Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,4

a thing to ask.”

“It strikes me as a reasonable question.”

Pennington backed into the trunk of a linden tree and stopped, his head shaking slowly back and forth, back and forth. “This won’t be good for business. It won’t be good for business at all. Perhaps we could—” He licked his lips. “Perhaps we could shift the body? Just a tad? There’s an access gate in the wall near here. If we were to—”

“No.”

“Who would care? Look at him. He’s—what? A shopkeeper, perhaps? A cobbler or maybe a—”

“As it happens, he’s the youngest son of the late Earl of Seaforth.”

“The Earl of—” A succession of emotions flickered across the garden owner’s face as shock gave way to wonderment, followed almost immediately by a gleam of hopeful avarice. “Really? Well, well, well. Perhaps this won’t ruin me after all. I could make the site into a special attraction. Yes, that might work. I could even fence off the area and charge a separate admission. I wonder if they’ll let me have the dead man’s clothes. I could have them stuffed and restage the murder scene. I could even—”

“Why, you sick, greedy bastard,” swore Calhoun, surging to his feet. “The man is dead, and all you can think about is—”

Sebastian just managed to snag his normally mild-mannered valet’s arm and haul him back. “Calhoun,” he said softly.

Mr. Irvine Pennington threw up both hands and scuttled around behind the linden tree as if using the trunk as a shield. “Merciful heavens.”

“May I suggest you await the arrival of Bow Street at the entrance gate? That way you can direct them where to go when they arrive.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll do that. I’ll do that right away.” He hesitated, then added timidly, “May I have the lantern back, please?”

Sebastian waited until the garden owner trotted off, the lantern light swinging wildly over the darkened shrubbery. Then he let the valet go.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said Calhoun, smoothing the tumbled hair from his forehead and repositioning his hat with unsteady hands. “That was unforgivable of me.”

“Yet understandable.” Sebastian brought his attention back to the dead man at their feet. “I suspect Bow Street won’t take kindly to the realization that you knew Hayes was an escaped convict and yet failed to report him to the authorities. We need to come up with a convincing story to tell Sir Henry. Quickly.”

Chapter 4

U nbelievable,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, holding his lantern high as he peered at the dead man’s face over the rims of his spectacles. “It really is Nicholas Hayes.”

The Bow Street magistrate was a small, balding man with a rigid moral code and a serious demeanor. Earlier in life he’d been a moderately successful merchant, but the tragic death of his wife and daughter some years before had led him to change course and decide to devote the rest of his days to public service. Far too many of London’s magistrates were either venal, lazy, or both. But Lovejoy was neither. Dedicated, scrupulously honest, and clever, he had a tendency to see each murder, each violation of the public’s trust, as a source of deep personal sadness.

“You knew him?” said Sebastian in surprise.

“Not personally, no. But I remember the trial quite clearly. Such a tragic, sordid affair it was. The woman he killed—the wife of the Count de Compans—was so young, and quite lovely.” Lovejoy shifted his lantern to let the light play over the bloody sickle still embedded in Nicholas Hayes’s back. “Ghastly. You say a lad brought you word of this?”

“Yes.”

“How very odd. Why didn’t he go to the local authorities?”

Sebastian glanced over at Calhoun, who was busy staring fixedly into the surrounding darkness. They’d decided to simply fudge some of the particulars. “Certain segments of society do tend to have a virtually inbred fear of the constabulary.”

Lovejoy frowned. “Any possibility this lad could be involved in the murder himself?”

“I doubt it. He was a mere child. Unfortunately, he took off without giving us his direction.”

“Most unfortunate, indeed.” Lovejoy drew a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed the neatly folded square against his damp forehead. “Goodness, it’s warm tonight.” Handkerchief still in hand, he straightened to glance around the small clearing. He’d set a couple of his constables to going over the area as best they could by lantern, but they’d need daylight for a more thorough search. “The use of the sickle suggests a crime of both opportunity and passion, although I suppose simple robbery could also have been the motive. I’m