank, and Sir Nathaniel Conant an’ that nasty Bow Street chief clerk of ’is what controls John Castle are already sittin’ up there in Clerkenwell at Cold Bath Fields Prison, jist waitin’ to bring treason charges against all the poor suckers they’re planning t’ haul in. ”
“Is Lovejoy there?”
“Don’t know, sir. But a whole heap o’ special constables ’as been sworn in. Hundreds of ’em!” Tom paused to draw breath. “This ain’t gonna be good, is it?”
“No,” said Sebastian, pushing up from his chair to head for the door. “No, it’s not. Morey!”
“Yes, my lord?” said the majordomo with a bow.
“Do you know where Lady Devlin was planning to conduct her interviews this morning?”
“I heard Coachman John say something about Tothill Street, my lord.”
“Thank God for that,” said Sebastian. Lying just to the northwest of Westminster Abbey, the ancient byway was far, far away from any trouble that was likely to break out in Clerkenwell or the City.
He grabbed his hat. “Have Giles bring the curricle around. And, Tom, I want you to find Lady Devlin and warn her of what’s likely to happen.
“Just in case.”