Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,101
hoping his sister would take care of the little girl after he died.”
Katherine Forbes stared at him. “And Lady Anne turned him down? How could she?” She brought up one hand to cup her mouth, then let it fall. “That’s what Nicholas was going to ask me, isn’t it? He wanted to ask me to take care of his child after he died.” Her voice broke. “Dear God. And my father killed him.”
“I suspect so.” Sebastian hesitated, then said, “Do you have any idea—any idea at all—where your father might have gone?”
“No. He’s never gone off like this before.” The wind tugged at the brim of her elegant, expensive hat, and she put up a hand to catch it. “How did you know? How did you know it was Father?”
“He was seen in the gardens that night.”
“Then perhaps he’s run away. France is open these days, isn’t it?” She glanced back at her grand house on the eastern side of the square. “And Forbes?”
“He knew Hayes had returned to London. But I don’t believe he played a part in his death.”
“Then where has he gone?”
Sebastian met her gaze and saw there a flare of hope that he understood only too well. “I don’t know.”
* * *
“They’re both missing?” said Hero when Devlin told her of the disappearance of Brownbeck and Forbes. “Are you certain?”
“It looks like it. I swung by Brownbeck’s house in Bloomsbury on my way to Bow Street. The servants tried to cover up their master’s strange behavior, but it didn’t take me long to get the truth out of them. Seems he went out shortly after dark—in a hackney, same as Forbes—and never came back.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Devlin went to pour himself a brandy from the carafe that stood on the table near the drawing room fireplace. It was dark now, the room lit by golden candlelight and a small fire laid on the hearth to drive away the evening’s chill. “Lovejoy is doing what he can to look into it, but it’s rather delicate, given the prominence of the two men involved.”
Hero was silent for a moment, her gaze on the leaping flame of the candle at her side. “I’ll confess I’ve always despised Theo Brownbeck. He’s sanctimonious, hypocritical, and—given the hateful ‘statistics’ he invents—basically dishonest. But I never would have pegged him as a murderer.”
“He’s a weak and supremely selfish man. I suspect he struck out at Hayes in a moment of rage. And then, rather than own up to what he’d done, he went on a killing spree to eliminate anyone who might be a threat to him.”
“Including Seaforth?”
“One presumes so.”
“Do you think he has now killed Forbes?”
“I had the distinct impression that Lady Forbes is hoping her husband is her father’s latest victim.”
“I can’t say I blame her.”
“No.”
Hero watched him take a long, slow swallow of his drink. “Do you think LaRivière is now in danger?”
“I don’t know. I keep coming back to the fact that while Brownbeck obviously killed Nicholas Hayes, one of the other three men—either Seaforth, Forbes, or LaRivière—hired Titus Poole and thus mistakenly believes that he himself is responsible for what happened up in Somer’s Town.” He paused. “Although I suppose in the case of Seaforth, I should say believed.”
The distant sound of a door opening echoed up from below, followed by a crash and running footsteps on the stairs. They heard Morey’s warning hiss, then Tom’s excited voice shouting, “But ’e’s gonna want t’ know.”
An instant later, the tiger burst into the drawing room, bringing with him the smell of horses and warm boy and London air. “They’re dead, gov’nor! Both o’ ’em! Forbes and Brownbeck. Some ex-soldier found ’em in the ruins o’ the old Savoy Palace o’er by that new bridge they’re buildin’. Brownbeck ’as been shot, and Forbes ’as got a knife stickin’ out of ’im!”
Chapter 56
S ebastian arrived at the ruins of the old Savoy Palace to find the site illuminated by the hellish glow of flaring torches and a scattering of bobbing horn lanterns. A sizable crowd was beginning to gather despite the softly falling rain, with a couple of constables fighting to hold people back.
“Sir ’Enry’s waiting for ye,” called one of the constables when he recognized Sebastian.
Leaving the curricle with Tom, Sebastian worked his way down the wet slope, past scattered piles of stone and rough timbers. Lying between the Strand and the Thames, Savoy Palace had once been the grandest nobleman’s house in all of medieval London,