C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

Sebastian studied the aged doctor’s sallow, wrinkled face. “Can you think of anything that might have taken Stanley Preston to Bloody Bridge last Sunday night?”

“No.”

“Ever hear of a man named Sinclair Oliphant?”

“No,” said Sterling again. Although this time he blinked, and his gaze skittered away.

“You’re certain of that?”

“Course I’m certain,” Sterling snapped and glared defiantly back at Sebastian again, as if determined to stare him down.

“Who do you think killed Stanley Preston?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Then why your reluctance to discuss your last meeting with him?”

For one brief moment, Sterling’s jaw sagged, and Sebastian caught a glimpse of uncertainty and what might even have been fear in the old man’s eyes.

Then the aged physician clenched his teeth together. “My meeting with Stanley Preston last Sunday was private, and I intend for it to remain that way. You can stand there for the rest of the day as far as I’m concerned, but I’ve told you all you need to know.”

He hunched a shoulder and returned pointedly to his reading.

“Telling me what you think I need to know is not the same as telling me all you know,” said Sebastian.

But Sterling kept his stare fixed on the page before him, the powder from his old-fashioned wig dusting the shoulders of his worn coat.

Frustrated, Sebastian went next to the Home Office, where his second attempt to speak to Viscount Sidmouth was no more successful than the first. This time, the clerk insisted that his lordship was at Carlton House in consultation with the Regent and was not expected to return that day.

Sebastian studied the clerk’s pasty white face. He was a short, gently rounded man with a balding pate and a small, puckered mouth that curled up into what looked like a habitual condescending smile. “At Carlton House, you say?”

The smirk deepened. “That is correct.”

“You’re certain of that?” Sebastian could quite clearly hear the Home Secretary in conversation with a fellow cabinet member behind a nearby closed door. But the clerk had no way of knowing that.

“Of course I am certain,” said the little man with a sniff.

“It’s the oddest thing, but I’m beginning to get the impression the Secretary is deliberately avoiding me.”

The clerk stared back at Sebastian, pale eyes blinking rapidly.

If Sidmouth had been closeted with anyone else, Sebastian would have been tempted to set the supercilious clerk aside and open the door to the Home Secretary’s office. But Sebastian recognized the voice of the nobleman whose low, measured tones alternated with Sidmouth’s higher ranges: It was the Earl of Hendon, the man Sebastian had called Father until a short time ago.

Sebastian nodded to the closed door. “When the Secretary finishes his meeting with Lord Hendon, you can tell him that I’ll be back.”

The clerk gave a nervous titter. “When? When will you be back?”

“When will he be available?”

“I’m afraid I can’t really say. He’s busy. Very busy.”

“Then I suppose I’ll simply need to catch him when he’s not busy.”

The clerk’s smile slid into something less confident. “What does that mean?”

But Sebastian simply smiled and walked away, leaving the clerk bleating behind him, “But what does that mean? What does it mean?”

That night, Sebastian donned silk knee breeches, buckled dress shoes, and a chapeaux bras and took his wife to a ball.

The ball was given by Countess Lieven, the Russian Ambassador’s wife. Her husband had only recently been posted to the Court of St. James, yet the young Countess had already managed to make herself one of Society’s leaders. She was politically astute, totally unscrupulous, breathtakingly snobbish, charismatic, and brilliant. Her invitations were amongst the most sought after in London, and her approval was critical to any young lady making her debut into Society.

“If he’s that desperate to avoid you,” Hero said to Sebastian as their carriage joined the crush of fashionable vehicles making their way toward the Lievens’ town house, “maybe he won’t be there.”

“His daughter is making her come out this Season. He’ll be there.”

Henry Addington, First Viscount Sidmouth, stood at the edge of the crowded dance floor, an indulgent smile on his face as he watched his pretty, dark-haired daughter advancing through the movements of an energetic Scottish reel. Overhead, massive crystal chandeliers sparkled in the flickering light of a sea of candles. The air was thick with the smell of hot wax and expensive perfume and copious perspiration from the laughing, chattering, jewel-bedecked members of the ton. Sidmouth himself was looking more than a little damp.

So intent was the Home Secretary on watching his daughter’s progress that he remained oblivious to Sebastian’s approach until Sebastian said, “Ah; there you are.”

Sidmouth gave an uncomfortable start and glanced around as if looking for someplace to hide.

“I’ve been wanting to speak to you,” said Sebastian.

The Home Secretary’s jaw sagged, his eyes bulging. “ Yes, I know. But. . here ?”

“We could step into one of the withdrawing rooms, if you’d prefer.”

“Perhaps you could come by my office tomorrow morning and-”

“No,” said Sebastian.

Sidmouth cleared his throat uncomfortably. “One of the withdrawing rooms, yes.” He led the way to a small alcove near the head of the stairs, then swung about to clear his throat and say in a low voice, “I’m told you’re working with Bow Street to solve this ghastly murder of my poor cousin.”

“I am, yes.”

“We weren’t close, you know,” said Sidmouth. “First cousins once removed.”

“But you did know him.”

“Yes, of course. Just not. . well.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

The Home Secretary blinked rapidly. “Can’t really say, I’m afraid. But it’s been weeks. Yes, surely weeks-if not months.”

“Know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”

Sidmouth looked shocked and vaguely offended by the suggestion. “Good gracious, no.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s long, pale face, with its patrician nose and incongruously heavy jaw. “I understand you know an elderly physician named Douglas Sterling.”

“Sterling?” Sidmouth gave a nervous laugh. “He was an early colleague of my father. What has he to do with anything?”

“When did you last see him?”

“Good gracious; I’ve no idea. Why?”

Rather than answer him, Sebastian said, “Tell me about Sinclair Oliphant.”

Sidmouth’s face went slack. “What?”

“Why was he recalled from Jamaica?”

The Secretary drew back his shoulders and affected a haughty, ministerial air. “I’m afraid I am not at liberty to discuss Home Office affairs.”

“But he was recalled.”

“The decision to return to England was Lord Oliphant’s own.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing.”

Sidmouth waved one white-gloved hand in a dismissive gesture. “Rumor. Nothing but rumor.”

“So you’re saying your cousin had nothing to do with it?”

The Home Secretary’s nostrils flared with the intensity of his indignation. “I beg your pardon?”

Sebastian met the man’s angry gaze and held it. “It has occurred to you, surely, that Oliphant might be responsible for Stanley Preston’s head ending up on Bloody Bridge? And that if he is, then you might be his next victim?”

Sidmouth’s eyes went wide, his assumption of ministerial magnificence slipping. “Good God; you aren’t seriously suggesting that Oliphant did that to Stanley?” Then he shook his head so vigorously he reminded Sebastian of a man coming in out of the rain. “No; I can’t believe it.”