C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

“What has Vaundreuil to do with you?”

“Nothing that is any of your affair.”

“Damion Pelletan’s murder makes it my affair.”

Jarvis possessed an unexpectedly winsome smile he had long used to cajole or deceive the unwary. He used it now, although he knew Devlin was neither cajoled nor deceived nor unwary. “Fortunately, Damion Pelletan’s murder has been taken out of the hands of the bumbling East End authorities and turned over to Bow Street-by which I mean to the chief magistrate, Sir James- not to your good friend Sir Henry Lovejoy. So you see, there really is no need for you to involve yourself.”

Devlin, in turn, showed his teeth in a hard, nasty smile. “Concerned, are you?”

“Hardly. Sir James understands the delicacy of the situation.”

“Does he?”

“Let’s say that, at least, he understands enough to do what must be done.”

“Which is?”

“There will be no postmortem. The body has already been removed from Gibson’s surgery and turned over to Vaundreuil for burial.”

“And that’s to be it?”

“I suggest you read the papers. Dr. Pelletan was brutally set upon by footpads. The Regent has expressed outrage at the growing boldness of the criminal class in the city, and an initiative will soon be launched to remove the worst of the ruffians from the streets. Those who make it a practice of attending the hangings at Newgate are in for some good sport in the months ahead.”

Devlin’s eyes narrowed. He had the strangest eyes Jarvis had ever seen-the tawny gold of a tiger, with an unnatural, almost feral gleam. For some reason Jarvis could not have named, he suddenly found himself hoping that his coming grandson-or granddaughter-would not inherit this man’s damned yellow eyes. And he silently cursed Hero, again, for having mixed their noble blood with that of this bastard.

Devlin said, “Harmond Vaundreuil must be important.”

“In and of himself? No. But what he stands for is very important indeed. Far more important than the death of some random physician. If you love your country, Devlin, you will heed me on this and leave well enough alone.”

“Oh, I love my country, all right,” said Devlin. “But I’ve found that my vision for Britain and your vision are frequently two very different things.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll tell Hero you were inquiring about her.”

Jarvis stood abruptly. “I meant what I said. Do not involve yourself in this.”

“Why?” Devlin paused to look back at him. “What are you concerned that I might find?”

But Jarvis simply shook his head, his nostrils quivering with the intensity of his dislike.

A diminutive but earnest man with a bald head and an abnormally high-pitched voice, Sir Henry Lovejoy was the newest of Bow Street’s three stipendiary magistrates. Sebastian had heard that, once, he’d been a moderately prosperous merchant, until the deaths of his wife and daughter had driven him to dedicate his life to something outside of himself. But he spoke little of those early years, or of the family he’d lost and the stern, somewhat controversial reformist religion that guided his life. In most ways, the two men could not have been more dissimilar. But there was no one whose integrity and honesty Sebastian trusted or admired more.

“Bow Street has received strict instructions from Carlton House that the residents of the Gifford Arms are under no circumstances to be approached,” said Sir Henry as the two men walked along the terrace of Somerset Place, overlooking the Thames. A frigid wind was kicking up whitecaps on the turgid gray water and dashing the incoming tide against the embankment’s walls. “Sir James is adamant that the wishes of the Palace be respected. There will be no investigation of Damion Pelletan’s death-either officially or unofficially.”

Sebastian looked over at the magistrate. “Ever hear of a murder victim in London having his heart cut out?”

Lovejoy pressed his lips into a tight, straight line and shook his head. “No. It’s the most troublesome aspect of this killing, is it not? At least that ghastly detail has been kept out of the papers. It could cause a dangerous panic in the streets, were it to become known.”

“Then let us hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“Merciful heavens.” Sir Henry pressed the folds of his handkerchief to his mouth. “You think it might?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Sebastian stared off across the river, to where the jagged construction of the new bridge stood out stark against the heavy gray clouds. “How much do you know about the other residents of the Gifford Arms-specifically Colonel Foucher and the clerk, Bondurant?”

“Nothing, frankly. But I could ask one of my constables to look into them. I don’t believe the Palace said anything in reference to making discreet inquiries about the residents of the inn.”

Sebastian ducked his head to hide his smile.

The magistrate said, “And the woman I’m told Paul Gibson found at the murder scene? Is she still alive?”

“Last I heard. I’m on my way to Tower Hill now.”

Sir Henry thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bitter wind. “Perhaps when-if-she regains consciousness, much of the mystery surrounding what happened will be solved.”

“Perhaps,” said Sebastian, although he doubted it. He suspected that if the unknown woman in Gibson’s surgery could identify Pelletan’s killer, she’d be dead.

• • •

Returning to Tower Hill, Sebastian found Paul Gibson seated at his kitchen table and eating a plate of cold sliced mutton with boiled cabbage.

Like the surgery beside it, Gibson’s house faced onto the old cobbled lane that curled around the rear of the Tower. The stone walls were thick, the ceilings heavily beamed and low, the floors uneven. Gibson employed a housekeeper named Mrs. Federico, although as far as Sebastian could tell, she did little beyond cook Gibson’s meals and clean his kitchen. She refused to enter any room in which he kept his “specimens.” Since the surgeon had alcohol-filled jars containing any number of body parts and assorted oddities scattered around the house, her prejudice effectively restricted her to the passageway and the kitchen.

But at the moment, the housekeeper was nowhere in sight.

“Bad luck, I’m afraid,” said Gibson as Sebastian poured himself some ale from the pitcher on the table and settled on the opposite bench. “A couple of constables from Bow Street came and took Pelletan’s body away with them.”

“I heard. Did you get a chance to examine it at all?”

Gibson shook his head and paused to swallow a mouthful of cabbage. “Not really. Although I did discover how he died.”

“Oh?”

“He was stabbed in the back with a dagger by someone who either knew what he was doing or got very lucky. The wound would have pierced the heart.”

“So he was dead before the killer hacked open his chest?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God for that, at least.” Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his ale. “Could you tell what the killer used to take out the heart?”

“Probably a big kitchen knife. Or a butcher knife.”

“Interesting,” said Sebastian.

Gibson looked up from cutting himself a slice of mutton. “Why’s that?”

“A dagger and a kitchen knife. Think about it: Who brings two knives to a murder?”

Gibson chewed thoughtfully. “Someone who knows how to kill with a dagger but realizes he needs a bigger knife to steal his victim’s heart?”

“Exactly.”

“In other words, our killer planned to take Pelletan’s heart.”

Sebastian nodded.