C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

Have I seen you before? Priss Mulligan had said. You look more’n a bit like that rifleman keeps a tavern just off Bishopsgate. Got those same nasty yellow eyes, he does.

Sebastian was only too familiar with Jamie Knox, a onetime rifleman who owned the Black Devil near St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate. The resemblance between the two men-one an earl’s heir, the other the son of a Shropshire barmaid-was as uncanny as it was inexplicable.

Those unfamiliar with the Earl of Hendon might simply assume that Knox must be one of the earl’s by-blows. But Sebastian knew better. Knew that Knox was no more Hendon’s son than was Sebastian himself.

He narrowed his eyes against the fitful sunlight glinting off the water, felt the breeze off the river, icy against his face. He didn’t want to reopen the old wounds, didn’t want to confront the unanswered questions associated with the mysterious rifleman. But the ties between Jamie Knox and the world of smuggling were murky but indisputable.

It was past time to pay a visit to the Black Devil.

The Black Devil stood in a narrow cobbled lane just off Bishopsgate, not far, Sebastian realized, from the Houndsditch shop of Priss Mulligan. Popular with the area’s tradesmen and apprentices, it had half-timbered walls, twisted brick chimneys, and a high-gabled roof that marked it as a relic of a bygone era.

He paused for a moment on the far side of the lane, his gaze traveling over the tavern’s ancient, diamond-paned windows and the cracked wooden sign depicting a horned black devil dancing against the flames of hell. Then he crossed the street to push open the taproom door.

The interior of the tavern was as little altered as the exterior, its low ceiling supported by dark, heavy beams, its sunken flagged floor strewn with sawdust to absorb spills, the oak-paneled walls blackened by centuries of smoke from the vast stone hearth. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and ale and workingmen’s sweat.

“You,” said the lovely dark-haired young barmaid, her exotic, almond-shaped eyes narrowed with animosity as she watched him walk up to her.

“Yes, me,” Sebastian said cheerfully, resting one forearm along the bar’s scarred surface as he surveyed the crowded room. Jamie Knox was nowhere in sight. “Where is he?”

“What you want with him? You’re trouble, you are. I knowed it from the first time I seen you. You want a pint, I’ll give you a pint. Otherwise, why don’t you jist take yourself off?”

Sebastian turned his head to meet her angry gaze. “I’ll take a pint.”

“Make that two pints, Pippa,” said Jamie Knox. “And bring them back here, if you will.”

Sebastian shifted to find the tavern owner leaning against the doorframe of a small back room that served as a kind of office. He was built tall and leanly muscled, taller even than Sebastian, with hair of a slightly darker shade. But the high-boned cheeks and gently curving lips were eerily the same as Sebastian’s, as were the strange yellow eyes.

Like the devil who danced on the tavern’s painted sign, he was dressed all in black-black coat and trousers, black waistcoat, black cravat; only his shirt was white. His origins were as murky as his history. The son of a poor, unmarried barmaid, Knox claimed not to know the identity of his father. Once, he’d been a rifleman with the 145th, a man famed for his eerily keen eyesight and animal-like hearing and quick reflexes. Discharged when his unit was reduced after the disaster at Corunna, he’d returned to England, some said to take to the High Toby as a highwayman. . although there were also those who whispered he’d acquired the Black Devil simply by murdering its previous owner.

The two men had first encountered each other some months before. They had never directly addressed the startling and inexplicable physical resemblance between them, never openly speculated on its possible causes or implications. But the awareness of it was always there, for both men a source of antagonism and an unwanted but undeniable bond.

For Sebastian, it was an unwelcome reminder of a painful truth about his own paternity that had come close to destroying him. Yet it was also, beguilingly, a tantalizing clue to the identity of the unknown man who had bequeathed to him the same golden eyes and uncanny, wolflike senses that Knox possessed.

And Knox himself? Not for the first time, Sebastian found himself wondering how the rifleman viewed the unknown relationship between them.

For one long moment the two men stared at each other. Then Sebastian pushed away from the bar and walked toward the man who might-or might not-be his half brother.

Knox stepped back to allow Sebastian to enter the room. “What do you want?” he asked without preamble.

“How do you know I’m not simply thirsty?”

Knox grunted. “Last I heard, there was no shortage of taverns in the East End.”

Sebastian went to stand at the small window overlooking the rear court. The tavern backed up against the wall of St. Helen’s churchyard, so that from here he could see the tops of the weathered gray tombs and the winter-bared branches of the elms standing stark against the sky. He said, “It’s a melancholy view. I can see it bothering some-such a constant reminder of death.”

“Pippa doesn’t care for it, that’s for sure.”

Sebastian turned to look at him. “And you?”

Knox shrugged. “I’ve seen enough death in my life; I don’t need to look out the window to be reminded that life is short and uncertain.”

“Shorter for some than others.”

“True.”

Sebastian leaned back against the windowsill. “There’s a secondhand dealer in Houndsditch named Priss Mulligan. Deals in rare historical objects. I understand you know her.”

Knox reached for a clay pipe and began to fill the bowl with tobacco. “Let’s just say that I know of her. Why?”

“I’m told a fair portion of her merchandise is smuggled in from the Continent.”

“There’s heaps of smugglers working the Channel these days,” said Knox without looking up from his task.

“I hear she received a new shipment last week. Is that true?”

Knox thrust a taper into the fire on the hearth and watched the end flare. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But the shipment did arrive?”

“So I hear.” He held the taper to his pipe and sucked on it for a moment before looking up. “I don’t do business with the woman myself.”

“Any particular reason?”

“The same reason I make it a practice to avoid rabid dogs and vipers’ nests.”

“She’s dangerous?”

Knox blew out a long stream of tobacco smoke. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘deadly.’”

The two men’s gazes met and held, then broke toward the door as Pippa came in carrying foaming pints of ale. Without even looking at Sebastian, she slammed the tankards down on the simple gateleg table near the window, then left after throwing Knox a long, pregnant glare.

Knox said, “I hear you’ve had a son. A future Earl of Hendon.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“And yet you’re still chasing after murderers?”

“How do you know I’m investigating a murder?”

A gleam of amusement showed in the eyes that were so much like Sebastian’s own. “It’s the only time you ever come here.”

“Huh. Must be something about the people you know.”

Knox sucked on his pipe, his lean cheeks hollowing, his expression enigmatic.

Sebastian said, “Ever hear of a man named Diggory Flynn?”

“Can’t say I have. Who is he?”

“He doesn’t work for Priss Mulligan?”