C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

“Bloody hell,” Gibson said softly. “But. . why?”

“That I can’t even begin to guess.”

Gibson reached for the pitcher and poured them both more ale. “Did you go to Cat’s Hole?”

“I did.” He told Gibson, briefly, what he had found there.

“You didn’t by chance find Pelletan’s heart while you were having a look about, did you?”

“No. But there was a pig rooting in the passage when I arrived.”

Gibson grimaced. “Bad luck, that.” Pigs were notorious for eating anything and everything, human body parts included.

“You didn’t see the heart last night?”

“No. But then, I don’t have your ability to see in the dark. And I was a wee bit preoccupied with other things.”

“How is your patient doing?”

“She awoke this morning long enough to tell me that her name is Alexandrie Sauvage and she has rooms in Golden Square. I’ve sent a message to her servant, telling the woman her mistress is alive but injured.”

“Would it be possible for me to speak to her?”

Gibson shook his head. “She was restless and in pain, so I gave her a few drops of laudanum to help her sleep again. The possibility of bleeding in the brain still exists, so she needs to be kept as quiet as possible.”

“Do you think she’ll survive?”

Gibson looked troubled. “I don’t know. It’s still too early to say.”

Sebastian shifted his position to stretch out his legs and cross his boots at the ankles. “I had an interesting conversation with one Mitt Peebles at the Gifford Arms in York Street. It seems Damion Pelletan was with a small group of Frenchmen who hired the entire hotel three weeks ago. They then turned off most of the hotel’s staff and replaced them with their own servants-their own French servants.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Presumably because they’re worried about spies. I could be wrong, but I suspect Pelletan was here as part of an official delegation sent by Napoleon to explore the possibility of peace with England.”

Gibson stared at him blankly. “What?”

“I recognized Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil, the man you say came to identify Pelletan’s body. I didn’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before. With Jarvis.”

“But. . peace? Is it possible?”

“Six months ago, I would have said no. But Napoleon just lost half a million men in Russia and barely escaped with his own life. The Prussians and the Austrians are turning against him, and there’ve been rumors of plots in Paris. I’m not surprised to hear he’s sent a small delegation to London with instructions to quietly put out peace feelers.”

“And Alexandrie Sauvage?”

“I have no idea how she fits into any of this. But last night, a Frenchwoman and her male companion came to the hotel, asking to see Pelletan. He left shortly after talking to them.”

“You think Alexandrie Sauvage was that woman?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“So who was her companion?”

“That I don’t know.”

Gibson nudged away his plate. “When she was awake, she told me why they were in St. Katharine’s.”

“Oh?”

“She says Pelletan had agreed to go with her to see a sick child who lives in Hangman’s Court. She and Pelletan were on their way back from visiting the little girl when they were attacked.” Gibson pushed up from the table. “I promised to go there this afternoon and take a look at the child. The mother’s a poor widow.” He looked over at Sebastian. “Care to come along?”

“W hat’s wrong with the child?” Sebastian asked as they wound through St. Katharine’s tangle of mean streets and dark, tortuous lanes. The sun was a distant golden ball in a frigid blue sky, but there was no warmth in its brittle light. Ice crusted the mud and manure beneath their feet, and the lips of the grimy, ragged children playing in the gutters were blue with cold.

“It’s a little girl of three. I’m told she was healthy enough until recently. She had the sniffles and a slight rash a couple of weeks ago but seemed to get over it. Then suddenly she couldn’t move her legs. She’s been getting progressively weaker and weaker, with the weakness slowly moving up her body, first to her back, then to her arms. Last night, she was having difficulty breathing. It sounds as if something is affecting the muscles in her body, and now it’s hit the walls of her chest.”

“Sounds. . frightening,” said Sebastian.

Gibson threw him a quick glance. “For a parent, it would be terrifying, yes.”

They walked on in silence. This was one of the poorest sections of London, its streets crowded with low, squalid tenements built of decaying wood and mean shops that catered to the nearby docks. The wretched space known as Hangman’s Court lay not far from the spires of the old medieval church. A question addressed to an aged woman selling roasted potatoes from a rusty barrow brought them to a warped door at the end of a dark, fetid corridor. From the other side of the panels came the sound of a woman weeping.

Gibson knocked quietly, almost apologetically.

The sobs ceased abruptly.

“Madame Bisette?” he called. “Alexandrie Sauvage asked me to call. I’m a surgeon.”

They heard a soft, hesitant tread, then the sound of a bolt being drawn back.

The door swung inward to reveal a woman. She looked to be perhaps thirty-five or forty, although it was impossible to say with any certainty. Her face was blotched with tears, her eyes red and swollen, her lips trembling. Rail thin, she wore a rusty black, old-fashioned gown, relatively clean but hopelessly threadbare. The small room beyond her was icy cold and empty except for a rough pallet in the corner, on which lay a tiny form, ominously still.

“Madame Bisette?” asked Gibson, his hat in his hands.

“Oui.”

His gaze went to the child on the pallet. “How is she?”

The woman began to weep again.

Sebastian walked over to the pallet, gazed down at the dead child, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” said Gibson.

“My Cecile,” wailed the woman, her arms wrapping around her waist, her body curling forward with the agony of her grief. “She was all I had left. What am I to do now? What? ”

“Our apologies for disturbing you at such a time,” said Sebastian, going to press several coins into her palm and close her fingers around them.

The woman stared dully at the coins in her hand, then lifted her gaze to his face. Her English was only lightly accented, her voice cultured and educated. She might be living in extreme poverty now, but she was obviously not born to it. She said, “Why are you here? Where is Alexi?”

Her use of a pet form of Alexandrie Sauvage’s given name surprised him, hinting at an intimacy between the two women he hadn’t expected. Sebastian said, “Madame Sauvage and Dr. Pelletan were attacked in Cat’s Hole after they left here last night. Dr. Pelletan was killed.”

Madame Bisette sucked in a quick breath. “And Alexi?”

“She was badly injured,” said Gibson, “but I’ve hopes she’ll recover.” He hesitated, then added, “Do you know of any reason why someone might have wanted to kill Dr. Pelletan?”

The woman shook her head. “I never knew Damion Pelletan. The doctoresse asked him to look at Cecile.”

Sebastian and Gibson exchanged glances. Sebastian said, “Alexandrie Sauvage is a physician?”

“She is, yes. She studied at Bologna.” Medical schools were closed to women in both France and in England. But Italy had a tradition of female physicians that dated back to the Middle Ages.

“How long has she been in London?” asked Sebastian.