Chapter 11
Saturday, 2 April
“We used t’ live in Swallow Street when I was a wee tyke,” Tom said the next morning as Sebastian guided his horses east toward the doomed street.
The day had dawned cool and overcast, the air heavy with the smell of coal smoke and horse droppings and the promise of rain. Sebastian threw a quick glance back at his tiger. The boy rarely spoke of the days when his father was still alive, of the life he’d lived before his mother was transported to Botany Bay and his brother hanged for theft at the age of thirteen. “You did?”
Tom nodded. “Are they really gonna tear it all out so’s they can put in some fancy new street?”
“Most of it. Or at least that’s the plan.”
The Prince Regent’s grand project to plow a new avenue through London had been sparked by the reversion to the Crown of a stretch of rural parkland known as Marylebone on the northwest outskirts of the city. Originally, the scheme simply called for the construction at Marylebone Park of a palatial summer residence for the Prince surrounded by several dozen villas amid what he wanted to rename “Regent’s Park.”
But the vision was soon expanded by a proposal to punch a magnificent new artery through the preexisting neighborhoods on the edge of the West End, thus creating a sweeping avenue of high-end shops and houses that would connect the Prince’s new summer residence to his existing palace of Carlton House on Pall Mall. This “New Street” would have the added happy benefit of dividing the wealthy, privileged inhabitants of Mayfair from less fashionable, fading areas such as Soho and Golden Square, and the even more insalubrious stretches of London that lay to the east. The Regent’s favorite architect, John Nash, was overseeing the vast project. But so great was its scope that Nash was forced to bring in other builders and architects such as James Burton and young Russell Firth.
Firth was still in his late twenties, but he’d already made something of a name for himself. The son of a successful Cardiff builder, he’d won a scholarship to Cambridge at the age of sixteen and then received the university’s prestigious Worts Traveling Bachelorship, a stipend that enabled him to spend three years studying antiquities in Asia Minor, Greece, and Italy. It was a unique background that combined a solid grounding in classical architecture with a builder’s grasp of the realities of construction. If the Regent’s grand rebuilding scheme ever came to fruition, Sebastian suspected it would owe more to Firth than to the Prince’s favorite architect, Nash.
As he turned in to Swallow Street, Sebastian at first found it difficult to believe the street was slated for demolition. The roadway was thronged with carts and wagons; pedestrians passed back and forth on the pavement; children shouted and laughed; dogs barked. But then he noticed the stretches of already empty shops, the windows of their upper stories blank. What had once been an aged public house on a far corner was already being reduced to rubble, and Sebastian spotted Firth himself deep in conversation with the foreman of the work crew.
“I shouldn’t be long,” said Sebastian, pulling in close to the kerb and handing the boy the reins.
The architect was just turning away from the half-demolished building when Sebastian hopped down and walked toward him. He was attractive in a quiet, unassuming way, of above average height and slim, with lightly curling fair hair and even features. When Sebastian had seen him before, at the Royal Society, his dress had been that of a respectable, relatively affluent man of affairs. But today he looked like what he was—an architect-builder not afraid of getting his clothes dirty on a construction site.
At the moment, his attention was focused on a notebook he held in one hand. Then he looked up, caught sight of Sebastian, and paused, his eyes narrowing and his face smoothing into a blank mask as he let Sebastian walk up to him.
“Good morning,” said Sebastian. “I don’t know if you remember—”
“I know who you are. And I can guess why you’re here.”
“Oh?”
Firth held his head at a proud angle, his eyes hooded and wary. “I saw the newspapers. I don’t imagine you’ve randomly decided to take a break from investigating the murder of your niece’s husband simply to come and have a look at our progress on the Regent’s New Street.”
“Fair enough. Then let’s be blunt, shall we? You were recently seen arguing with Ashworth. Here, actually. Just a few days before he was killed. Care to tell me why?”
The air filled with a clattering bang and an explosion of dust; someone in the distance laughed. Firth threw a glance over his shoulder at the demolition, then said, “Is there a reason I should?”
“When it comes to murder, cooperation is always a good idea. Unless one is guilty, of course. Then I suppose a semblance of cooperation is probably the best way to go.”
Firth stood with his hands on his hips, his jaw set hard. “You can’t seriously think I killed him. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Why were you arguing with him?”
He went to toss his notebook on a nearby rough worktable and began sorting through a stack of papers held down by a brick fragment. “We weren’t arguing, exactly. Ashworth was interested in hiring me to rebuild the facade of some manor house of his down in Kent. I refused.”
“Why?”
Firth glanced over at him. “Why what?”
“Why did you refuse?”
“Because the bastard has—had—a well-earned reputation for not paying people who work for him. I was pretty blunt about my reasons for turning him down, and he got a bit nasty as a result.”
It all sounded believable. Except of course it did nothing to explain the private interlude with Stephanie that Hendon had witnessed beside the Serpentine in Hyde Park.
Sebastian said, “I understand you know Lady Ashworth.”
For one telling moment, Firth paused at his paper shuffling, then resumed it almost at once. “I do, yes. We met at a lecture I gave last spring on the Greek temple of Poseidon at Sounion.”
“Stephanie attended a lecture on ancient Greek architecture?”
“You say that as if it surprises you. You obviously don’t know your niece as well as you think you do.”
“Obviously not,” agreed Sebastian. “But I gather that wasn’t the only time you’ve met her.”
Firth gave up fiddling with the papers and swung to face him. “No. No, it wasn’t. But I hope you’re not suggesting that somehow implicates me in her husband’s death.”
Sebastian studied the younger man’s smooth, tense face. “Who do you think killed him?”
Firth gave an incredulous laugh. “How would I know?”
“You must have some theory about what happened.”
Firth shook his head. “He was an arrogant, nasty bastard who cheated and abused everyone. And do you know why? Because he was always—always—allowed to get away with it.”
“Someone evidently decided not to let him get away with it anymore.”
“Good,” said Firth. “It’s too bad it didn’t happen long ago. But it wasn’t me.”
“Where were you last night?”
“Home. Asleep.”
“Any way to verify that?”
“No.” His gaze shifted to a couple of workmen stacking stones from the half-dismantled public house into a wagon. And for one unguarded moment, the man’s facade of angry belligerence cracked, allowing a glimpse of the yawning fear that lurked behind it. Firth carefully set the brick on his papers again, his attention all for his task.
“You know something,” said Sebastian, watching him. “What is it?”
Firth looked up, his face strained.
“Tell me.”
The architect gave an uncomfortable shake of his head, as if disturbed by what he was about to say. “It may be nothing, but I did hear he was being blamed for the death of a young woman. Seems he forced himself on her, and she killed herself because of it. Word is, the mother vowed to make him pay for the rest of what she promised would be a short life.”
“What was the woman’s name?”
“I don’t think I ever knew. Or if I did, I don’t recall it.”
“Who told you this?”
“I overheard it at a Royal Society lecture. I wasn’t familiar with the people who were talking, but I caught Ashworth’s name and it drew my attention.”
“Because of your friendship with his wife, you mean?”
Firth looked suddenly, unexpectedly young and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I’d call us friends, exactly.”
“Oh? What word would you prefer? ‘Acquaintances’?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, you know,” said Sebastian. “Trying to hide whatever is between you and my niece.”
Firth stiffened in a way that reminded Sebastian that while the man might be young, he had the kind of courage and fortitude necessary to travel alone for three years through war-torn Europe and the wilds of the Middle East. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you know,” said Sebastian, and walked back toward his curricle.
Half an hour later, word came from Sir Henry Lovejoy that Ashworth’s valet had been found. Dead.