C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

Sebastian was familiar with Sir Galen. A prosperous if somewhat lackluster baronet, he was ten years older than Sebastian-which would make him nearly twenty years older than Anne Preston. “And your sister discouraged the match?”

“Oh, no-at least, not intentionally. It’s just that Anne likes to read romance novels.”

“And Miss Austen gave her novels?”

The banker drew his chin back into his cravat and fiddled self-consciously with the buttons of his coat. “Well. . yes.”

Sebastian watched Austen’s gaze slide away. The man obviously needed to take lessons in lying from someone with Priss Mulligan’s talents. Although why he should be anything less than honest about his sister’s involvement in Anne Preston’s reading material escaped Sebastian entirely.

Sebastian said, “How well did you know Preston?”

“I’ve known him for years, although the real friendship was between our wives.”

“Any idea what he might have been doing at Bloody Bridge on a rainy Sunday night?”

“I suppose it’s possible he decided to go for a walk after leaving the pub. He’d worked himself up into quite a rage. Perhaps he realized he needed to cool off.”

“I understand he had something of a temper.”

“He did, yes. Although I’ve known worse. Much worse, actually. He was a man of strong passions who sometimes allowed his emotions to override his sense. But there was no real harm in him.”

There was no real harm in him. Austen’s words almost exactly echoed those of his sister. And Sebastian found himself wondering why both Austens had felt compelled to make such similar observations.

He said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”

“No. But then, as I said, we weren’t exactly intimates.”

“Did you ever hear him mention a man named Oliphant?”

“Who?”

“Sinclair, Lord Oliphant. He was until recently the governor of Jamaica.”

Austen thought about it, but shook his head. “Sorry. You might try talking to Sir Galen Knightly. He owns plantations in Jamaica too, you know. And unlike Preston, he’s quite a steady fellow. My sister Jane calls him Colonel Brandon.”

“Colonel Brandon? Why?”

Austen glanced down, his eyes crinkling as if at a private joke. “I suppose you’ve never read Sense and Sensibility ?”

“By the author of this new novel everyone is talking about? No.”

“Ah. Well, there’s a character in it-a Colonel Brandon-a staid, older man in love with a much younger woman, who herself prefers a younger, more romantic figure.”

“And Sir Galen Knightly reminds your sister of this character?”

“He does, yes. I don’t think Sir Galen was ever dashing, even when young.”

“Unlike Captain Wyeth.”

The amusement faded from Austen’s face, leaving him looking serious and troubled. “Jane worries that Wyeth may well be another Willoughby or Wickham.”

“Excuse me?” said Sebastian.

“The dastardly fellows in Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice .”

“She thinks Wyeth is dastardly?”

“Not exactly; it’s more that she worries he could be. Have you met him? He’s quite handsome and charming.”

“I didn’t realize such attributes were considered a bad thing.”

Austen gave a soft laugh. “Jane would tell you that handsome, charming young men without fortune should always be considered suspect, particularly when showering attentions on fair maidens of good family.”

“I’m told Miss Preston is not well dowered.”

“I suppose that depends on your standards. She’s no great heiress, certainly. But she has a small portion from her mother in addition to what she’ll get from Preston.”

“I was under the impression Preston had entailed his estates to the male line.”

“He did, yes; but I believe Anne stands to inherit some five thousand pounds invested in the Funds.”

“Now that Preston is dead,” said Sebastian.

Austen drew up and swung to face him. “Surely you don’t think Wyeth-” He broke off, as if unwilling to put the suggestion into words.

Sebastian paused beside him. “If not Wyeth, then who? Who do you think killed Preston?”

Austen shook his head. “I would hope I don’t number amongst my acquaintances anyone capable of such barbarity.”

“Yet Preston obviously did. Whether he realized it or not.”

Austen puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled a long breath. “You’re right, of course. Although I must admit, it’s troubling even to think about.” He looked out over the wide gray expanse of the river cut by the newly constructed arches of what would eventually be the Strand Bridge. “Try talking to Sir Galen. They’d been friends since Knightly was a lad. He’d be far more likely to know if the man had recently acquired a dangerous enemy. You’ll find him in his club’s reading room, this time of day.”

“Which club?”

“White’s, of course. He’s there every day from four until five. And he dines at Stevens every Wednesday and Sunday at half past six. He’s quite the creature of habit.”

Sebastian studied the banker’s long, scholarly face. That gentle, good-humored smile was firmly back in place. Yet there was an evasiveness, a lack of directness to his gaze, that was hard to miss. And Sebastian couldn’t escape the feeling that, like his sister, Henry Austen was hiding something.

He thanked the banker and started to turn away, only to pause and say, “Was Preston carrying anything when he came into the pub that night?”

Austen looked puzzled. “Such as what?”

“A strip of thin, old lead, about eighteen inches long. Or perhaps a larger, wrapped package or satchel of some kind?”

Austen thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “No, he couldn’t have been.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. I remember quite clearly; he came in with his arms held stiffly at his sides and his fists clenched. He couldn’t have been carrying anything.”

Sir Galen Knightly was seated in one of the red bucket chairs in White’s reading room when Sebastian walked up to him. A cup of tea rested on the table beside him, and he was engrossed in his newspaper’s account of the previous evening’s session at the House of Lords.

Sebastian doubted anyone had ever described Sir Galen as dashing, or even handsome. But he was not an unattractive man, despite his angular, somewhat bladelike features. Although he was now in his early forties, his frame was still strong and solid, his dark hair little touched by gray. His clothes were those of a prosperous country gentleman, tailored for comfort rather than style, as sober and serious as the man himself.

According to gossip, Knightly’s father had been a notorious rake, a member of the infamous Hellfire Club well-known about London for his drunken excesses and addiction to deep play. It often seemed to Sebastian that Sir Galen lived his life as if determined to prove to the world that his character was not that of his scandalous father. Where the father had been profligate and intemperate, boisterous and careless, the son was steady, sober, and serious. Eschewing gaming hells, the track, and London’s ruinously expensive highfliers, he devoted himself to scholarship and the careful management of his estates, in both Hertfordshire and Jamaica. He had married, once, when young. But his wife died in childbirth, leaving him heartbroken and-if possible-more serious than ever.

At Sebastian’s approach, he looked up, his features set in grave lines.

“Do you mind?” asked Sebastian, indicating the nearby chair.

“No; not at all.” Sir Galen folded his newspaper and set it aside. “I take it you’re here about Preston?”