Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,75
Threadneedle and was almost to Cornhill before he realized Sebastian had fallen into step beside him.
“What do you want?” demanded the banker, throwing Sebastian an angry sideways glance.
“The problem with lying in response to questions about a murder,” said Sebastian pleasantly, “is that it tends to make you look guilty.”
Brownbeck kept walking. “Am I supposed to somehow divine what you’re talking about?”
“Sir Lindsey Forbes, the Count de Compans, and the Earl of Seaforth. It turns out that all three men knew by the beginning of last week that Hayes was in England, and they knew because you’d told them.”
Brownbeck’s face was a transparent study in his shifting thought processes as he first registered surprise at the discovery of his lie, then hovered over the possibility of denying everything before finally deciding to bluster forward in an attack. “I did not kill Nicholas Hayes, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I don’t believe you did. Men like you don’t usually do their own dirty work; they get others to do it for them. So you told Nicholas Hayes’s enemies that he was back in the country, presumably in the hopes that one of them would quietly kill him.”
Brownbeck made a scoffing sound deep in his throat. “Who thinks like that? I told them about Hayes because they needed to know.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the man was a dangerous murderer, in case you’ve forgotten!”
“So why not inform the authorities and have him arrested?”
Brownbeck cast him a scornful glance. “And have the past dredged up again for everyone to titter about? Risk having my daughter’s name dragged through the mud? It’s been bad enough with him being found dead. Can you imagine the papers if he’d been taken alive?”
“True. But surely that possibility pales to insignificance if you genuinely believed Hayes had come back here to kill someone. Someone such as, say, you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would the man want to kill me?”
“Because you let his baby die.”
Brownbeck drew up abruptly and cast a swift look about before saying in a low, icy voice, “I didn’t ‘let’ the child die. How was I to know that woman was in the habit of dosing the infants in her care with opium?”
Jesus, thought Sebastian. He’d heard of venal foster mothers giving their helpless young charges opium to keep them quiet and dull their hunger. Most of them simply quit eating and died. No wonder Nicholas hated the East India Company’s enthusiastic investment in the production of opium. Aloud, he said, “You’d have known if you’d bothered to check into the woman before handing the infant over to her. You obviously didn’t care.”
“Of course I didn’t care! It was bad enough I had to pay to have someone take the thing. If you think I shed any tears over its demise, you’re mistaken. The brat is better off dead.”
For a moment, Sebastian could only stare at him. “That ‘brat’ was your daughter’s only child. Your grandchild.”
Brownbeck set his jaw. “I make no claims to it. Begotten in sin, fathered by a vicious murderer, born into infamy! What would I want with such a disgraceful legacy?”
The hot wind gusted up, whistling down the narrow street and buffeting them with the reek of horse droppings and urine and dust. Sebastian said, “How did you know Hayes had returned to England?”
“I saw them—him and that child he presumably brought back from China with him.”
“Where?”
“Near Russell Square. They were walking down the street as I was exiting a friend’s house. Hayes didn’t see me.”
“But you recognized him? After nearly twenty years?”
“I have an excellent memory for faces. He was older, obviously, but his appearance hadn’t altered that much. And the ways in which he had changed simply meant he’d grown to look more like his father. I followed them a ways—discreetly, of course—just to make certain. But as soon as I heard his voice, there was no doubt in my mind.”
“What was he doing when you saw him?”
“I told you, simply walking down the street with the boy.”
“And then you told Forbes, Seaforth, and LaRivière?”
“Not right away. I thought about it a day, and then I told them. As I said, I thought they deserved to know so that they could be on their guard.”
“Who else did you tell?”
Brownbeck looked puzzled. “Who else would I tell?”
“You weren’t tempted to hire someone to take care of the problem for you?”
“No, I was not. And even if I were, do you seriously think I’d know how to go about finding someone like that?”