Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,17
What did you think of him?”
Hendon was silent a moment, his lips pressing into a tight line. “He was a pompous, vain, arrogant man, yet extraordinarily touchy about the fact his title was only an Irish one and relatively recent at that. It’s a bad combination, in my experience—arrogance and wounded pride. It sours a man.”
“Nicholas was his third son?”
“He was, yes. The middle son, Crispin, drowned just a few days before Chantal de LaRivière’s murder. And the heir—Lucas, I believe was his name—died childless a year or two before the Earl.”
“And when was that?”
“That Seaforth died? Must have been ten years ago, at least.”
“That’s when the title passed to the Earl’s nephew, Ethan?”
“That’s right. He was the heir presumptive, given that Nicholas was dead—or so everyone thought.” Hendon frowned. “You’re certain this fellow killed up in Somer’s Town really was Nicholas Hayes?”
“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt about it.”
Hendon paused for a moment, his gaze on a wherryman rowing his fare across the river. But Sebastian had the impression his thoughts were far, far away. After a moment, the Earl said, “Why the devil would someone like that return to England?”
“I can think of one rather obvious explanation.”
Hendon turned his head to stare at him. “You can? What?”
“What if Nicholas Hayes told the truth eighteen years ago? What if he really didn’t kill Chantal de LaRivière?”
“What are you suggesting? That the Count accidently shot his own wife and then blamed Hayes for it? That’s absurd.”
“It would explain why Hayes came back.”
“For revenge, you mean? Against the Count de Compans? Please tell me you aren’t suggesting that Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière of all people killed Hayes. Good God, Devlin! Eighteen years ago, LaRivière was just another impoverished French nobleman struggling to survive in exile. But he’s now a close confidant of both the newly restored French King and his brother—who will no doubt be King himself soon enough. The only reason LaRivière isn’t in Paris with the rest of them is because he agreed to stay and represent the Bourbons during the Allied Sovereigns’ visit.”
Sebastian studied Hendon’s hot, angry face. “Just because I see it as a possibility to be explored doesn’t mean I intend to accuse the good Count out of hand, if that’s what concerns you.”
Hendon’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I’d hoped when you married and became a father you’d give up this nonsense. It’s not at all a proper thing for you to be doing, chasing after murderers. Especially when the victim is a man of such despicable character. It’s . . . unseemly.”
Sebastian gave a faint shake of his head. “Murder is unseemly. Making certain a killer doesn’t get away with what he has done is an obligation we the living owe to the dead—no matter how unsavory we consider them to be.”
“I suppose so—but that’s why we have magistrates and constables.”
“Am I not my brother’s keeper?” said Sebastian softly.
Hendon pointed a shaky finger at him. “Don’t start.”
“Are you saying it’s not relevant?”
Hendon didn’t try to deny it, although his face grew even redder. “But this murder, Devlin? The dead man was himself a murderer.”
“And what if he wasn’t?”
“Of course he was.”
Sebastian held his peace. Yet he found himself thinking of two sets of embroidered Chinese slippers, one large, the other small, tucked neatly away beneath a lumpy mattress.
And a set of Buddhist prayer beads curled up beside the miniature portrait of a faintly smiling young woman.
Chapter 13
J i had awakened that morning just before dawn, still slumped in the recess of the old doorway. Jerking up, mouth dry with a rush of terror, the child scanned the narrow lane, listening, watching. The man Poole was gone.
But the child was still too afraid to return to the Red Lion. Instead, Ji took off running, darting down noisome alleys, past stinking breweries, through streets crowded with shabby secondhand dealers and bawling hawkers who wouldn’t have been too out of place in Canton. On and on the child ran. Only when the familiar inn and the danger it had come to represent were left far, far behind did Ji draw up, chest heaving, lungs gasping, head spinning with fear and confusion mixed with mind-numbing grief and a paralyzing sense of failure.
I should have been there when he died, Ji kept thinking over and over again. I should be with him now. Worse than the heart-stopping fear, almost worse than the tide of overwhelming grief, was this shameful sense of having failed Hayes at the time of