Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,63

surrounding buildings, tearing them down and replacing them with endless rows of huge brick warehouses that virtually blocked out the sun.

Sir Lindsey Forbes was crossing the headquarters’ ornate marble-clad vestibule when Sebastian fell into step beside him and said, “You didn’t tell me you once had a nasty encounter with Nicholas Hayes on the waterfront of Macau.”

Forbes’s step faltered for only an instant before he resumed his previous pace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. He beat your head against the dock and accused you of killing his baby.”

“The man was mad.”

“So you admit the incident occurred.”

Forbes drew up abruptly and swung to face Sebastian, his voice a low hiss. “What bloody difference does it make to anything?”

“It means you knew Hayes was alive. That he hadn’t died in Botany Bay the way everyone thought.”

“That doesn’t mean I knew he’d returned to England.”

Sebastian studied the older man’s handsome, surprisingly ageless face. “Did you tell your wife? That Hayes was alive and living in China, I mean.”

Angry color stained the East India Company Director’s cheeks. “You leave my wife out of this. Do you hear?”

“Then tell me about the child.”

Without a word, Forbes slammed open one of the building’s ornate front doors and walked outside.

Sebastian kept pace with him as he turned down the narrow cobbled lane toward the river, the company’s vast brick warehouses looming around them. “The sums are rather simple to do,” said Sebastian, “even with the limited information available. Chantal de LaRivière was killed in April of 1796, six months after the late Earl of Seaforth flew into a rage over his youngest son’s elopement and cut him off without a penny. That means the elopement took place around September or October of 1795. If, as now seems likely, an unborn child was the reason for that hasty bolt to the border, then the baby would have been born—when? April? May?”

Forbes pressed his lips together and kept walking.

“What happened to the little girl? It was a girl, was it not?” When the man remained silent, Sebastian said, “According to Nicholas Hayes, you killed her.”

Forbes drew up again and cast a quick look at the surrounding warehouses before saying with low, careful insistence, “I did not kill it.”

“Her. Not ‘it.’ Her. And if you didn’t kill the child, then who did?”

“No one did. Brownbeck gave the baby to a woman to nurse, and it died. These things happen.”

“How did Hayes find out about the child’s death?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. But given that the convict ship didn’t leave for Botany Bay until the end of the year, someone obviously told him.”

“When did the baby die?”

Forbes looked vaguely stunned by the question. “You seriously think I remember?”

“No, of course not.”

The angry color deepened in the man’s face, but he simply turned and started walking again.

Sebastian said, “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

“No, but I have no doubt you’ve every intention of telling me. So let’s humor you, shall we? What does it mean?”

“It means Nicholas Hayes had a very good reason to want to kill you.”

“I had nothing to do with the brat’s death. Brownbeck is the one who gave it to that drunken woman, not me.”

That drunken woman. Jesus.

“You think that matters?” said Sebastian, his voice rough with revulsion. “What counts is that Hayes considered you responsible, and you knew it. He’d already tried to kill you once in Macau because of it, and he might well have come back to England specifically to try again. In China, he was protected by a powerful Hong merchant, so you didn’t dare move against him. But in London, you could easily hire someone to quietly take care of him. Someone like, say, Titus Poole.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d known Nicholas Hayes was in England, I’d have simply informed the authorities and let them kill him. Legally.”

“Perhaps. Except that Bow Street can be a tad slow at times, which means there was a chance that Hayes might get to you before they caught him. And what if they did catch him? A man in prison and on trial can talk. In fact, the newspapers love to interview condemned men, hoping for a lurid confession. I suspect you wouldn’t want all of London reading what he had to say.”

At some point they had quit walking again. Forbes’s light blue eyes were reduced to two narrow slits, and his jaw was clenched so tightly, he had to practically spit the words out. “For the last time, I tell you