C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

When he remained silent, she said, “You think Diggory Flynn works for Oliphant, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head to one side, and he knew what she was thinking-that his history with Oliphant was tempting him to see connections where they didn’t necessarily exist. He acknowledged that she might even be right.

But he didn’t think so.

She said, “Why would Oliphant set someone to watch me? Not you, but me?”

Sebastian went to where a decanter stood warming on a table before the fire and poured himself a glass of brandy. “It’s a game he plays; a game of intimidation. He wants people to know they’re being watched-and that the people they love are vulnerable. He enjoys making them afraid.”

“I would think he’d know you better than that-know that you don’t frighten easily.”

He watched her head bend as she stroked the cat, watched the firelight catch the subtle auburn glints in the heavy fall of her hair and glaze the angle of her cheekbone. He wanted to tell her that there were things Oliphant knew that she did not, and that sometimes the innocent are made to pay for the sins of the guilty. But all he said was, “The thought of anything happening to you or Simon scares the hell out of me.”

She lifted her head to meet his gaze, her features calm and still. “Nothing is going to happen to us.”

He took a long pull of his brandy and felt it burn deep in his chest. “Your father thinks I’m putting you at risk simply by looking into Preston’s murder.”

“Well, that’s something you two have in common, then-needlessly worrying about Simon and me, I mean.” She shifted her hand to scratch the cat beneath his chin, the feline’s eyes slitting with pleasure as he lifted his head. “Jarvis tells me Charles I’s head is missing, as well as the coffin strap.”

Sebastian went to stand before the fire. “Saw him, did you?”

“This afternoon, when Simon and I were visiting my mother. He’s not exactly pleased with you, is he?”

“Is he ever?”

A gleam of amusement showed in the gray eyes that were so much like her father’s. “No.” The amusement faded. “Do you have any idea yet how the theft from the royal vault figures into Preston’s murder?”

“Oh, I’ve plenty of ideas. And not a bloody clue which-if any-of them are right. I don’t even know who brought the coffin strap to the bridge that night. It could have been the original thief, or a dealer, or the killer-assuming that the thief or dealer isn’t the killer. Or even Preston himself.”

“Why would Preston be carrying it?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Perhaps he was taking it to show someone. Or perhaps he’d just purchased it.” He tilted his head back and moved it slowly from side to side in a futile attempt to loosen some of the tension he carried in his neck. “If the strap had been left beside the body, I might think the killer intended it as some sort of statement or warning. But it wasn’t; it was lying in weeds down near the creek, as if someone had simply dropped it.”

“Perhaps the killer did leave it with the body. Only, someone else came along and picked it up. Someone who then dropped it in fright. Or perhaps the killer was stealing it and he dropped it.”

“I can see Thistlewood or Priss Mulligan taking the coffin strap. But not Oliphant or Wyeth.”

She smiled. “You complained last night that you had almost no suspects. Now you have almost too many: the unknown relic thief; a vindictive ex-governor; a scorned Army captain; a rival curiosity collector; and a nasty secondhand dealer.”

“Don’t forget the banker who quarreled with Preston right before he was killed. I haven’t even been able to speak with him yet.”

“What’s his name? Do you know?”

Sebastian nodded. “Henry Austen. I spoke to his sister.”

“You mean, Jane Austen?”

“Yes. You know her?”

“I met her a few times at a friend’s salon last year. She’s a deceptively clever woman with a devastating wit.”

“She is indeed. She tells me Preston was angry with her brother over something Austen’s wife said.”

“Sounds like a rather silly argument over which to kill someone.”

“True. Yet men have killed for less. And he is the last person known to have seen Preston alive.” Sebastian drained his glass and set it aside. Then his gaze fell on the set of three slim blue volumes that rested on the table beside her chair, and he said, “Don’t tell me you’re reading this new anonymous novel as well?”

“My mother gave it to me. It’s quite entertaining.” She scooped the cat up into her arms and laughed out loud when he stiffened and widened his eyes in indignation. “And I’ve found the perfect name for you,” she told the cat. “It precisely captures your charming blend of arrogance and aloofness- and your impressive handsomeness, of course.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Mr. Darcy.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She let the cat go and smiled as he jumped down in disgust. “Then you must read the book.”

Wednesday, 24 March

The next morning, Sebastian was standing on the corner of Henrietta Street, his gaze drifting over the facade of Henry Austen’s bank, when a tall, slim man in a neatly tailored blue coat and high-crowned beaver hat emerged from the bank’s entrance and walked across the street toward him.

He looked to be in his early forties, with a long face and aristocratic nose and a military carriage that lingered still. His small, thin mouth curled up in a pleasant smile that was probably habitual, and he looked enough like his sister that Sebastian had no difficulty identifying him.

“I thought I’d save my clerk the trauma of another visit from you and simply come out,” said Henry Austen, drawing up before him.

“Was he traumatized?” asked Sebastian as the two men turned to walk along Bedford Street, toward the Strand and Fleet Street.

“He likes to pretend he is, at any rate.” Austen threw him a swift, sideways glance. “My sister warned me to expect a visit from either you or Bow Street. Am I a suspect?”

“Bow Street thinks you are.”

Austen pressed his lips together and drew in a deep breath that flared his nostrils. “It’s because of that blasted incident in the pub the other night, is it?”

“Is there another reason Bow Street should suspect you?”

“Good God, no.”

They paused at a side street to allow a collier’s wagon to lumber past.

“Why, precisely, did you quarrel?” Sebastian asked. He’d already listened to Jane Austen’s explanation, but he wanted to hear her brother’s version.

“I don’t know if I’d describe it as a quarrel, exactly. Preston was already furious when he walked into the pub. If you ask me, he was looking for someone on whom to unload some spleen, and I was simply there.”

“What was he angry about?”

“The crushing of his grand ambition of seeing his daughter married to a title, I suppose. Jane told you about Anne, didn’t she?”

“She did. Although I must admit I find it hard to believe Preston would be so enraged simply because your wife expressed regrets over something she said six years ago.”

“Yes, well. .” Austen put up a hand to scratch his ear. “The thing is, I didn’t exactly tell my sister everything. I mean, Preston was angry because of what Eliza had said. But he was also furious with Jane.”

“For what?”

“For ‘encouraging Anne’s romantic notions,’ was the way he put it. You see, before Captain Wyeth reappeared in town, Anne was on the verge of accepting an offer from Sir Galen Knightly.”