Why Kings Confess (3 page)

P
aul Gibson sat in a wooden chair drawn up to the unknown woman’s bedside, his gaze on her face. She was so pale, her closed eyelids fragile and nearly translucent, the skin drawn tight over the exquisitely molded bones of her face. And if she didn’t awaken soon, she probably never would.

He pushed to his feet and went to stare out the narrow window overlooking the ancient medieval street beyond. The sun was high enough to begin burning off the fog, but there was little warmth in it. Rows of icicles glistened from the eaves, and he could feel the bitter cold radiating off the glass. Turning, he went to stoop beside the hearth and throw more coal on the fire. He was about to straighten when he became aware of the sensation of being watched.

Glancing over at the bed, he found himself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes. “Good morning,” he said, lurching awkwardly as he straightened.

Her tongue flicked out to wet her dry lips, her chest jerking as if with fear.

He said, “You needn’t worry. I’m a friend.”

“I remember you.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her English accented but distinct. “You are the one who—” Her eyes darkened as if with a resurgence of remembered grief. “Is Damion truly dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

She blinked rapidly several times and turned her face away, her glorious, flame-colored hair fanning out over the pillow.

“He was your friend?” Gibson asked quietly.

Rather than answer, she put her hand to her head, the long, fine fingers exploring the bandage she found there. “What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

He walked up to the side of the bed again. “It may eventually come back to you. Memory is a funny thing.”

She looked at him again. “Where am I?”

“This is my surgery.”

“You are a surgeon?”

“I am.” He sketched an awkward bow. “Paul Gibson, late of His Majesty’s Twenty-fifth Light Dragoons.”

She let her gaze drift over him, making him wish he’d taken the time to wash and shave and maybe change his clothes.

She said, “You lost your leg fighting the French?”

“I did, yes.”

“I am French.”

He smiled. “I had noticed.”

To his surprise, the flesh beside her eyes crinkled with amusement. Then the smile, faint as it was, faded. Her gaze drifted about the room, as if searching for something or someone. “I remember hearing another man’s voice. Someone talking to you.”

“The constables, perhaps.”

“No; this was an educated voice.”

“Ah. That would have been Lord Devlin.”

“Devlin?”

“He’s a friend of mine.”

She was silent for a moment, lost in her own dark thoughts. Then she said, “You did not tell me what is wrong with my head.”

“I suspect you were either hit, or you struck the side of your head when you fell.”

“How badly am I injured?”

“I don’t think the skull is fractured. But I’m worried about concussion.”

“Are my pupils dilated?”

“No.” The question revealed a depth of medical understanding he wouldn’t have expected. “Was your father a doctor?”

Something flared in her eyes, only to be quickly hidden by the downward sweep of her lashes. “He is, yes. In Paris.”

“Is there someone I should let know you’re safe? I—” He decided the personal pronoun sounded too familiar and changed it. “
We
don’t even know your name.”

Again she studied his face, as if assessing him. “My name is Alexandrie Sauvage. I live alone, with only a servant. But Karmele is a good woman and is doubtless concerned about what has become of me.”

“I’ll see she knows you are safe.”

She gave him directions to her rooms in Golden Square. Then she fell silent, her eyes drifting half-closed. But she was still alert—tense, even. And Gibson suspected her thoughts had returned to the man whose corpse lay in the outbuilding at the base of the yard.

Gibson said, “Do you remember why you were in Cat’s Hole last night?”

Her gaze refocused on his face. “Yes, of course; Damion had agreed to go with me to see the child.”

“Child? What child?”

“There is a Frenchwoman—Madame Claire Bisette—who lives in Hangman’s Court. Her little girl, Cécile, is gravely ill.”

“And did Pelletan see her?”

“He did, yes. But he was as baffled by her condition as I. I fear she is dying.” Her head moved restlessly against the pillow. “I promised I would be back this morning to see her. I—”

Gibson put his hand on her shoulder, stilling her. “Don’t distress yourself. I’ll visit her, if you’d like.”

Beneath his hand, her flesh was soft and warm. She stared up at him. “She has no money to pay you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me—”

He broke off, his gaze meeting hers, her eyes wide with a new leap of fear as loud voices sounded in the street outside and a heavy fist pounded on the front door.

I
n addition to extensive estates in the country, Charles, Lord Jarvis, owned a large town house on Berkeley Square that he shared with his invalid wife and his aged mother. Since his contempt for the former was matched only by his profound dislike of the latter, he spent as little time at home as possible. When in London, he could generally be found either at his clubs or in the chambers reserved for his use here, at Carlton House, by the Prince Regent.

For thirty years, he had served the House of Hanover, dedicating his prodigious intellect and unerring talents to the preservation and exaltation of his country and its monarchy. Acknowledged by all as the real power behind the Prince’s fragile regency, he had steered Britain safely through decades of war and the perils of social unrest that could all too easily have consumed her.

Now he stood at the window overlooking Pall Mall, his attention seemingly divided between the forecourt below and the slight, freckle-faced Scotsman who lounged with his back to the fire, the tails of his exquisitely tailored coat lifted up and to the sides so as to better warm his backside.

Angus Kilmartin had a small bony face with oversized features and a halo of frizzy, copper-colored hair that combined to give him an almost comical appearance. But in the Scotsman’s case, appearances were definitely deceptive. Kilmartin was shrewd and venal and utterly amoral. By heavily investing in well-selected war-related manufactories, he had risen in the space of twenty years to become one of the wealthiest men in Britain.

“The question is,” said Kilmartin, “does his death mean anything?”

Jarvis reached for his snuffbox and flicked open the box’s filigree and enamel lid with one agile fingertip. “It undoubtedly means something to someone. Whether it should concern us or not, however, remains to be seen.”

“Does it?”

The silence in the room was suddenly, dangerously strained. “Are you questioning my analysis or my veracity?” asked Jarvis with deceptive calm.

A dull red stain tinged the other man’s cheeks. “I’m . . . Surely you understand my concern?”

“Your concern is unnecessary.” Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. “Was there something else?”

Kilmartin’s fingers tightened around the brim of the hat he held in his hands. “No. Good day, sir.”

He swept a precisely calculated bow, turned on his heel, and left.

Jarvis was still standing at the window, snuffbox in hand, when he heard an odd yelp from his clerk in the anteroom; an instant later, Viscount Devlin strode into the chamber without bothering to knock.

“Do come in,” said Jarvis dryly.

A hard smile touched the younger man’s lips. “Thank you.”

He was thirty years old now, tall and lean, with a vaguely menacing bearing that reminded one of the time he’d spent as a cavalry officer. Two years ago, Jarvis had sought to have the man killed. Jarvis little realized at the time how much he would eventually come to regret that rare failure.

He slipped his snuffbox into his coat pocket and frowned. “How does my daughter?”

“She is well.”

Jarvis grunted. His wife, Annabelle, had exhibited numerous shortcomings over the years of their marriage, but by far her most grievous failure was her inability to provide Jarvis with a healthy male heir. Despite numerous miscarriages and stillbirths, she had succeeded in presenting him with only two children: a disappointingly sickly and idealistic son named David, who’d gone to a watery grave at the bottom of the sea, and Hero.

Tall, strong, and brutally brilliant, Hero was exactly the sort of child who might have delighted Jarvis—
if
she’d been born a boy. As a daughter, however, she was far from satisfactory. Strong willed, unapologetically bookish, and dangerously radical in her thinking, she had sworn off marriage at an early age and dedicated herself to a succession of appalling projects, only to allow herself to be impregnated by this bastard. Jarvis had never understood exactly what happened, but he uncharacteristically had no desire to know more about it than he already did.

Now the two men faced each other across the width of the room, the air crackling with their mutual animosity.

Devlin said, “What can you tell me about Harmond Vaundreuil? And don’t even think of trying to pretend you don’t know him. I saw you together.”

Jarvis went to settle comfortably in the Louis XIV–style chair behind his desk. He stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, rested his folded hands on his rather large stomach, and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve involved yourself in the death of that young French doctor, have you? What was his name again?”

“Damion Pelletan.”

“Mmm. Somehow, when I heard a certain Irish surgeon had been so unfortunate as to discover the body, I knew you would feel compelled to interfere.”

“What has Vaundreuil to do with you?”

“Nothing that is any of your affair.”

“Damion Pelletan’s murder makes it my affair.”

Jarvis possessed an unexpectedly winsome smile he had long used to cajole or deceive the unwary. He used it now, although he knew Devlin was neither cajoled nor deceived nor unwary. “Fortunately, Damion Pelletan’s murder has been taken out of the hands of the bumbling East End authorities and turned over to Bow Street—by which I mean to the chief magistrate, Sir James—
not
to your good friend Sir Henry Lovejoy. So you see, there really is no need for you to involve yourself.”

Devlin, in turn, showed his teeth in a hard, nasty smile. “Concerned, are you?”

“Hardly. Sir James understands the delicacy of the situation.”

“Does he?”

“Let’s say that, at least, he understands enough to do what must be done.”

“Which is?”

“There will be no postmortem. The body has already been removed from Gibson’s surgery and turned over to Vaundreuil for burial.”

“And that’s to be it?”

“I suggest you read the papers. Dr. Pelletan was brutally set upon by footpads. The Regent has expressed outrage at the growing boldness of the criminal class in the city, and an initiative will soon be launched to remove the worst of the ruffians from the streets. Those who make it a practice of attending the hangings at Newgate are in for some good sport in the months ahead.”

Devlin’s eyes narrowed. He had the strangest eyes Jarvis had ever seen—the tawny gold of a tiger, with an unnatural, almost feral gleam. For some reason Jarvis could not have named, he suddenly found himself hoping that his coming grandson—or granddaughter—would not inherit this man’s damned yellow eyes. And he silently cursed Hero, again, for having mixed their noble blood with that of this bastard.

Devlin said, “Harmond Vaundreuil must be important.”

“In and of himself? No. But what he stands for is very important indeed. Far more important than the death of some random physician. If you love your country, Devlin, you will heed me on this and leave well enough alone.”

“Oh, I love my country, all right,” said Devlin. “But I’ve found that my vision for Britain and your vision are frequently two very different things.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll tell Hero you were inquiring about her.”

Jarvis stood abruptly. “I meant what I said. Do not involve yourself in this.”

“Why?” Devlin paused to look back at him. “What are you concerned that I might find?”

But Jarvis simply shook his head, his nostrils quivering with the intensity of his dislike.

A
diminutive but earnest man with a bald head and an abnormally high-pitched voice, Sir Henry Lovejoy was the newest of Bow Street’s three stipendiary magistrates. Sebastian had heard that, once, he’d been a moderately prosperous merchant, until the deaths of his wife and daughter had driven him to dedicate his life to something outside of himself. But he spoke little of those early years, or of the family he’d lost and the stern, somewhat controversial reformist religion that guided his life. In most ways, the two men could not have been more dissimilar. But there was no one whose integrity and honesty Sebastian trusted or admired more.

“Bow Street has received strict instructions from Carlton House that the residents of the Gifford Arms are under no circumstances to be approached,” said Sir Henry as the two men walked along the terrace of Somerset Place, overlooking the Thames. A frigid wind was kicking up whitecaps on the turgid gray water and dashing the incoming tide against the embankment’s walls. “Sir James is adamant that the wishes of the Palace be respected. There will be no investigation of Damion Pelletan’s death—either officially or unofficially.”

Sebastian looked over at the magistrate. “Ever hear of a murder victim in London having his heart cut out?”

Lovejoy pressed his lips into a tight, straight line and shook his head. “No. It’s the most troublesome aspect of this killing, is it not? At least that ghastly detail has been kept out of the papers. It could cause a dangerous panic in the streets, were it to become known.”

“Then let us hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“Merciful heavens.” Sir Henry pressed the folds of his handkerchief to his mouth. “You think it might?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Sebastian stared off across the river, to where the jagged construction of the new bridge stood out stark against the heavy gray clouds. “How much do you know about the other residents of the Gifford Arms—specifically Colonel Foucher and the clerk, Bondurant?”

“Nothing, frankly. But I could ask one of my constables to look into them. I don’t believe the Palace said anything in reference to making discreet inquiries
about
the residents of the inn.”

Sebastian ducked his head to hide his smile.

The magistrate said, “And the woman I’m told Paul Gibson found at the murder scene? Is she still alive?”

“Last I heard. I’m on my way to Tower Hill now.”

Sir Henry thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bitter wind. “Perhaps when—if—she regains consciousness, much of the mystery surrounding what happened will be solved.”

“Perhaps,” said Sebastian, although he doubted it. He suspected that if the unknown woman in Gibson’s surgery could identify Pelletan’s killer, she’d be dead.

•   •   •

Returning to Tower Hill, Sebastian found Paul Gibson seated at his kitchen table and eating a plate of cold sliced mutton with boiled cabbage.

Like the surgery beside it, Gibson’s house faced onto the old cobbled lane that curled around the rear of the Tower. The stone walls were thick, the ceilings heavily beamed and low, the floors uneven. Gibson employed a housekeeper named Mrs. Federico, although as far as Sebastian could tell, she did little beyond cook Gibson’s meals and clean his kitchen. She refused to enter any room in which he kept his “specimens.” Since the surgeon had alcohol-filled jars containing any number of body parts and assorted oddities scattered around the house, her prejudice effectively restricted her to the passageway and the kitchen.

But at the moment, the housekeeper was nowhere in sight.

“Bad luck, I’m afraid,” said Gibson as Sebastian poured himself some ale from the pitcher on the table and settled on the opposite bench. “A couple of constables from Bow Street came and took Pelletan’s body away with them.”

“I heard. Did you get a chance to examine it at all?”

Gibson shook his head and paused to swallow a mouthful of cabbage. “Not really. Although I did discover how he died.”

“Oh?”

“He was stabbed in the back with a dagger by someone who either knew what he was doing or got very lucky. The wound would have pierced the heart.”

“So he was dead before the killer hacked open his chest?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God for that, at least.” Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his ale. “Could you tell what the killer used to take out the heart?”

“Probably a big kitchen knife. Or a butcher knife.”

“Interesting,” said Sebastian.

Gibson looked up from cutting himself a slice of mutton. “Why’s that?”

“A dagger
and
a kitchen knife. Think about it: Who brings two knives to a murder?”

Gibson chewed thoughtfully. “Someone who knows how to kill with a dagger but realizes he needs a bigger knife to steal his victim’s heart?”

“Exactly.”

“In other words, our killer planned to take Pelletan’s heart.”

Sebastian nodded.

“Bloody hell,” Gibson said softly. “But . . . why?”

“That I can’t even begin to guess.”

Gibson reached for the pitcher and poured them both more ale. “Did you go to Cat’s Hole?”

“I did.” He told Gibson, briefly, what he had found there.

“You didn’t by chance find Pelletan’s heart while you were having a look about, did you?”

“No. But there was a pig rooting in the passage when I arrived.”

Gibson grimaced. “Bad luck, that.” Pigs were notorious for eating anything and everything, human body parts included.

“You didn’t see the heart last night?”

“No. But then, I don’t have your ability to see in the dark. And I was a wee bit preoccupied with other things.”

“How is your patient doing?”

“She awoke this morning long enough to tell me that her name is Alexandrie Sauvage and she has rooms in Golden Square. I’ve sent a message to her servant, telling the woman her mistress is alive but injured.”

“Would it be possible for me to speak to her?”

Gibson shook his head. “She was restless and in pain, so I gave her a few drops of laudanum to help her sleep again. The possibility of bleeding in the brain still exists, so she needs to be kept as quiet as possible.”

“Do you think she’ll survive?”

Gibson looked troubled. “I don’t know. It’s still too early to say.”

Sebastian shifted his position to stretch out his legs and cross his boots at the ankles. “I had an interesting conversation with one Mitt Peebles at the Gifford Arms in York Street. It seems Damion Pelletan was with a small group of Frenchmen who hired the entire hotel three weeks ago. They then turned off most of the hotel’s staff and replaced them with their own servants—their own
French
servants.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Presumably because they’re worried about spies. I could be wrong, but I suspect Pelletan was here as part of an official delegation sent by Napoléon to explore the possibility of peace with England.”

Gibson stared at him blankly.
“What?”

“I recognized Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil, the man you say came to identify Pelletan’s body. I didn’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before. With Jarvis.”

“But . . . peace? Is it possible?”

“Six months ago, I would have said no. But Napoléon just lost half a million men in Russia and barely escaped with his own life. The Prussians and the Austrians are turning against him, and there’ve been rumors of plots in Paris. I’m not surprised to hear he’s sent a small delegation to London with instructions to quietly put out peace feelers.”

“And Alexandrie Sauvage?”

“I have no idea how she fits into any of this. But last night, a Frenchwoman and her male companion came to the hotel, asking to see Pelletan. He left shortly after talking to them.”

“You think Alexandrie Sauvage was that woman?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“So who was her companion?”

“That I don’t know.”

Gibson nudged away his plate. “When she was awake, she told me why they were in St. Katharine’s.”

“Oh?”

“She says Pelletan had agreed to go with her to see a sick child who lives in Hangman’s Court. She and Pelletan were on their way back from visiting the little girl when they were attacked.” Gibson pushed up from the table. “I promised to go there this afternoon and take a look at the child. The mother’s a poor widow.” He looked over at Sebastian. “Care to come along?”