Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,33
skills. It was a professional job, no doubt about that. The wastrel sank fast, you know, after Seaforth disowned him. Took to consorting with the lowest sort of company. I can’t imagine why you’ve decided to concern yourself with his death. The man ought by rights to have been hanged eighteen years ago.”
“That seems to be a common consensus.”
“I should think so.” Brownbeck drained his tankard. “To be frank, I was hoping none of us would ever have reason to think of the scoundrel again.”
“Yes, I can see how that would have been more convenient for you.”
Brownbeck’s jaw sagged. Then his features tightened. “Amuse yourself by dabbling in the detection of murder if you must. But you keep my daughter’s name out of this, do you hear?”
Sebastian gave the man a hard smile. “Shall I ring for a footman to show you out?”
Brownbeck set aside his empty tankard with a thump. “I’ll see myself out. Thank you.”
“One question,” said Sebastian as the man turned to leave. “Have you ever seen something like this before?”
Brownbeck glanced at the small bronze token Sebastian held out. “No. What is it?”
Sebastian closed his palm around the mysterious disk. “I’ve no idea.”
Morey was closing the door behind their visitor when Hero came down the stairs.
“How much of that did you hear?” Sebastian asked her.
“Enough to be impressed by the extent to which you kept your temper.”
Sebastian went to pour himself more ale and drank deeply. “Pompous ass. How do you think he learned of your visit to St. James’s Square so quickly?”
“I could be wrong, but I doubt he heard it from Kate. Which means Forbes himself must have sent word to his father-in-law.”
Sebastian nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Hero went to stand at the front window, her gaze on the sunbaked street. “What do you make of his tale of Hayes hiring someone to burgle his father’s house?”
Sebastian came up beside her as Brownbeck’s carriage pulled away from the kerb. “I think I need to pay another visit to Chick Lane.”
* * *
Sebastian found the Red Lion’s ancient taproom filled with a hot, sweaty, boisterous crowd and Grace Calhoun focused on filling six tankards of ale.
“Was wondering when you’d be back,” she said, throwing him a quick glance as he walked up.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Rather than answer, she scooped up all six tankards at once and carried them to a table of what looked like highwaymen huddled in the murky depths of the room.
When she came back, he said, “Have you seen Ji?”
She scooted behind the bar without even looking at him. “No.”
Damn, thought Sebastian. Aloud, he said, “Can you think where he might be hiding?”
“No.”
Sebastian studied the woman’s handsome, hard face. “I’m told Hayes befriended a cracksman when he was staying here eighteen years ago.”
“He was a right personable fellow, Nicholas. Made friends easy, he did.”
“Did he?”
“When he wanted to.”
“I’m told he used this cracksman to break into his father’s house. Do you know anything about that?”
“Me? Why would I?”
“Because I suspect you know your customers better than a vicar knows his parishioners.”
A gleam of amusement shone in her dark eyes, but she remained silent.
Sebastian said, “Is he still around, that cracksman?”
“Been a long time. Maybe he’s dead.”
“I’d like to talk to him if he isn’t.”
“What makes you think he knows anything?”
“I don’t know that he does.”
Grace Calhoun swiped at a pool of some spilled liquid on the surface of the bar with a rag. “Heard tell the owner of them tea gardens got found dead over in Somer’s Town.”
Sebastian nodded. “This morning.”
“Why you think that happened?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked up at him. “Don’t you? Seems to me you ain’t lookin’ for no common cracksman.”
“I never said I suspected the cracksman of killing Nicholas Hayes. I’m hoping he can tell me more about what happened eighteen years ago.”
Grace Calhoun tossed the rag aside. “There’s lots o’ folks could tell you about what happened eighteen years ago.”
Sebastian watched her turn away to start stacking dirty glasses in a tub. “Were you here that night? The night Hayes killed Chantal de LaRivière?”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“So certain?”
“I reckon I’m a pretty good judge of a man’s character.”
Sebastian couldn’t argue with that. She had to be to have not only survived but flourished in her business. He said, “Did he come back here that night? After the shooting, I mean.”
“He did.”
“And?”
“I wanted him to hide.”
“Where?”
Again, that faint gleam of amusement that was there and then gone. “We’ve places.”
Sebastian had heard about the Red Lion’s “places.” Secret doors and