C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

“He did, yes.”

“Did you speak to Thistlewood?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He says he didn’t kill your father.”

“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?” She leaned toward him earnestly. “It was not their first confrontation, you know. About a month or so ago, Thistlewood acquired a rosary supposedly made from some old saint’s bones. He was extraordinarily proud of it. Only, when Father inspected it, he challenged its authenticity. Thistlewood was furious-beyond furious. Swore if he heard Papa was going around telling people the thing was a fake, he’d kill him.”

“You mean the St. Anthony of Padua rosary Thistlewood has on display?”

“Yes; that’s it.”

“And what was your father’s reaction?”

“He laughed in Thistlewood’s face.”

“Yet this was, as you said, a month ago.”

“Yes. But don’t you see? If Thistlewood was already furious with Father because of the rosary and then realized Father had bested him over Suffolk’s head, it might well have driven him to murder.”

“Perhaps. Only, what possible reason would Thistlewood have to kill Dr. Douglas Sterling?”

She stared at him. It was obvious the question hadn’t occurred to her. “I don’t know! But Hugh had no reason to kill Dr. Sterling either.”

“So who did have a reason to kill both men?”

She pushed the short curls away from her forehead in an exasperated gesture. “I don’t know!”

Sebastian studied her pale, strained face, with its small, delicately molded nose and trembling mouth, and he knew an upsurge of frustration and irritation mingled with no small measure of sympathy.

Anne Preston was so desperate to convince him-and Bow Street-that Captain Hugh Wyeth did not kill her father, she’d say anything.

The problem was, Sebastian suspected she was even more desperate to convince herself.

Sebastian knew he could in all likelihood discount the vast majority of what Anne Preston had told him. But on the off chance there was something to her accusations, he decided to pay another visit to Basil Thistlewood.

He found the curiosity collector in a lean-to workshop attached to the rear of his Cheyne Walk establishment, a leather apron tied over his old-fashioned clothes. A half-constructed display case stood on the workbench before him.

“Thought you’d be back,” said Thistlewood, looking up for only a moment before returning to his task.

Sebastian let his gaze wander around the surprisingly tidy space, with its rows of well-oiled tools and neat stacks of fine wood. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“Ain’t found Preston’s killer, have you?”

“No,” said Sebastian, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “You didn’t tell me you had another conflict with the man just a few weeks ago.”

Basil Thistlewood kept his focus on the thin strip of wood he was measuring. “You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone hereabouts that Preston didn’t have more than one run-in with. The man was opinionated and quick to take offense.”

Sebastian found himself smiling. In his observation, the description could be applied to Thistlewood as easily as Preston. “Tell me about the rosary.”

Thistlewood grunted and walked over to select another length of wood from his stack. “Always trying to show off, he was. Acting like he was the big expert because he went to Cambridge and I didn’t. I weren’t born yesterday, you know. Grew up in the business, I did.”

“Preston questioned the rosary’s authenticity?”

“He did. ’Cept he only decided it was questionable after I refused to sell it to him. If it weren’t authentic, then why’d he want to buy it from me? You answer me that.”

“I understand you were rather upset by his claims.”

“Course I was. Who wouldn’t be? Questioning my judgment and knowledge like that? Cast aspersions on the authenticity of everything in my collection, it did.”

“Did it?”

“Of course it did!” Thistlewood pointed one end of the narrow strip of wood at Sebastian. “I can tell you right now, there’s more than a thing or two in his collection that I wouldn’t have in mine . Do you have any idea how many folks have stirrups said to have been used by Richard III at Bosworth Field? The man would’ve needed to be an octopus to have used half of them.”

“Did you tell Preston that?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“That’s when he turned ugly. Called me an impudent jackanapes, like he was some high ’n’ mighty lord of the manor, and me no more than a medieval serf tilling his lordship’s fields.”

“And?”

“I told him-” Thistlewood broke off, his jaw sagging open in a ludicrous expression as he realized once again where his runaway mouth was leading him. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly up and down, and said more calmly, “A man says things sometimes in the heat of the moment he don’t mean.”

“Things like, ‘I could kill you’?”

“I may’ve said some such thing. Can’t rightly recall it now.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ever hear of a man named Douglas Sterling?”

The sudden shift in topic seemed to confuse the coffee shop owner. “Who?”

“Dr. Douglas Sterling.”

“Can’t say I have. Who’s he?”

“An aged physician who lived in Chatham Place. Someone killed him last night. Cut off his head.”

Thistlewood carefully set down his strip of wood with a hand that was suddenly far from steady. “An old man, you say? Why would someone want to kill him?”

“Perhaps because he met with Stanley Preston less than twelve hours before Preston was killed.”

“And now he’s dead too?”

“Yes.”

Thistlewood shook his head. “Worrisome, ain’t it?”

Sebastian studied the curiosity collector’s mobile, almost comical face. “Have you heard about the recent discovery out at St. George’s, Windsor Castle?”

“No.” An eager gleam crept into Thistlewood’s watery eyes. “Has there been some new find?”

“There has. Although I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to go into the details.”

Thistlewood nodded. “Heard they’ve been doing some digging in the crypt. Not surprised they run into something. When they was doing some work a few years back, they found a woman and child wrapped in lead. Obviously wellborn, they were, though nobody ever did figure out who they were. I got a look at ’em, and if you ask me, they dated back to Saxon times-maybe even late Roman. Wouldn’t surprise me if there was an older church on that very site.”

“How did you happen to get a look at them?” asked Sebastian.

Thistlewood gave a sly smile and winked. “Knows folks, I do.”

“Ever hear of a man named Diggory Flynn?”

“Don’t think so, no. He dead too?”

“Not to my knowledge. He followed me yesterday evening, after I’d paid a visit to Priss Mulligan’s shop in Houndsditch.”

Thistlewood made a sucking sound with his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Told you she weren’t somebody you wanted to cross.”

“She claimed she hadn’t seen Stanley Preston for a month or more.”

“Huh. She lies for a living, that woman; don’t ever forget it. She got a new shipment in just last week, she did. And Preston was always one of the first she let know about it.”

“A new shipment from the Continent, you mean?”

“Aye. Told you she was in thick with smugglers, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” Sebastian touched his hand to his hat. “You’ve been very helpful.”

The curiosity collector’s wrinkled face broke into a wide smile. “I try. I do try.”

Sebastian stood beside the Thames, his gaze on the swollen brown waters of the river spreading out before him. The newly budding elms that edged Cheyne Walk cast dappled patterns of light and shadow across the greening grass, and the strengthening spring sun felt warm on his shoulders. But the air was cold and damp.