C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

She said, “I’ve watched you work to solve murders before. I know how personally you take what you do, how deeply troubled you can become. But there’s something more going on here, isn’t there, Devlin?”

He shifted his gaze, once again, to the window, so that she could see only his profile. He said, “I saw someone tonight who reminded me of an incident I’ve spent the last three years trying to forget.”

“Someone you knew in the Peninsula?”

“Yes. The injured woman in Gibson’s surgery.”

She went to him then, sliding her arms around his waist and laying her cheek against his strong, taut back. He brought his hands up to lay them over hers at his waist and tipped back his head until it rested against hers. But he didn’t say anything, and neither did she.

She knew something had happened to him during the war, something that had shattered the already frayed remnants of his youthful idealism and made a mockery of so much that Englishmen of his station traditionally held dear. It had driven him to resign his commission and plunged him into a downward spiral that came perilously close to destroying him.

But that was all she knew. And she feared what might happen if the toxic events swirling around Damion Pelletan’s murder forced him to confront the unresolved demons of his past.

Sunday, 24 January

The next morning, Sebastian was easing his coat up over his shoulders when his valet said, “I believe I have discovered the individual in whom you expressed an interest.”

Sebastian straightened his cuffs. “Oh?”

“His name is Sampson Bullock, and he’s a cabinetmaker. He lives over his workshop on Tichborne Street, not far from Piccadilly. I took the liberty of making a few inquiries.”

Sebastian glanced over at him. “Learn anything interesting?”

“It seems Mr. Bullock is not what you might call well liked in the area.”

“I take it I am to infer that is an understatement?”

“Indeed. From the sound of things, he’s a quarrelsome brute with a nasty temper. Most of his neighbors were reluctant even to speak of him. He has a reputation for being rather vindictive-lethally so.”

“Hear anything about his brother?”

“Only that the two were much alike-both big, brawny, and foul tempered. The brother’s name was Abel.”

“Sampson and Abel? How very biblical. Did you discover what happened to the brother?”

“I did, my lord. He died two weeks ago.”

“Under Alexandrie Sauvage’s care?”

“No, my lord. He died of gaol fever. In Newgate.”

• • •

A curving sweep of pubs, small shops, and tradesmen’s establishments, Tichborne Street lay to the south of Golden Square, just off Piccadilly. It was a middling area, neither fashionable nor wretched. Sebastian found Bullock’s shop near the corner. The shutters were up, yet the door opened to his touch-which was unexpected, given that it was early Sunday morning.

He entered a shadowy, cavernous space smelling pleasantly of freshly cut wood, linseed oil, and turpentine. An inquiry addressed to a half-starved, frightened-looking apprentice sweeping up a scattering of sawdust led Sebastian to a back room, where a massive man with a head of thick, curly black hair and a pronounced jaw was planing a long board. He had his head bent, his shoulders hunched, his arms moving in long, rhythmic sweeps.

“Sampson Bullock?” asked Sebastian, pausing on the far side of the board.

The cabinetmaker straightened slowly. He stood half a head taller than Sebastian and must have weighed nearly twenty stone, with a heavily muscled body and broad, solid chest. He was one of those men whose neck was so thick that it appeared even wider than his head. His dark eyes were unnaturally small and set close over a small nose, so that when one looked at him, the overall impression was of black hair, bulging muscles, and a red, weal-like scar that disfigured one cheek.

His eyes narrowed with obvious suspicion as he took in Sebastian’s inimitably tailored dark blue coat, the snowy crispness of his cravat, the suppleness of his doeskin breeches. Then he returned to his work, the curls of wood shavings blooming beneath the plane. “We’re closed. It’s the Lord’s day; didn’t ye know?”

“It looks to me like you’re working.”

“Wot ye want from me? Yer kind don’t buy furniture from the likes of me.”

“I understand you know Alexandrie Sauvage.”

Bullock tossed aside his plane. “That’s wot ye’re here for, is it? I heard wot happened to her-her and that French doctor.” He raised one hand to point a meaty finger at Sebastian. “Think yer gonna lay the blame for that on me, do ye? Well, I ain’t been near St. Katharine’s. Nowhere near it.”

“So where were you last Thursday night?”

“I was home in me bed, asleep. Where else would a good, God-fearin’ workin’man be on a Thursday night?”

Sebastian studied the cabinetmaker’s mulish, set features and watched his eyes slide away.

Sebastian said, “I understand you had a dispute of sorts with Madame Sauvage.”

“Dispute? That wot ye want to call it? The bloody bitch killed me brother.”

“How?”

“Wot do you mean, how ?”

“Are you suggesting she poisoned him?”

“I ain’t never said no such thing.”

“It’s my understanding he died of gaol fever, in Newgate. Was she treating him?”

“Of course she weren’t physicking him! It were because o’ that interfering little strumpet that Abel was in Newgate in the first place.”

“Oh? What was he accused of having done?”

Bullock’s small eyes grew dark and hard. “I ain’t got nothing t’ say t’ ye,” he muttered, and reached for his plane.

Sebastian said, “You do realize you’ve been seen hanging around Golden Square. Following her. Threatening her.”

Bullock thrust out his heavy jaw, the puckered flesh of his scar darkening from red to an angry purple. “I got nothin’ t’ hide. I ain’t denying I spoke me mind t’ her-and why the hell shouldn’t I? But I ain’t never threatened her, and anyone tells ye I did is a bloody liar.”

“You didn’t threaten to make her pay?”

“Who told ye that? Her?”

“No.”

Bullock curled his lip in a sneer. “Me, I think ye got the wrong idea about the bitch. T’ hear people talk, she’s some bloody angel of mercy or some such thing. But she’s no angel, not by a long shot. She’s got a temper on her, that one. Why, I’ve heard her threaten t’ gut a man with a fish knife, I have, jist because she didn’t like the way he were lookin’ at his own wife.”

Sebastian thought about the fiercely passionate woman he had known in Portugal and had no difficulty imagining such a scene.

“I can tell ye plenty o’ things about that woman I bet ye don’t know,” Bullock was saying. “There’s a fair number o’ Frogs live about here, ye see. I’ve heard ’em talking about her-about how she was with Boney’s army in Spain, and about how her lover was a French lieutenant. Not her lawful husband , mind you. Her lover.”

“I know about the Peninsula,” said Sebastian simply.

Bullock grunted, the sound reverberating deeply in his massive chest.

Sebastian let his gaze drift around the workshop, with its carcasses of half-finished cabinets, its piles of lumber, its rows of tools kept well oiled and carefully honed. “I’m still not exactly clear on the reason behind your animosity toward Madame Sauvage.”

“I told ye! It was because o’ her that me brother Abel was in Newgate.”

“What had he done?”

“He didn’t do a bleedin’ thing.”

“So what did she accuse him of doing?”

“Why don’t ye ask her?” snarled Bullock. Then he turned pointedly back to his board, the muscles in his strong shoulders and arms bunching and flexing as he ran the plane over its surface, again and again.