Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,104

heard about the deaths of Brownbeck and Forbes?”

LaRivière studied the Gothic-style tower and steeple added to the old church by Wren after the fire. “I have, yes. Such a pity, isn’t it? Official word is that it’s the work of footpads, although I’m hearing whispers that they actually killed each other—or else one killed the other and then committed suicide.”

“Oh? I hadn’t heard any rumors of suicide. Who started that?”

LaRivière gave a very Gallic shrug. “I’ve no idea. You know how people are.”

Sebastian leaned his hips against a nearby tomb and crossed his arms at his chest. “Titus Poole didn’t kill Nicholas Hayes, you know.”

“I’m sorry; who?”

“Titus Poole, the man you hired to quietly murder Hayes and then hide the body someplace it would never be found. That’s why the killing was so messy—because Poole had nothing to do with it. When he came to see you the day after the murder and took credit for it, he was lying. It’s the only reason he was willing to accept half what you’d promised him in payment—because Poole hadn’t actually killed Hayes. Brownbeck did.”

LaRivière paused with his pencil hovering over the sketch for a moment before lowering it to his paper again. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. The only part you didn’t know is that Poole played you for a fool. After he talked to you, he went back to the Bell and laughed with all his mates about how he’d convinced ‘that stupid nob’ to pay him for a murder he didn’t even commit.”

The Frenchman’s lips tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing.

“At first I didn’t think Poole could have been working for you,” Sebastian continued, “because he told me once that he didn’t like foreigners, especially the French because they’d killed his brother. Except I just checked with the newly widowed Mrs. Poole, and it turns out Poole didn’t even have a brother. The man was quite the accomplished liar.”

LaRivière squinted thoughtfully at the delicate tracery of the old medieval windows, then went back to his sketch.

Sebastian said, “Did you know Brownbeck was paying his daughter’s abigail to spy on her? That’s how he discovered Lady Forbes had arranged to meet Hayes in the tea gardens. Brownbeck actually drove up there that evening in his own carriage. That’s a mistake you never would have made, but then he obviously lacked your expertise in arranging these things. Then again, I don’t think he intended to kill Hayes.” Sebastian paused. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? While Brownbeck was quietly eliminating everyone he feared could tie him to Hayes’s murder, you set about doing the same thing. I wonder why you started with Seaforth. Was it because he was so weak and nervous? Did you tell him of your plan to hire Titus Poole? Were you afraid he would betray you?”

“Have you considered a career writing for the stage? You appear to have a definite flair for dramatic invention.”

“You should have stopped there, with Seaforth,” Sebastian continued. “I assume you kept your little killing spree going because you feared Seaforth’s death would panic the others. But eliminating Brownbeck and Forbes was definitely excessive. Of the four men who originally knew of Nicholas Hayes’s return to London, you’re now the only one left alive . . . which is more than suggestive.”

LaRivière dropped his pencil into its case and calmly snapped the lid. “An interesting theory, I’ll admit. But that’s all it is. Just a theory with no proof.”

“Well, we do have the bodies of the men who attacked me at the docks,” said Sebastian, pushing away from the tomb. “Are you so certain those men can’t be traced to you?”

The Count laughed out loud as he closed his sketch pad and set it atop the drawing case. “Do you imagine that was me? It wasn’t, you know. If you do ever discover who hired them, I believe you’ll find they lead you to a dead man. Forbes was quite put out by your interference in something that’s really none of your affair.”

Sebastian kept an eye on the Frenchman’s sword stick and said softly, “You’re forgetting the man who attacked my carriage last Monday night.”

LaRivière was still smiling, but his eyes were cold and hard. “Was your carriage attacked last Monday night? I had no idea. How . . . unfortunate.”

“More unfortunate than you know, given that the man has been identified as someone who worked with Poole. He says the attack was made on your