C Harris: Where Shadows Dance

“Not so much, sir. The moon was still pretty new, but it was clear and the stars was shinin’ somethin’ fierce. It was a gentry cove’s carriage, all right. A curricle, drawn by a pair o’ highsteppin’ dark ’orses and driven by a cove wearin’ one o’ them fancy coats with all them shoulder capes.”

Lovejoy studied the boy’s pale, delicate features. “And?”

“I could see the gentry cove was wrestlin’ with somethin’ big and bulky ʹe ʹad on the floor o’ ’is curricle. So I nipped behind the wall o’ the corner house there to watch, and I seen ’im dump it’ere, in the ditch. It’d rained some that day, and I ’eard the splash when it ’it the water.”

Lovejoy’s gaze drifted back to the silent, canvas-covered body at their feet. “What did the gentleman do next?”

“Why, ’e got back in ’is curricle and drove off. Toward the west, sir.”

“And what did you do, Jamie?”

Jamie dug the bare toes of one foot into the dirt, his gaze averted.

“Speak up, there, lad,” barked the constable. “Answer the magistrate’s question.”

Jamie’s jaw went slack with remembered horror. “I ... um, I waited ’til I was sure the cove was long gone. Then I come and took a peek at what ’e’d ’eaved into the ditch.”

“Are you telling me,” said Lovejoy, “that you have known this body was here since last Saturday night? And you only just got around to telling the constables about it today?”

The boy took a step back, his eyes widening. “I kept thinkin’ somebody was bound to find ʹim. Especially once ʹe started smellin’. But then ’e jist laid ’ere and laid ’ere, and finally it got so’s I couldn’t stand it no more. So I told Father Dean at St. Matthew’s, and ’e said I should own up to what I seen.”

Lovejoy frowned. “You’re certain this was Saturday night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you first saw it, was the body fresh? Or was it already showing signs of decay?”

“Oh, ’e were fresh, all right. Why, ’e were still warm!”

Lovejoy frowned. “What time did you say this was?”

“Jist after three, sir. I remember I ’eard the night watchman calling the hour as I was crossin’ the green.”

Lovejoy and the constable exchanged glances. “And what were you doing out at three in the morning, lad? Hmm? Speak up there.”

Jamie Durban took another step back, his previously pale face suddenly flushing scarlet.

“Go on, then. Answer the magistrate’s question,” urged the constable.

His nostrils flaring in panic, the boy whirled to take off across the green, arms and legs pumping, hair flashing golden red in the hot sun.

“Bloody hell.” The constable lumbered up out of the ditch. “You want I should go after him, sir?”

Lovejoy watched the boy run. “No. Let him go. I assume you know where he lives?”

“Yes, sir. In Three Dog Lane. Lives with his widowed ma and three sisters, he does.”

His handkerchief pressed once more to his nostrils, Lovejoy hunkered down beside the ditch. The weeds had been trampled by countless rough boots, the fetid water churned and muddied. Whatever evidence might have been recoverable days ago had been lost to the rain and the passage of time and careless men. He glanced up at the constable. “You’ve searched the area?”

“We have. Nothing, sir.” The constable paused. “You want we should send the body to the dead house in Wapping, sir?”

Lovejoy frowned. London had several dead houses, or mortuaries, for unidentified or unclaimed bodies. But they were miserable, filthy places, most with little space for a proper postmortem.

He shook his head. “Fetch a shell from the dead house, but have a couple of lads carry the body to the surgery of Paul Gibson, on Tower Hill. Perhaps he’ll be able to give us something to go on.” He pushed to his feet. “And check the pawnbrokers’ shops and fences in the area. See if young Mr. Durban has sold any men’s jewelry or other items in the last week.”

“You think he stole something from the body, sir?”

“How else did he know the corpse was still warm?”

“Aye, good point that, sir. Although I suppose—” The constable broke off, his gaze shifting to something over Sir Henry’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Lovejoy turned to find a tall, bone-thin clerk hurrying toward them across the green. He drew up before them, his breath coming in noisy gasps.

“Sir Henry,” said the man, his pale forehead gleaming with sweat. “A message for you from the Foreign Office. The Undersecretary, Sir Hyde Foley, wishes to see you. At once!”

S ebastian’s next stop was the Mayfair town house of the woman he still thought of as his Aunt Henrietta, although she was not, in truth, his aunt, or any other relation closer than a distant cousin.

Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the elder sister of the Earl of Hendon, she had been married for fifty years to the Duke of Claiborne. A widow now for more than three years, the Dowager Duchess still occupied the vast family pile on Park Lane. By rights, the house belonged to her eldest son. But the new Duke of Claiborne was no match for his formidable mother. So while the current Duke raised his growing family in a much smaller house on Half Moon Street, the Duchess continued on as before, one of the acknowledged grandes dames of society—and a veritable walking Debrett’s Peerage , who knew everything there was to know about the members of the Upper Ten Thousand.

Sebastian expected to find her still abed, or perhaps sipping chocolate in her dressing room, for the Duchess was famous for never leaving her room before one. But to his surprise, she was not only up and dressed, but in her breakfast parlor partaking of toast and tea and perusing a copy of the Morning Post.

“Good heavens,” she said, sitting forward with a jerk that set her tea to slopping dangerously. “Sebastian.”

“You’re up early, Aunt,” he said, stooping to plant a kiss on her cheek. “It’s barely past noon.”

“Blame Claiborne’s eldest, Georgina. Takes after me, poor girl. But as I always say, just because a woman is not beautiful is no excuse for not being fashionable. Unfortunately, that silly nitwit Claiborne married can’t dress herself properly, let alone a chit just out of the schoolroom. So there’s nothing for it but for me to take the child to the cloth warehouses myself.”

“Ah.”

She reached for her quizzing glass and regarded him through it. “Why are you here, you fatiguing child?”

He laughed. “Two things, actually. First of all, I’d like to hear what you know about Sir Gareth Ross.”

“Sir Gareth?” She looked intrigued. “Whatever has he done?”

“Nothing that I know of.” Sebastian drew out the chair beside her and sat. “Tell me about him.”

ʺWell ... there’s not much to tell, actually. He must be in his early forties by now, I suppose. Your typical country gentleman. Married some chit from Norfolk—a Miss Alice Hart, if I remember correctly—but she died in childbirth barely a year later, and her child with her. He never remarried.”

“I take it he’s something of an invalid?”

“That’s right. Broke his back in a carriage accident a few years ago. He isn’t exactly bedridden, but he doesn’t get around much and, well”—she dropped her voice to a stage whisper and leaned forward—“let’s just say, I’ve heard he won’t be siring any sons.”

“So his heir presumptive was his younger brother, Mr. Alexander Ross. And now?”

“A cousin of some sort. There were something like four or five daughters in the family, but only the two sons.”

Sebastian turned sideways so he could stretch out his legs and cross his boots at the ankles. “What do you know about Alexander Ross?”