Chapter 20
S ebastian was in his library, pouring a tankard of ale from a fresh pitcher, his thoughts far, far away, when an angry, insistent knock sounded at his front door.
“A Mr. Brownbeck to see you, my lord,” said his majordomo, Morey, appearing at the library door a moment later.
Sebastian took a deep swallow of ale. “Show him in.”
Theo Brownbeck came in with a quick, decisive step. A stout, self-important little man in his late fifties or early sixties, he had thinning iron gray hair, heavy jowls, and thick, bushy eyebrows. His dress was typical of the older merchants and bankers of the City, his silver-buttoned coat cut square and with a stand-up collar, his waistcoat long with flap pockets, his short breeches buckled at the knee. He drew up just inside the door, his breathing agitated, his color high, his face damp with perspiration. “You know why I’m here,” he said without preamble.
“Actually, I don’t,” said Sebastian. “But please, do have a seat.”
“Thank you. I prefer to stand.”
“May I offer you some ale?”
The banker looked as if he’d prefer to refuse, but he was hot enough that temptation overwhelmed him. “Please,” he said grudgingly. “I’m told Lady Devlin visited my daughter a short time ago.”
Sebastian went to fill another tankard with ale. “Who told you that?”
“Good God, man, that’s not the issue here.”
“Oh? So what is the ‘issue’?”
“I’ll not have my daughter’s name dragged through the mud by that villain’s reappearance.”
Sebastian held out the ale. “By which I gather you’re referring to the murder of Nicholas Hayes?”
Brownbeck wrapped a meaty fist around the tankard, then pointed a shaky finger at Sebastian. “You stay away from my daughter, you hear? You and Lady Devlin both.”
Sebastian took another sip of his own ale. “Did you know Nicholas Hayes was in London?”
Brownbeck’s eyes widened. “Merciful heavens, of course not. If I’d the slightest suspicion he was anywhere in England, I’d have gone straight to the authorities.”
Sebastian studied the older man’s red, angry face. “Would you?”
“Of course I would—as would any right-thinking man.”
“It’s curious that he returned, don’t you think?”
“To be honest, I hadn’t given it any thought.”
“Can you think of a reason why he would come back?”
“In my experience, it’s useless to try to ascribe rationality to the dangerous incorrigibles of this world. And while Hayes may have been an earl’s son, he’d long ago betrayed his birth and breeding and cast himself down into the gutter.”
“You must get on well with the Count de Compans.”
Brownbeck looked vaguely baffled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He sounds just like you.”
Brownbeck’s lip curled. “I know Lady Devlin believes that the poor are somehow the innocent victims of society’s inequities, but those familiar with the frailties of the flesh and the ways of our world know better. The unfortunate, painful truth is that what the kindhearted mistake for misfortune is actually the predictable result of a fatal lack of discipline, sobriety, decency, and prudence—as Hayes’s descent into opprobrium so glaringly illustrates.”
“I’ve been wondering if revenge might have had something to do with Hayes’s return,” said Sebastian, carefully keeping his voice even.
Brownbeck sniffed. “I wouldn’t know. As I said, it’s a waste of time attempting to discern the motives of such a degenerate. If you ask me, the authorities would do well to look for his killer amongst the denizens of the underworld.”
“A footpad, you mean?”
Brownbeck snorted. “Footpads, prostitutes, sharpers—he consorted with them all. After his father disowned him, the scoundrel actually hired a thief to break into Seaforth’s house and steal from him.”
“Oh? Where did you hear that?”
“The old Earl told me about it himself.”
“Someone burgled the late Earl of Seaforth’s house, and he blamed his own son? Bit of a stretch, wasn’t it?”
“It was obvious.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“Because of what was taken, of course.”
“What was taken?”
“A stash of banknotes whose location was known only to the rogue, and a watch that once belonged to the First Earl and that the lad had long coveted.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“So what led the Earl to leap to the conclusion that Nicholas had hired a thief? Couldn’t he simply have entered the house and taken the stuff himself?”
Brownbeck shook his head. “Not unless the cad had recently acquired some specialized skills. It was a professional job, no doubt about that. The wastrel sank fast, you know, after Seaforth disowned him. Took to consorting with the lowest sort of company. I can’t imagine why you’ve decided to concern yourself with his death. The man ought by rights to have been hanged eighteen years ago.”
“That seems to be a common consensus.”
“I should think so.” Brownbeck drained his tankard. “To be frank, I was hoping none of us would ever have reason to think of the scoundrel again.”
“Yes, I can see how that would have been more convenient for you.”
Brownbeck’s jaw sagged. Then his features tightened. “Amuse yourself by dabbling in the detection of murder if you must. But you keep my daughter’s name out of this, do you hear?”
Sebastian gave the man a hard smile. “Shall I ring for a footman to show you out?”
Brownbeck set aside his empty tankard with a thump. “I’ll see myself out. Thank you.”
“One question,” said Sebastian as the man turned to leave. “Have you ever seen something like this before?”
Brownbeck glanced at the small bronze token Sebastian held out. “No. What is it?”
Sebastian closed his palm around the mysterious disk. “I’ve no idea.”
Morey was closing the door behind their visitor when Hero came down the stairs.
“How much of that did you hear?” Sebastian asked her.
“Enough to be impressed by the extent to which you kept your temper.”
Sebastian went to pour himself more ale and drank deeply. “Pompous ass. How do you think he learned of your visit to St. James’s Square so quickly?”
“I could be wrong, but I doubt he heard it from Kate. Which means Forbes himself must have sent word to his father-in-law.”
Sebastian nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Hero went to stand at the front window, her gaze on the sunbaked street. “What do you make of his tale of Hayes hiring someone to burgle his father’s house?”
Sebastian came up beside her as Brownbeck’s carriage pulled away from the kerb. “I think I need to pay another visit to Chick Lane.”
Sebastian found the Red Lion’s ancient taproom filled with a hot, sweaty, boisterous crowd and Grace Calhoun focused on filling six tankards of ale.
“Was wondering when you’d be back,” she said, throwing him a quick glance as he walked up.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Rather than answer, she scooped up all six tankards at once and carried them to a table of what looked like highwaymen huddled in the murky depths of the room.
When she came back, he said, “Have you seen Ji?”
She scooted behind the bar without even looking at him. “No.”
Damn, thought Sebastian. Aloud, he said, “Can you think where he might be hiding?”
“No.”
Sebastian studied the woman’s handsome, hard face. “I’m told Hayes befriended a cracksman when he was staying here eighteen years ago.”
“He was a right personable fellow, Nicholas. Made friends easy, he did.”
“Did he?”
“When he wanted to.”
“I’m told he used this cracksman to break into his father’s house. Do you know anything about that?”
“Me? Why would I?”
“Because I suspect you know your customers better than a vicar knows his parishioners.”
A gleam of amusement shone in her dark eyes, but she remained silent.
Sebastian said, “Is he still around, that cracksman?”
“Been a long time. Maybe he’s dead.”
“I’d like to talk to him if he isn’t.”
“What makes you think he knows anything?”
“I don’t know that he does.”
Grace Calhoun swiped at a pool of some spilled liquid on the surface of the bar with a rag. “Heard tell the owner of them tea gardens got found dead over in Somer’s Town.”
Sebastian nodded. “This morning.”
“Why you think that happened?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked up at him. “Don’t you? Seems to me you ain’t lookin’ for no common cracksman.”
“I never said I suspected the cracksman of killing Nicholas Hayes. I’m hoping he can tell me more about what happened eighteen years ago.”
Grace Calhoun tossed the rag aside. “There’s lots o’ folks could tell you about what happened eighteen years ago.”
Sebastian watched her turn away to start stacking dirty glasses in a tub. “Were you here that night? The night Hayes killed Chantal de LaRivière?”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“So certain?”
“I reckon I’m a pretty good judge of a man’s character.”
Sebastian couldn’t argue with that. She had to be to have not only survived but flourished in her business. He said, “Did he come back here that night? After the shooting, I mean.”
“He did.”
“And?”
“I wanted him to hide.”
“Where?”
Again, that faint gleam of amusement that was there and then gone. “We’ve places.”
Sebastian had heard about the Red Lion’s “places.” Secret doors and false walls and hidden passages that enabled those wanted by the authorities to simply disappear. “But he wouldn’t do it?”
“No. Said he hadn’t done nothing wrong. Said he wasn’t gonna hide like he had.”
“How was he caught?”
“His cousin—him that’s now the Earl of Seaforth. He told on him. Constables picked Nick up near Smithfield Market.”
Nick, noted Sebastian. Aloud, he said, “Seaforth betrayed him?”
“That’s right. Only, he weren’t the Earl of Seaforth then. He was just Mr. Ethan Hayes, son of a younger son and lookin’ at a humdrum life spent as a simple barrister. But he’s sure enough an earl now, ain’t he?”