Chapter 49 #2
It was half an hour later before Sebastian, washed, shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes, walked into his drawing room.
Two of the men who had come to see him stood together beside the fire.
The Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth, had one hand resting on the mantelpiece, his head bent as he listened to whatever Bow Street’s unctuous Chief Magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant, was whispering in his ear.
Lovejoy had taken up a position some distance from his companions.
For a moment his gaze met Sebastian’s, and the faintest hint of a wry smile glittered in his eyes before he looked pointedly away.
“Gentlemen,” said Sebastian. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. May I offer you some tea? Ale? Wine?”
“Thank you, but nothing,” said Sidmouth before either of the other two men could answer.
“You’ll excuse me if I have some,” said Sebastian, going to where an array of carafes and glasses stood on a side table.
“We’ve just come from the Haymarket,” said Sir Nathaniel. “The opera dancer who was involved in last night’s shooting has disappeared.”
“Oh?”
“Neither her landlady nor the theater has any idea where she’s gone. She cleaned out her room, leaving only this.” His hand shook with rage as he held out a single sheet of paper crisscrossed with writing.
Sebastian glanced up from easing the stopper from one of the carafes but made no move to take the page being thrust out to him. He knew exactly what it said because he’d helped Sasha draft it. “What is it?” he asked, splashing a healthy measure of wine into one of the glasses.
“It’s a statement that lays out the course of last night’s events, essentially as relayed by you to Sir Henry. It’s signed by this woman and witnessed by her landlady and Damion Pitcairn.” The Chief Magistrate’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Pitcairn, of all people!”
“Oh? It was generous of her to take the time to set the record straight.”
“Generous of her? Generous! To scribble a terse explanation of this shocking series of events and then disappear before we have a chance to interrogate her?” He shook the offending page in disgust. “This woman freely admits to killing a peer of the realm. A peer of the realm! And as if that weren’t bad enough, that damned violin player, Pitcairn, has also disappeared—presumably because he realized he was about to be arrested for organizing yesterday’s riot. ”
“He didn’t organize a riot,” said Sebastian, replacing the carafe’s stopper and picking up his glass. “He helped plan a public meeting.”
“A meeting that turned into a riot! Did you know they broke some of the windows at Somerset House? And threw dung and mud at my carriage! Dung! We’ve already arrested several of the rascals, and it won’t be long before we lay hands on the rest.”
“And John Castle?” said Sebastian, taking a slow sip of his wine. “Have you arrested him? He’s the one who actually started the riot, you know.”
The Home Secretary and Sir Nathaniel Conant exchanged quick glances. Lord Sidmouth cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Castle will be serving as a witness for the prosecution.”
“Of course.” Sebastian looked from one man to the other. “You think he’ll be effective, do you? When the jury finds out he was acting as both a spy and an agent provocateur?”
“He won’t be our only witness,” said Conant. “Several of the conspirators we’ve arrested have proved more than willing to cooperate and turn King’s evidence. They’re writing up their sworn statements as we speak.”
“I see; they write what you tell them to, and you let them keep their heads. Is that the way it works?”
Sidmouth’s face darkened. “Rather than sneering at those loyal subjects of the King who’ve seen the error of their ways, you should be grateful we have some of these rascals in custody.
One or two of the most dangerous will be selected and charged later today with this entire string of ghastly murders—committed, of course, due to their rabid hatred of their betters. ”
“No,” said Sebastian quietly.
Sir Nathaniel Conant stared at him. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I won’t let you pin these murders on a couple of naive, uneducated men whose only real crime is a passionate hatred of injustice combined with a dangerous dose of idealism and overblown romantism.”
“ ‘Idealism’? ‘Romantism’? If those men had had their way, they would have brought down the monarchy! You’re quite cocky, aren’t you, considering that you’ve freely admitted to having shot and killed Sir Samuel Toole. Are you so confident you won’t be charged with murder yourself?”
The threat was anything but subtle. “You think I should have let Sir Samuel murder an innocent young woman, do you?” said Sebastian.
“Stab her?” He suspected most people would argue that Sasha Stone’s involvement in the deaths of Gilbert Keebles and Marcus Toole meant she was far from innocent, but that was a part of the story he was trying to leave out.
He rolled his glass back and forth between his fingers, choosing his words carefully.
“Let me put it to you this way: If you even think of charging me or any of the Spenceans arrested last night with murder, I will tell the world an ugly tale about how a peer of the realm went on a killing spree with his best friend to hide the fact that his son and heir had raped his own half sister. If you think the people of this city are stirred up now, what do you think will happen when they hear what their ‘betters’ have been up to? Rape. Murder. Incest. Miscegenation. Ritualized re-creations of heathen sacrifices. And if you’re reassuring yourself that your captive press won’t print any of it, let me remind you that there are dozens of small Radical presses scattered across this city that regularly churn out pamphlets and broadsheets with circulations the ‘respectable’ papers of Fleet Street can only dream of. ”
“You wouldn’t do that,” said Sir Nathaniel Conant, staring at him in horror.
Sebastian huffed a soft laugh and took another drink. “Of course I would. And in case you’re thinking you can simply tear up the statement Sasha Stone was kind enough to provide, I should perhaps warn you that I have another copy—kept someplace safe.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Sidmouth.
“Believe it.”
Conant and Lord Sidmouth both glanced at Lovejoy, who simply pursed his lips and stared down at his feet.
“So what precisely are you suggesting we do?” said Conant, his voice rough with aggravation and barely controlled fury.
“We have a peer of the realm, his son and heir, and a baronet shot dead in a wretched cottage in Clerkenwell! And that’s in addition to the four murdered young men whose bodies were posed to look like heathen sacrifices—or at any rate, three of them were—and another still missing, besides. ”
“You left out the three dead women,” said Sebastian.
“Yes, yes,” said Conant, dismissing them with a careless wave of his hand.
Sebastian took another sip of his wine, feeling its warmth spread through his veins in a way that reminded him Hero was right: It had been a very long time since his last meal.
He said, “A forger by the name of Robin Easton was found garroted in Grub Street yesterday. Blame the murders on him. Given that he was in all probability working for Bridgewood, I have confidence in your ability to come up with a plausible tale to explain it all. Blackmail, perhaps?” He paused.
“Or would you rather I talk to the Radical press?”
Conant and Sidmouth exchanged fuming glances. “This is outrageous,” sputtered the Chief Magistrate. “You talk of blackmail? I’ll have you know that I consider this blackmail, sir. Blackmail!”
“Yes.”
Lovejoy coughed, bringing up a fist to cover his mouth.
Sidmouth glanced over at him, then snapped, “Wait for me in the carriage below. Both of you. I’ll be down in a moment.”
The Chief Magistrate and Lovejoy were still on the stairs when Lord Sidmouth walked over to stand before Sebastian, his voice kept low and menacing.
“The magistrates from Bow Street may not be familiar with Lady Devlin’s yellow-bodied cabriolet and fine team of matched blacks, but I know them well.
Not only were they seen in the Haymarket yesterday evening, but the turnpike keepers tell us they’re now headed south, toward Hampshire.
” He paused, then added with emphasis, “And its ports.”
“Oh?”
The Home Secretary’s nostrils flared. “We will get them, you know.”
“Get whom?”
“Pitcairn and the opera dancer!”
Sebastian raised his glass to his lips. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You may be able to shield yourself—and them—from these murder charges. But you won’t be able to protect those two from standing trial for treason.” Sidmouth raised his chin and drew a pointed finger across his neck with a smile.
Sebastian took a long, slow swallow and said nothing.
“I don’t understand you,” growled Sidmouth.
“The blood of the finest noble houses of England and Scotland runs through your veins, the blood of kings and queens! Pitcairn and his ilk would see your head on a pike if they could. You’re a traitor to your own class.
” His lip curled. “To your class, and to God.”
“To God? Really? To God?” Sebastian drained his wine and set aside the empty glass with a snap.
“Do you seriously think that your God sent his only begotten son to die on a cross so that you and I could sit in smug judgment on the millions of men, women, and children out there who are languishing in wretched want?”
Sidmouth stared at him. “Heaven preserve us. You sound like a bloody Jacobin. You’re mad. Do you hear me? Absolutely mad.”
Sebastian smiled and looked over at the clock. It was nearly half past ten; the Argonaute sailed in seventeen hours. “Perhaps I am.”