Who Buries the Dead (19 page)

Sebastian reined in hard and turned to stare at his tiger. “When was this?”

“Dunno. Few days ago. Why?”

But Sebastian only shook his head, the wind cold on his face as he whipped the horses for home.

“T
he thing ye gots t’ understand,” said the costermonger, leaning against the side of a donkey cart piled high with whole, fresh fish still glistening and wet from the market, “is that not ev’rybody sellin’ on the streets is a coster.”

“Oh?” said Hero, intrigued by the costermongers’ determination to hold themselves apart from all other street sellers.

“Course not,” said the coster. He was a big man named Mica McDougal, with beefy arms and a wind-reddened face and dark hair covered by a small cap. “Why, the Dutch buy-a-broom girls, the Jew old-clothes men, the pea soup and bread ’n’ butter sellers, the wooden-spoon makers—ain’t none of ’em proper costermongers.”

“So what makes one a ‘proper’ costermonger?”

“Proper costermongers sell stock we buys at the fruit and vegetable and fish markets. Some of us ’as stalls or stands in the streets, and some of us makes rounds with a barrow or donkey cart. But you’ll never find a costermonger sellin’ tatted ’air nets or wooden clothes pins.” He wrinkled his nose in disdain.

“How far do you travel on your daily rounds?”

“Oh, usually nine or ten miles.”

“That’s quite a distance to walk every day.”

“Nah. Sometimes in the summer, Liz ’n’ me’ll go on country rounds for as much as twenty-five miles.”

“Liz?”

The coster grinned and shifted to lay an affectionate arm across his donkey’s withers. “Liz.”

The donkey peeled its lips away from its long teeth and let out a loud
hee-haw
.

“Do you live around here?” Hero asked.

“Ah, no; we lives off Fish Street Hill, m’lady. You’ll find most costermongers what deals in fish lives thereabouts, so’s we’re close t’ Billingsgate Market.”

“You have children?”

“I got three: two boys and a girl. ’Twere five, but two o’ the little ones died o’ fever afore Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

The costermonger twitched one shoulder and swallowed hard.

Hero said, “Do you think your children will grow up to be costermongers?”

He swiped a meaty hand down over his whisker-stubbled face. “Sure then, we’re already sendin’ them out to sell nuts and oranges and watercress. The streets teaches ’em what they needs to know. Why, they’re as sharp as terriers, little as they are. They ’as t’ be; they know better’n t’ come ’ome if they ain’t done well.”

Hero was careful to keep her instinctive reaction to his words from showing on her face. “How old are they?”

“The girl’s eight, and the boys is five and seven.”

“Your wife is a costermonger as well?”

“Aye. She works Fleet Street. This time o’ year she sells flowers all a-growin’. But come June she’ll switch t’ peas and beans, then cherries and strawberries in July.”

Remembering what Mattie Robinson had told her, Hero was tempted to ask if his “wife” actually was his wedded wife. Instead, she said, “Was your father a costermonger?”

“Oh, aye; and ’is father afore ’im. You’ll find most costermongers proper was born into the business. The ones I feel sorry for is the mechanics and laborers what’ve lost their jobs and try turnin’ their ’and t’ sellin’ in the streets. They think it looks easy, but it ain’t, and they almost never do well.”

“Why not?”

“Ain’t up t’ the dodges, ye see. The problem is, they go out into the streets with fear in ’ere—” He thumped one meaty fist against his chest. “They don’t know ’ow to bargain and they ain’t good salesmen. Poor buggers—beggin’ yer pardon, yer ladyship—I mean, poor fellows, they almost always end up losin’ everything.” He shook his head sadly. “For them, it’s just another way o’ starvin’.”

The donkey shifted its weight and shook its head, rattling the harness.

“I gots t’ move on, m’lady. Liz ’ere is gettin’ restless.”

“Thank you for your time,” said Hero, handing the costermonger his shillings.

The money disappeared into one of his coat’s deep, flapped pockets. “Ye really gonna write about the costers?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because no one ever has.”

But Mica McDougal simply shook his head, as if the ways of the Quality were beyond his comprehension.

S
ebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Hero still out on her interview and Claire Bisette preparing Simon for an outing in the park.

“Take one of the footmen with you,” Sebastian told her, his voice sounding more curt than he’d intended.

Claire stared at him. “A
footman
?”

“Just . . . humor me, Claire.”

“I’ll get Edward,” she said, still vaguely frowning as she turned away, the bundled-up child wide-eyed in her arms.

Sebastian walked into the library, poured himself a drink, and sent for Jules Calhoun.

“Tom says you saw some ‘Captain Queernabs’ near the house a few days ago,” he said when the valet appeared a few minutes later. “Tell me about him.”

Calhoun blinked but did not question the request. “Odd-looking fellow, he was—and I don’t mean just the way he was dressed. It was as if the two sides of his face didn’t belong together; one eye was even a different color than the other. But it was actually his boots that made me notice him at first. His clothes were those of a common workman, but he had a pair of fine new boots that would be the envy of many a Bond Street beau.”

“When was this?”

“Monday, my lord.”

“Monday?”
Neither Sebastian nor Hero had seen Diggory Flynn before Tuesday. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, my lord. I noticed him as I was returning from Hobbs. I remember because I’d been telling him how pleased we were with your new beaver hat.” A pained expression shadowed the valet’s even features. “The same hat someone put a bullet hole through that very night.”

“What was the man doing when you saw him?”

“Simply leaning against the corner. But he looked so out of place that I paused to ask if there was something he needed.”

“And?”

“He said no. Then he pushed away from the wall and walked off. Whistling.”

“If you see him again, let me know about it. But be careful with him. I think there may well be more to the man than meets the eye.”

“Yes, my lord.” Calhoun gave a neat bow and started to turn away, then paused. “Are you still interested in Captain Wyeth, my lord?”

“I am indeed. Did you have any success at the Shepherd’s Rest?”

“Far more than I should have, actually. The staff there are appallingly eager to chat about the inn’s residents.”

“What do they say about Captain Wyeth?”

“The general consensus is that he’s a likeable enough fellow most of the time, although he does have a tendency to be moody and curt when his wounds are paining him. And he has a bit of a temper, it seems.”

“Oh?”

“Last Saturday evening, the captain was having a pint down in the public room when Stanley Preston came charging in and threatened to horsewhip him.”

“Yes, Wyeth told me of the incident.”

“Did he also tell you he threatened to kill the man?”

“Wyeth threatened to kill Stanley Preston?”

“That’s right. I thought at first the barman who told me the tale might be exaggerating a touch. But two of the other lads backed him up.”

“What was Preston’s reaction?”

“I gather he simply said, ‘You don’t scare me,’ and left.”

Sebastian glanced at the clock. “I think perhaps I need to have another chat with our gallant captain.”

Sebastian found Captain Hugh Wyeth standing beside the ring of the Life Guards riding school, his arms looped over the top rail of the fence and his gaze following a half dozen new recruits being put through their paces. The air was thick with the smell of saddle leather and horse sweat and a fine dust that shimmered in the spring sunshine.

“So what do you think?” asked Sebastian, coming to stand beside him, his gaze on the horses and riders in the ring before them.

“They’re green. But they’re willing and able. They’ll get there.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “Ever miss the Army?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why’d you sell out?”

Because I realized I wasn’t fighting on the side of good against evil,
thought Sebastian, still watching the men in the ring.
Because my own colonel sent me off with falsified dispatches and then betrayed me to the French
.
Because I trusted the wrong people, and dozens of innocent women and children died as a result.

But all he said was, “I grew tired of killing men who were much like me, except they spoke a different language and owed allegiance to a different country.”

Wyeth was silent for a moment, his hands tightening over the top rail, the smile lines fanning his eyes etched deep, although he was not smiling. “Those are not comfortable thoughts.”

“No.”

The captain narrowed his gaze against the dust. “Why are you here?”

“I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me that when Stanley Preston threatened to take a horsewhip to you, you swore you’d kill him.”

Wyeth blew out a long, painful breath.

Sebastian said, “It did happen, didn’t it?”

The captain nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line. Then he threw Sebastian an assessing, sideways glance. “You trying to convince me you never threatened to kill anyone? It’s the kind of thing a man says in anger—‘I could kill you.’ Or even, ‘I swear to God, I’ll kill you.’”

Sebastian thought about the number of times he’d sworn to kill his own father-in-law, but remained silent.

Wyeth said, “I won’t deny I wanted to kill the bastard. But I couldn’t have done it—even if he had tried to take a horsewhip to me. Don’t you understand? He was Anne’s father! She loved him, and his death has devastated her. I could never have done that to her.”

Sebastian studied the younger man’s handsome, earnest face. It was hard not to like Captain Wyeth. But Sebastian had known other handsome, seemingly charming men who were extraordinarily adept at projecting an intense impression of affability and sincerity when the reality was something quite different entirely.

“Tell me again what happened last Sunday night,” he said.

Wyeth shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Anne wrangled an invitation for me to Lady Farningham’s musical evening. But she had Miss Austen there with her, and we found it impossible to have any real private conversation together. So in the end, I left.”

“You’re saying Miss Preston spent Sunday evening in the company of Jane Austen?”

“That’s right. Why?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I hadn’t realized it. Go on.”

“That’s it, really. I left around ten. Only, I wasn’t in the mood to come back to the inn and drink with the lads, so I went for a walk.”

“Where?”

“Along Knightsbridge, mainly. I was just . . . walking.”

“See anyone?”

“No one I knew.”

“What about when you returned to the inn? Did anyone see you then?”

“No. I told you, I wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. I went straight up to my room. Why?”

Sebastian had asked the question because whoever killed Stanley Preston would surely have been splattered with blood. But all he said was, “Ever meet an elderly physician named Douglas Sterling?”

“The one who was found dead yesterday?” Wyeth shook his head. “No.” He stared off beyond the barracks, toward the park. “I’ve had the constables here again, questioning me. They think I did it, don’t they?”

“I’m afraid so. You’ve a powerful motive, no alibi, and considerable practice lopping off people’s heads.”

Wyeth gave a soft, rueful laugh. “They think I’m some sort of fortune hunter—like that fellow Wickham. Or Willoughby.”

The names sounded vaguely familiar, but Sebastian couldn’t place them. “Who?”

“From
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“Don’t tell me you read romance novels too?”

Wyeth laughed. “Only the ones Miss Austen writes. They’re very clever—especially this last one.”

Sebastian stared at him. “Jane Austen is the author of this new book that’s taking the ton by storm?”

Wyeth pulled a face. “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to say anything. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Returning to Brook Street, Sebastian found Hero writing up her interview notes at the library table, their infant son dozing contentedly in a basket beside her and the black cat she’d named Mr. Darcy lying stretched out like a dog nearby.

“How was your interview?” he asked, going to pour himself a glass of wine.

“Informative. This fellow has a donkey cart, which places him amongst the most prosperous of all costermongers.” She laid aside her quill and leaned back in her chair. “Care to tell me why you saw the need to send a footman to the park with Claire and Simon this morning?”

Sebastian came to stand beside the fire, his gaze on his sleeping son’s peaceful, innocent face. “A man who sounds like Diggory Flynn has been seen watching the house. I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but I’d feel better if you and Simon both kept someone with you.”

Hero stared at him for a long, quiet moment. “What makes you think he’s a threat to us? Not you, but us?”

Sebastian took a slow sip of his wine. “I keep thinking about the tale Jamie Knox told me, about the smuggler who ran afoul of Priss Mulligan and came home one day to find his wife missing and the dismembered bodies of his children strategically displayed around the house.”

“So you’re back to thinking Flynn works for Priss Mulligan?”

“I don’t know for certain who he works for. But I don’t want to take any chances.”

Beside them, Simon stretched and let out a soft gurgle.

Hero stared at Sebastian for a long, quiet moment, then went to lift the child from his basket and hold him in her arms, the blue wool skirts of her walking dress swirling about her ankles as she swung him gently from side to side and said, “Well, good afternoon, young man.”

Simon cooed and laughed in response, and for one long moment, Sebastian lost himself in looking at them.

Then he said, “Tell me about this character in
Pride and Prejudice
—I think his name is Wickham.”

She glanced over at him with a soft, startled laugh. “George Wickham? Whatever for?”

“Because everyone seems to keep referencing him, and I’ve just discovered Miss Jane Austen is the book’s author.”

“You can’t be serious. Who told you that?”

“Captain Wyeth. Ordinarily, I’d be inclined to question his reliability, but it makes sense of something Henry Austen said to me the other day.”

Hero brought Simon up so she could rub noses with him, her gaze on the laughing child. “George Wickham is an officer in the militia who is stationed near the Bennetts—they’re the family at the center of the story. At first he’s portrayed as handsome and charming and excellent in every way—except of course for his sad lack of fortune. But the reader gradually begins to realize that he is in truth a cunning and unscrupulous liar who uses others for his own ends without conscience or regret.” Simon gurgled happily, and she shifted the child’s weight, his eyes big and wide and golden as he grinned at Sebastian over her shoulder. “You think Captain Wyeth could be another George Wickham?”

“I’m told Jane Austen fears he might be. So who is Willoughby?”

“I suppose you could call him the villain of
Sense and Sensibility
—or one of them, at any rate. Like Wickham, he is charming, handsome, and impoverished, as well as being deceptive and breathtakingly selfish. Although I don’t think Willoughby is quite as conscienceless or calculating as Wickham. Needless to say, neither comparison reflects well on Captain Wyeth.”

“No. Which makes me wonder why he mentioned them.”

Wide-awake now, Simon reached out to close his tiny first around the thick silver chain at Hero’s neck and pulled hard.

“Ouch,” she said, laughing as she tried without success to loosen his hold on the necklace. “Your son has a shockingly strong grip.”

Sebastian set aside his wine. “Here; let me help.” It wasn’t until he came closer that he got his first good look at the intricately worked chain and the pendant that nestled at the base of her throat.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice sounding odd even to his own ears.

“My father gave it to me some time ago. Why?”

Sebastian carefully loosed his son’s hold on the centuries-old necklace. “I’ve never seen you wear it.”