C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

He said, “I take it Preston was no more inclined to favor a match between you now than he was six years ago?”

Wyeth pulled a face. “Hardly. He had high hopes of Anne agreeing to marry some baronet who’s been courting her. Anne’s grandfather married a rich merchant’s daughter, you know, and then Stanley Preston himself improved the family’s social standing by marrying the daughter of an impoverished lord. It was his ambition to see Anne marry both a title and money. And he was not a man who liked to have his ambitions thwarted.”

“When did you last see him?”

Wyeth’s gaze slid away, his jaw hardening.

Sebastian said, “Recently, I take it?”

The other man nodded.

“Why?” asked Sebastian.

Captain Wyeth looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean, why, exactly, did you see him?”

“If you must know, he came barging into the taproom of the Shepherd’s Rest last Saturday evening. Threatened to horsewhip me if he ever found out I’d been near his daughter again.”

“And how did you respond?”

“I told him I’m not some slave on one of his plantations, and that if he ever tried it, I’d-” He broke off.

“You’d-what?”

Wyeth let out his breath in an odd expulsion that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. “I said I’d take the whip away and use it on him myself. But I didn’t kill him. I swear to God, I didn’t kill him.”

“Where were you Sunday night?”

“At a musical evening given by Lady Farningham.”

“The same event attended by Miss Preston?”

“As it happens, yes.”

“Did Stanley Preston know you were going to be there?”

“Good God, no.”

“So certain?”

“Yes. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have allowed her to attend.”

“What time did this musical evening end?”

“I couldn’t say. I myself left early.”

“And went where?”

“For a walk.”

“Alone? In the rain?”

“Yes, damn you.”

“You do realize Preston was killed sometime between half past ten and eleven?”

Wyeth was silent for a moment, his gaze narrowing as he watched a duck come in low to land on the shiny stretch of ornamental water beside them. Then he said again, more quietly this time, “I tell you, I didn’t kill him.”

“So who do you think did?”

“I don’t know! You think that if I had any idea, I wouldn’t tell you?” He put up his left hand to massage the shoulder of his wounded arm. “The truth is, Stanley Preston could become damnably abusive when in a passion. He could have tangled with anyone. I know he had a row recently with Thistlewood that nearly ended in blows.”

“Who?”

“Basil Thistlewood III. He keeps a cabinet of curiosities down on Cheyne Walk, in Chelsea. I’m told it’s been there forever-his grandfather actually started it.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Sebastian.

Wyeth nodded. “I remember my sister taking me to see it when I came to visit her one time as a lad.”

“Do you know why Preston and Thistlewood quarreled?”

“From what I understand, Thistlewood was in a rage over Preston’s acquisition of the Duke of Suffolk’s head. Claimed it should’ve been his by rights, only Preston cheated him out of it.”

“Thistlewood also collects heads?”

“He collects anything and everything.”

Sebastian studied the captain’s open, seemingly guileless face. He came across as an essentially pleasant young man-troubled and bitter, perhaps, but basically honest and straightforward and unaffected. And yet. .

And yet, Wyeth and Anne Preston had just sent Sebastian in two very different directions, with Miss Preston pointing a subtle finger toward Oliphant, while Wyeth implicated the keeper of a Chelsea cabinet of curiosities.

And Sebastian couldn’t get past the suspicion that both helpful suggestions were as deliberate as they were coordinated.

There was nothing in London quite like Basil Thistlewood’s coffeehouse, built overlooking the broad waters of the Thames at Chelsea. It had been in existence for nearly a century, with new and exotic items added to its overstuffed rooms every year. Admission was free for the price of a cup of coffee or the purchase of a catalogue.

“You’d like a catalogue, my lord?” asked Thistlewood, bustling forward as soon as he heard Sebastian talking to the barman. “Tuppence each. Three for fivepence, and a tanner will get you a personal guided tour.”

The coffeehouse owner was a wiry, gaunt-faced man, probably somewhere in his early fifties, with watery, bloodshot eyes, beard-stubbled cheeks, and unruly gray eyebrows that met over the bridge of a ponderous nose. A stale, musty odor rose from his old-fashioned frock coat and yellowed, ruffle-fronted shirt, as if he’d borrowed his clothes from one of the cases in his exhibit.

“A personal tour, please,” said Sebastian, duly handing over his sixpence.

Thistlewood swept a courtly bow. “Right this way, your lordship.”

He ushered Sebastian into a chamber jammed with dusty, glass-topped cases and walls crowded close with everything from curious pieces of driftwood and giant turtle shells to primitive spears and antique swords. Items too large for the cases or walls-a stuffed alligator, giant elephants’ tusks, even a canoe fashioned from a hollowed-out log-hung from the ceiling.

Pausing in the center of the room, Thistlewood sucked in a deep breath and launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed spiel, delivered in a singsong voice. “In this case here, you’ll see a Roman bishop’s crosier, antique coins found when they were laying down new water pipes in Bath, and a set of prayer beads made from the bones of St. Anthony of Padua.”

“Really?” said Sebastian, peering at the rosary. The beads certainly appeared to have been made from someone’s bones.

Thistlewood squared his shoulders and looked affronted. “Surely you are not questioning their authenticity?”

“No; of course not.”

They moved to the next case. “The most notable items here are a piece of sandstone bearing the fossilized imprints of ancient ferns, and a giant frog found on the Isle of Dogs.”

Sebastian studied the stuffed amphibian, which looked to be a good fourteen inches long. “Somehow, I suspect he was not native to fair England.”

“No,” agreed Thistlewood. “Most likely a stowaway hopped off one of the ships docked there, I always thought.” He raised a hand toward the wall above the case. “The sword you see hanging here was used in the coronation of King Charles himself. And-”

“First, or Second?” asked Sebastian, his interest caught.

“First.” Thistlewood nodded to the next case. “And here we have Queen Elizabeth’s prayer book and strawberry dish.”

“Where did you get all these”-Sebastian paused, searching for an appropriate word, and finally settled on-“objects?”

“The original collection was begun by my grandfather, the first Basil Thistlewood. He was valet to none other than Sir Hans Sloane himself, before Sir Hans bequeathed most of his collection to the nation. When my grandfather left his service in 1725 to open a coffeehouse on these premises, Sir Hans most graciously gave him a number of items to put on display. My grandfather himself increased the collection considerably, as did my father after him, and I have continued the tradition. Fortunately, we are quite popular with sea captains, who every year bring us a variety of new, interesting specimens from their worldwide voyages.”

Sebastian leaned over a nearby case to study the array of stone projectile points displayed there. “I’ve heard you were recently frustrated in your attempts to acquire the Duke of Suffolk’s head.”