and he decided a stroll was the order of the evening.
At first he was surprised by the number of people on the street, walking in groups, entering taverns and coffeehouses. Jack's morning paper had held the explanation, though: in time of war and fear, people clung to one another, shared news and gossip. . .
. . .and plotted, he suspected. Jack would be in his taverns before the day was out, the dens of Irish and Home Rule agitators. A Crusade and a conquest or two had cured Sebastien of causes—but Jack had an affinity
for them, the more doomed the better. At least, if the streets were full of whispering conspirators and revolutionaries, it would serve as a distraction for a police force whose leaders might be disinclined to trust the direction of Sebastien and Abby Irene's investigation.
As was becoming habit, Sebastien returned to Mrs. Smith's house before sunrise to find Jack waiting up. Not alone this time, however: the entire household was awake, and Sebastien thought the others seemed peaked. Abby Irene looked more her age than usual; Phoebe's hair had escaped its habitual knot and framed her face in frost-pale whorls; and Jack seemed thin. Relationships with the blood put a strain on mortal partners, and though Sebastien tried to spread the burden, he worried.
Especially about Jack.
"The man I am most interested in is Michael Penfold," Sebastien said, dropping into the lone empty chair. "This may present. . .insurmountable difficulties."
A silence, as those difficulties were considered, was his answer. "You're certain the Governor is the murderer?" Abby Irene would rather he said, "no." Her face gave that much away.
In that, he could oblige her. "No."
"But you have evidence?"
"No," he said again.
"I've been informed that I am to discontinue my investigation," Abby Irene said. "Detective Inspector Pyle seemed most unchuffed to deliver the news." She sat back in her chair, and Jack, beside her, crossed his arms.
With a sigh, Phoebe rose to refill the teapot. "Carry on," she said. "I can hear you from the kitchen."
Abby Irene couldn't quite keep the amusement from her voice. "In the absence of evidence or certainty, I would suggest that your instincts, Sebastien, are nevertheless rather good. Whatever pressure is being brought to bear on D.I. Pyle must be significant."
"I have reason to believe he was a patron of both of the victims. And that he's offered violence to a third young man."
"What about David?" Jack asked, leaning forward. "Have we abandoned that theory?"
Sebastien scratched at the enamel of his teeth with a thumbnail. "We can't. But whoever killed those boys did not drink. Or not much, anyway."
"Just because they were not drained, does not mean that a wampyr did not kill them," said Jack. "Only that he did not dine."
"He is not full of love for himself or those driven to—or choosing—similar extremes." Sebastien shook his head. With a twitch of his thumb, he loosened his cravat. "He might kill out of self-hate. Might."
"I'm sorry," Abby Irene said. Her hand covered his.
Sebastien cocked his head. "I said might. But the fact remains, Abernathy was protecting somebody. Somebody, at the very least, who patronized all three men. I suggest from Abernathy's behavior that the person he's protecting is Michael Penfold."
"You're not suggesting this as confirmed, then?"
"Merely an avenue of investigation."
"Someone sent a coach and pair for David tonight," Jack said, with a glance at Abby Irene. "The two of us—"
"Abby Irene accompanied you?"
"You were worried," Jack said, with a dismissive shrug that warmed
Sebastien as well as any mouthful of blood. Anything that Jack and Abby Irene could not manage together might just as likely be too much for
Sebastien. "A black coach, unmarked, drawn by bays. We followed—"
The hesitation wasn't feigned. But they couldn't have found proof, or his comment about Penfold would have met a different response. "And found?"
"Well, we entertained the hack," Abby Irene said, when Jack glanced at her hopefully for assistance. "As David was driven in circles for half an hour and then let off at his door again."
"No marks on the carriage, I take it?"
"None," Abby Irene said, as Phoebe emerged from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea and warmed her cup. Abby Irene touched her wrist approvingly.
Well, Sebastien thought, they might all be furious with him, but at least his court were convivial.
Abby Irene continued, "But after it returned your. . .offspring to his lodgings, Jack disembarked to continue surveillance, and I followed on."
"Where did it go?"
"It stopped for some time at a townhouse, dropped off