Chapter 25
H ero and Calhoun spent the morning searching the streets near Smithfield without any luck.
It was later, when she was in the library studying a map of London she had spread across the table, that she heard a visitor ply the knocker on the front door.
“Major Hamish McHenry to see Lord Devlin,” said an unfamiliar Scottish voice when Morey answered the door. “Is he receiving?”
Turning her head, she heard Morey say, “I beg your pardon, Major, but his lordship is not at present at home.”
There was a pause. Then the unknown major said, “I’ll try again later.”
Something about the depth of the disappointment in the man’s voice brought Hero to the library door. “May I help you, Major? I’m Lady Devlin.”
The major had been turning away, but at her words, he paused. He was a lean, sandy-haired man of medium height, probably in his early forties, with the chiseled features and weathered complexion of a man who’d spent many years serving his country in harsh, unforgiving climes. His eyes were framed by the kind of deep fan lines left by smiling or squinting into a bright sun, but Hero didn’t think they were smile lines. His face was somber and a little sad, and she had the feeling that expression was habitual.
“You’re very kind, my lady,” he said with a bow. “But I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
She smiled. “No trouble. It’s so dreadfully hot out; may I offer you something refreshing to drink? Lemonade, perhaps? Or if you prefer, we’ve a barrel of ale delivered fresh from the brewery this morning.”
A slow, answering smile spread across the Scotsman’s face, transforming it. “Ale sounds grand.”
“Then ale it is.”
Later, when they were seated in the drawing room, the major with a tankard of ale and Hero sipping a cup of tea, she said, “Have you recently returned from France?”
“Not so recently. My mother fell ill not long after Christmas, and the doctors weren’t holding out much hope for her recovery. My only brother’s in India, so I came home in March and missed the end of all the fighting, I’m sorry to say.”
“That must have been frustrating for you.”
He gave a wry smile. “I won’t try to deny it.”
“And how is your mother?”
His grin spread. “Fit as a fiddle at an Irish jig.”
“Thank goodness for that. Will you stay in the Army, now that Napoléon is finished?”
He nodded. “My regiment is being ordered to America. There’s talk we may try to take Washington, D.C., or perhaps New Orleans.”
“Ah, yes, of course. With all these endless celebrations for peace in Europe, it’s easy to forget we’re still at war with the United States.” She took a sip of her tea. “Did you know Devlin when he was in the Army?”
McHenry cleared his throat and glanced away. “No, my lady. I’m here because I understand he’s looking into the death of Nicholas Hayes.”
“You knew Hayes?”
“Not well. But his brother Crispin and I were good friends.”
“Crispin is the brother who drowned right before Chantal de LaRivière was killed?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat again, and Hero had the impression there was something he’d come here to say to Devlin but didn’t feel comfortable telling her. “Has . . . has Lord Devlin identified who was responsible for Nicholas’s death?”
“Not yet, no. Why? Do you know something that might help?”
“Not exactly. But no one will ever convince me that Nicholas killed that Frenchwoman—at least, not the way they say he did.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because he was never in love with her. He blamed her for Crispin killing himself.”
Hero’s teacup rattled in its saucer. “Crispin Hayes committed suicide?”
“Yes. You didn’t know?”
“No.”
The major nodded. “Threw himself off London Bridge. His father the Earl managed to get the coroner to rule it an accident, but it wasn’t.”
“But . . . why? Why did he kill himself?”
To Hero’s surprise, a faint flush rose to the major’s cheeks. “I don’t think anyone ever knew, precisely.” He cast a quick glance at the clock on the mantel and set aside his tankard. “I’ve imposed on your generous hospitality far too long.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you for the much-needed refreshment.”
She rose with him. “I’ll tell Devlin you called.”
“Thank you. I’ll be staying with my mother in Lower Sloan Street until my regiment is ready to set sail.”
Hero walked with him to the top of the stairs. “Do you have any idea why Nicholas Hayes would risk his life by coming back to England?”
“I’m thinking there must have been something he felt he’d left unfinished—a wrong that needed righting.”
“Or a man who needed killing?” suggested Hero.
The bluntness of her words obviously shocked him. But after a moment he gave a curt nod and said, “Or a man who needed killing.”
Devlin came in some five minutes later, hot, dusty, and calling for ale.
“Suicide?” he said when Hero told him of Major McHenry’s strange visit. “Crispin Hayes killed himself? Why the bloody hell didn’t Calhoun tell me that? Or Seaforth? All he said was that Crispin drowned.”
“Perhaps Seaforth was too ashamed to admit that his cousin killed himself.”
“I doubt it. He wasn’t too ashamed to talk freely about all of his cousin Nicholas’s sins.” Devlin took a long, deep drink of his ale. “Why do you think McHenry came today?”
“I could be wrong, but I had the impression there was something he wanted to tell you—something he didn’t feel comfortable saying to me.”
Devlin refilled his tankard and went to stand at the front window, his gaze on the heat-blasted street. “What he told you was explosive enough.”
Hero was quiet for a moment, watching him. “Gibson is quite certain Hayes was dying of consumption?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that helps explain why he risked his life by coming back to London now, after all those years of freedom. He knew he was dying, so he didn’t care if he was caught or not.”
“Seems likely, doesn’t it?”
“Do you think he came back to kill Gilbert-Christophe de LaRivière?”
“Either LaRivière or Seaforth. Or maybe both.”
“Nicholas told Mott Tintwhistle that any one of four men could have hired Titus Poole to follow him. Seaforth and LaRivière are obviously two, and either Brownbeck or Forbes could be the third. But what about Hamish McHenry as the fourth?”
Devlin glanced over at her. “Why would Hayes want to kill his brother’s good friend?”
“I don’t know. But it might explain why McHenry came here today, wanting to talk to you.”
Sebastian drained his tankard and set it aside. “I think I need to have a long talk with your major.”