Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,95
as the wind gusted up, throwing the rain against the house in hard sheets. “Although that’s not to say that Poole didn’t kill Seaforth—only that I don’t think the money was the reason.”
She propped herself up on one elbow so she could see him better. “Now that you know Titus Poole didn’t kill Hayes, the alibis of your suspects become more important, don’t they? Didn’t Seaforth say he spent the afternoon at his club before going to the Regent’s reception for the Allied Sovereigns?”
“He did. And Lovejoy confirmed it. Which means that unless the Earl somehow managed to leave and come back without anyone at White’s noticing, it’s unlikely that he was responsible for the sickle in Nicholas Hayes’s back. As for LaRivière, he wasn’t only at the reception. He even dined with the Regent—as did Sir Lindsey, according to his wife. But given the timing of the murder, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that either man could have worked in a quick trip to the tea gardens before going to Carlton House.”
“Gibson did say it’s unlikely the killer had much blood on him.”
“He did.”
“What about Brownbeck?”
“Brownbeck refused to give any account of his movements that day, and it’s hard to ask Lovejoy to look into the man without giving away Lady Forbes’s secrets.”
“So he could have done it.”
“He could have.”
“Lady Forbes had her abigail with her in Hatchards when she spoke to Hayes. It’s possible the woman overheard them making the assignation and told Forbes. But she also could have told her mistress’s father. I wouldn’t be surprised if Katherine Forbes has had the same abigail since she was Miss Kate Brownbeck.”
“Now that’s something I hadn’t considered,” said Sebastian, thrusting his splayed fingers through the heavy fall of Hero’s dark hair to draw it away from her face. “I think I might take another trip up to Somer’s Town tomorrow.”
Her gray eyes shimmered in a sudden pulse of lightning. “Why?”
“I want to talk to that gardener whose sickle somehow or other ended up in Nicholas Hayes’s back.”
“Surely you don’t think he’s responsible?”
“No. But I’ve been thinking about that testimony he gave at the inquest—how he said he’d been cutting grass in the clearing and didn’t realize he’d left his sickle until he found it missing the next morning.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Not exactly. I suspect that by the time Nicholas’s body was discovered near the west boundary wall, that gardener knew damn well he’d forgotten his sickle. Only for some reason he didn’t want to admit it. And I want to know why.”
* * *
Friday, 17 June
The next morning dawned overcast and chilly, with a flat white light that made the day feel dreary and vaguely depressing.
“I know it ain’t really cold,” said Tom as they drove through gloomy, rain-drenched streets. “But it feels cold.”
“It’s cold,” said Sebastian as a fine, miserable mist hit them in the face.
* * *
Bernie Aikens was up on a ladder, tying in the arching new-growth canes of the roses on an arbor near the tea gardens’ central ornamental pond. The rows of climbing roses were covered with fresh green leaves and thick with swelling buds only just beginning here and there to burst into blooms of soft pink and a white so pearlescent as to almost glow in the gloom of the cloudy day. The smell of wet vegetation and damp earth and the sweet perfume of the roses hung heavy in the air, and Aikens was whistling as he worked, the tune a vaguely familiar sea ditty Sebastian couldn’t quite place.
The gardener cast a quick glance toward Sebastian as he paused beside the nearest arch, then ignored him. But when Sebastian continued to quietly watch him, the gardener grew visibly self-conscious and finally said, “Can I help ye there, yer honor?”
“You’re Bernie Aikens, aren’t you?”
A wary look settled over the man’s weathered features. He had a long, bony face so lean that the structure of his prominent cheekbones and jaw was clearly visible beneath his sun-darkened skin. “Aye.”
“I’m Devlin.”
The man’s hands stilled at his work. He might not have remembered Sebastian’s face from the inquest, but the name had obviously stuck with him. He stood motionless on the ladder, his hands now gripping its sides, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular in the distance.
“I mean you no harm,” said Sebastian quietly, watching him.
Aikens sniffed. “Yer here ’cause of that dead man, are ye?”
“Yes.”
“I said everything I got t’ say at that inquest. Don’t know nothin’ else.”