Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,21
on the cemetery’s crumbling entrance. It was a moment before he spoke. “I’ve been reading the transcripts of Hayes’s trial at the Old Bailey, hoping to understand why he came back to London.”
“And?”
Lovejoy shook his head. “Nothing leaps out at me. From what was said at the trial, Hayes sounds like a thoroughly disreputable fellow. It’s beyond shocking in one of his rank and lineage.”
“Did no one defend him?”
“There was a young Army ensign named Noland—James Noland—who spoke on Hayes’s behalf. No one else.”
“I wonder where this Ensign Noland is now.”
“I looked into him. He enjoyed a distinguished career and rose to the rank of colonel before being killed at Vitoria.”
“Unfortunate. Was he Irish, by chance?”
“As it happens, he was. His father’s a vicar in County Carlow. How did you know?”
“Someone said Hayes’s friends and family abandoned him after his father disowned him, all except for an Irish fellow and one of his brothers.”
Lovejoy shook his head. “There was no mention of a brother in the transcripts.”
“As I understand it, Crispin Hayes died shortly before Chantal de LaRivière was killed.”
“Ah. That explains it, then. Hayes expressed no remorse for what he’d done, by the way—continued to insist to the end that he was innocent.”
“Perhaps he was.”
“Oh, surely not.”
“Think about this,” said Sebastian. “If Hayes was innocent—if LaRivière did accidently kill his own wife and managed to get Hayes transported for it—then I can see a man who’d suffered the hideous brutality that Hayes endured in Botany Bay vowing to come back to England and kill the man he held responsible for it all.”
Lovejoy drew his chin in against his chest. “There’s no denying it would explain Hayes’s puzzling return. But . . . what a shocking miscarriage of justice, if he was innocent and yet was convicted anyway.”
“It happens,” said Sebastian. It could have happened to me.
Lovejoy looked unconvinced. “LaRivière has a reputation as an accomplished swordsman, does he not?”
“I believe he does, yes.”
“If Hayes had been killed by a sword thrust, one could with reason cast suspicion on the Count. But a common sickle? In the back? It seems unlikely, wouldn’t you say?” Lovejoy looked thoughtful. “It might be worth having the lads look into Pennington’s groundskeepers. One of the gardeners may have an unknown past association with Hayes.”
I hope not, thought Sebastian as they reached the Strand. Otherwise the poor fellow is liable to end up quickly charged with murder.
Whether guilty or not.
* * *
“Why we going back up t’ Somer’s Town?” asked Tom as Sebastian guided the chestnuts north along St. Martin’s Lane.
Sebastian cast an amused glance at his tiger. “You still planning to become a Bow Street Runner someday?”
“I am,” said the boy solemnly.
“Then think about this: If you were going to murder someone, would you do it in a place where you knew your arrival and departure were certain to be observed by the person taking admission at the gate?”
“Don’t seem real smart.”
“That’s why I want to take another look at Pennington’s Tea Gardens.”
* * *
He found Irvine Pennington’s daughter once again manning the tea gardens’ entrance. A winsome, freckle-faced girl named Sarah, she had a sunburned nose and a wide, toothy smile. But her smile faltered when Sebastian walked up, introduced himself, and asked for her father.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” she said, dropping a quick curtsy, “but he ain’t around. We don’t know where he’s taken himself off to.”
“Perhaps you can help me,” said Sebastian. “You were working the entrance yesterday, weren’t you?”
She dropped another curtsy. “I was, your lordship. M’father spelled me a few times, but I was here most of the day.”
“Did many people visit the gardens in the afternoon?”
“Oh, we was right busy, that’s for sure. Not as busy as on Sundays, of course. But it’s been so hot lately, lots of folks’ve been coming out.”
“Did you get many gentlemen yesterday?”
“You mean, proper gentlemen? Like yourself?”
Sebastian smiled. “Yes, like that.”
“We don’t get too many fine ladies and gentlemen anymore. Time was, we did. But it’s mostly common folk these days.”
“But you did get some yesterday?”
“Well, probably one or two.”
“Do you remember them? If they were old or young? Tall or short? Thin or fat?”
She screwed up her face with the effort of memory. “I’m right sorry, your honor, but I don’t reckon I could say, for sure. One day just kinda blends into the next.”
“But you remember the man who was killed?”
“Oh, yes, your honor. On account of the boy he had with him. Prettiest little boy I ever did see.