Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,76
write extensively about London’s criminal underworld.”
“I write about the criminal class. I don’t know any of its members.”
“So you’re saying you don’t actually know what you’re writing about?”
“One does not need to be intimately acquainted with vermin to know they must be exterminated.” Brownbeck’s voice grew aggrieved as he launched into one of his favorite themes. “What this country needs is a proper police force to patrol the streets, bring criminals to justice, and safeguard public morality. We need a police force, and we need a series of severe prisons along the lines of the Panopticon system advocated by my friend Jeremy Bentham.”
“I suspect we’ll eventually get both, God help us all.” Sebastian watched a dog sniff at something in the gutter, then brought his gaze back to the plump, sweaty face of the man beside him. “So, which of the three men do you think killed Hayes? Forbes, Seaforth, or LaRivière?”
“Don’t be absurd. It’s more than obvious that Hayes was killed by some underworld acquaintance of his.”
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“Because anyone else would have had more sense than to leave the body on public display in the tea gardens, of course.”
“Perhaps they hired someone who wasn’t very good at his job,” suggested Sebastian.
Brownbeck made a derisive sound with his tongue against his teeth. “The problem with you, Lord Devlin, is that you refuse to accept the obvious. The man was known to consort with thieves and low, lewd women. No doubt he quarreled with one of them and finally paid the ultimate price for his infamy.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“Not simply possible, but probable.”
Sebastian glanced up as the wind banged a loose shutter somewhere overhead. “Did you know Forbes had seen Hayes in China?”
Brownbeck hesitated a moment before answering, as if considering his response. “As it happens, I did, yes. Perhaps that’s why I recognized Hayes so easily when I chanced to see him by Russell Square—I already knew he was alive. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
Brownbeck’s lips tightened. “That’s the trouble with young men today. They’re bored, aimless, and restless, with nothing to do besides indulge in idle curiosity.”
“Oh, it’s not idle,” said Sebastian with a smile that seemed only to irritate the banker even more. “Believe me, it’s not idle at all.” He politely tipped his hat. “You’ve been a great deal of help. Thank you.”
And then he walked away, leaving Brownbeck scowling after him, the papers beneath his arm snapping in the hot, dry wind.
* * *
Sir Lindsey Forbes was down at the East India Company’s docks, talking to a weathered, white-whiskered sea captain, when he became aware of Sebastian watching him. The growing wind whipped at the gray water and seagulls screeched overhead as the East India Company man continued his conversation. But he kept glancing in Sebastian’s direction. After a moment, he nodded to the captain and turned to walk up to where Sebastian stood with one shoulder propped against the corner of a saltpeter shed, his arms crossed at his chest.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Forbes demanded.
Sebastian pushed away from the wall. “You lied to me.”
Forbes stiffened. It was considered a grave insult to accuse a gentleman of lying. “I beg your pardon?”
“When you said you didn’t know Nicholas Hayes had returned to England. Turns out, you learned of it from both Lord Seaforth and Theo Brownbeck.”
Forbes heaved a heavy sigh, like a weary soul disappointed in the foibles of his fellow men. “Setting aside for a moment the extraordinary rudeness of one man prying into another’s life, I fail to understand what makes you think I owe you an honest recital of the minute details of my existence.”
“Not all of it—only those parts directly related to the murder of Nicholas Hayes.”
“Has it occurred to you that your obsession with that wretch’s demise verges on the unhealthy? Eighteen years ago, a wayward young man committed an atrocious murder and was sentenced to death for it. Unfortunately, the authorities in a paroxysm of unwarranted mercy commuted his sentence to transportation for the term of his natural life. He was then dispatched to the antipodes, where by rights he should have perished. Except that by some oversight on the part of providence, he managed to escape and eventually worked his way back to England, where he presumably was set to recommence his life of crime when his miserable existence was finally brought to an abrupt end.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
A loud clatter jerked Forbes’s attention to where some men were