C. Harris - Who Buries the Dead

“Do you know where he went?” asked Sebastian. “Or why?”

“No.”

Somehow, Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to come right out and ask this recently widowed woman if she’d known her husband was a grave robber. So he said instead, “Did your husband ever mention a woman named Priss Mulligan? She owns a secondhand shop in Houndsditch.”

“I don’t believe so, no. But then, Rowan knew I had no interest in. . in some of the things he did.”

That’s one way to put it, Sebastian thought. Aloud, he said, “How did he seem when he came home Sunday night?”

“Truthfully? I’d never seen him in such a state.”

“In what sense?”

“It’s almost as if he were. . frightened. Yes, that’s it; frightened. Terrified, actually.”

“Of what? Do you know?”

“No; I’m sorry. He said he didn’t want to talk about it and went to bed.”

“Was he carrying anything when he returned?”

“No.” The question obviously puzzled her. “Whatever do you mean?”

Sebastian simply shook his head. “What about last night? Was he frightened when he took the dog for its walk?”

“I don’t think so, no. They’ve been busy planning Princess Augusta’s funeral, you know, and he always enjoyed royal affairs at the chapel.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your husband?”

Her eyes widened. “No, but. . I thought they said he simply fell into the river?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Your husband never told you anything about what happened Sunday night? About who he was going to meet, or why?”

“No.”

Sebastian studied the widow’s plain face, the delicate gold locket nestled at her throat, the fine muslin gown her husband had doubtless purchased with money gained from dealing with resurrection men or selling trinkets snatched from the dead.

She was no fool. He had no doubt she had long ago guessed where the extra money came from to buy the fine china, the fashionable gowns, the expensive carpets on her floors. But she had simply accepted it all as her due while remaining nominally ignorant of the activities that made it possible. And for the first time, Sebastian found himself almost feeling sorry for Toop, married to this plain, wellborn, unhappy woman who still felt nothing but contempt for him, no matter how hard he had tried to please her.

He wondered why she had agreed to speak to him when she basically had nothing to tell him. Then he saw the spasm that passed over her features as her gaze wandered to the closed door to the parlor, and he thought he understood. The women who had come to “comfort” her-the wives and daughters of the Canons of St. George’s-still belonged to the world from which she had been demoted. And he had no doubt they were adept at subtly reminding her of her lowered station in life.

He said, “Where will you go now?” This house would be given to the new virger of St. George’s, whoever he might be.

“My widowed sister has a cottage in Eton. I’ll live with her.” A small, wirehaired gray dog came trotting in from the passage that led to the kitchen, and she bent to scoop it up into her arms.

“Please accept my condolences,” he said with a bow. “If you think of anything-anything at all-that might help make sense of what happened to your husband, you will let me know?”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

But he knew she would not.

What mattered to her was that Rowan Toop’s death meant she was now utterly responsible for her own maintenance in a world that was not at all kind to plain, gently bred, impoverished women.

Sebastian returned to Brook Street to find Sir Henry Lovejoy on the verge of descending the house’s front steps.

“Sir Henry,” said Sebastian, handing Tom the reins and hopping down from the curricle’s high seat. “I’m glad I caught you. Please, come in.”

He led the way to the drawing room, ordered tea for Lovejoy, poured himself a brandy, and told the magistrate the results of his trip to Windsor.

“Merciful heavens,” said the magistrate after listening to the circumstances surrounding Toop’s death. “You don’t think it possible the virger simply slipped into the river and drowned?”

“It would be a startling coincidence if he did. But we’ll know more once Gibson gets a look at him.”

Lovejoy sipped his tea for a moment in thoughtful silence. “If it was murder, then why didn’t the killer cut off Toop’s head, as he did with the others?”

“That, I can’t answer.” Sebastian cradled his brandy in one palm and went to stand before the fire. “Were you coming to see me for a particular reason?”

“I was, yes. It may be unimportant, but you’ll recall that Stanley Preston went off somewhere in a hackney the day he was killed? Well, we’ve finally located the jarvey involved.”

“And?”

“The jarvey remembers the fare quite clearly, for he found it rather peculiar.” Lovejoy set aside his teacup and leaned forward. “Preston asked to be put down at the entrance to Bucket Lane, on Fish Street Hill.”

“Good God; whatever for?” A thoroughfare linking London Bridge to Gracechurch Street and Bishopsgate, Fish Street Hill was the center of a poor, overcrowded area inhabited mainly by those connected in some way with the fish market of Billingsgate, which lay just to the west of the bridgehead. Sebastian could think of nothing that might have taken Preston to the area.

“That we’ve yet to ascertain,” said Lovejoy. “Miss Preston says she has no notion what her father could have been doing there.”

“You believe her?”

Lovejoy looked at him in surprise. “You don’t?”

“I think Miss Anne Preston is being less than honest with us about a number of things.”

“Oh, dear; I hadn’t realized that.” The magistrate looked thoughtful for a moment.

“What?” said Sebastian, watching him.

“Only that the constable who questioned Preston’s servants reported the staff were not as forthcoming as they might have been. You think they could be protecting Miss Preston for some reason?”

“It’s possible. You might have one of your lads take another go at them.”

Lovejoy nodded. “I’ll have Constable Hart talk to them again. I sent him out to Bucket Lane, by the way. Unfortunately, he was unable to locate anyone who would admit to knowing Preston or even remembered seeing him.”

“I’m not surprised.” People who lived in places such as Fish Street Hill weren’t exactly known for their friendliness to constables. “Your constable was lucky to get out of there alive.”

“That’s what he said. And he’s refusing to go back again.”

Sebastian was rubbing a nasty mixture of bacon grease and ashes into his hair when Hero came to stand at the entrance to his dressing room. “Seven Dials?” she asked, watching him. “Or Stepney Green?”

“Billingsgate.”

“Really? Whatever for?”

He told her.

She said, “Why Billingsgate? It makes no sense.”

“I know.” He paused to slip his small double-barreled pistol into the pocket of one of his most old-fashioned and ill-fitting Rosemary Lane coats. “That’s what makes it so intriguing.”

A pungent, seaweed-like odor permeated the air around London Bridge, taking on the more distinct smell of fish the closer Sebastian came to the bridge and its adjacent fish market.

For as long as anyone could remember, the bridgehead had been dominated by the fishmongers of Billingsgate. This was an area of brawny women in aprons shiny with fish scales, of men in slime-stiffened canvas trousers or the red-worsted caps of sailors. The tangled rigging of oyster boats showed in the breaks between the tightly packed buildings, and seagulls wheeled overhead, their plaintive cries mingling with the shouts of “Plaice alive, alive, cheap,” and “Mussels, a penny a quart.”