Chapter 27
The watcher took a step back when Sebastian slammed out of the house—a flintlock pistol held casually at his side—and strode across the street toward him. But the man did not run.
This was no ruffian. He wore buckskin breeches, Hessians, and a coat of superfine cut in a style favored by military men. Of above-average height, he looked to be in his late thirties, with broad shoulders and a strong frame obviously somewhat weakened by recent illness. His right arm rested in a sling, and his face bore the haggard look of a man who was still in some pain.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” demanded Sebastian, coming up to him. “And what are you doing out here staring at my house?”
The man looked sincerely chagrined. “I beg your pardon; I didn’t expect you to see me. I’ve been standing here attempting to decide if I was being a fool even to think of trying to talk to you, and what in blazes I should say to you if I do.”
“You’re Finch?”
The man’s eyes widened. “I am, yes. But how did you know?”
Sebastian eased the small flintlock pistol he’d been carrying into his pocket. “We need to talk.”
They retreated to the Angel in Bond Street, where Sebastian bought a couple of pints and steered the Major to a table near the pub’s old-fashioned massive stone fireplace.
“I still don’t understand how you knew who I am,” said Finch, settling across the table from Sebastian.
“Someone told me McInnis accused his wife of having an affair with you.”
Finch stared at him. “Good God. When did he do that?”
“Laura never told you about it?”
“No. When did this happen?”
“The Wednesday before she was killed.”
Finch wrapped both hands around his tankard and gazed down at it. “Bloody hell,” he said softly.
“Were you?” asked Sebastian, watching him closely. “Having an affair with her, I mean.”
Finch’s head came up, his lips tightening into an angry line. “No!”
The man certainly looked sincere. But Sebastian had known too many accomplished liars to take him at his word. “How long have you been back in London?”
“A few weeks. I’m staying with one of my brothers—he’s a barrister with chambers in Middle Temple.”
“Had you seen Laura since your return?”
Finch drew a deep breath, pressed his lips together, and nodded.
“How did McInnis come to hear of it?”
Finch swallowed and looked away. “That I don’t know.”
Again Sebastian wasn’t sure he believed him. “Were you in London before? Between when Bonaparte first abdicated and his escape from Elba, I mean.”
“Yes, for months. I was on extended leave, thinking of selling out. As far as I knew, the wars were over, and I figured it was time to move on with my life. But then word came that Napoléon was back in Paris, so I rejoined my old regiment.”
“I take it you saw Laura then, too? When you were in London before, I mean.”
Finch hesitated a moment, then nodded again. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Finch looked at him. “What do you mean, why? We’re old friends.”
“You grew up near her in Leicestershire?”
“I did, yes. My father was the vicar of the village there. Laura’s mother died when she was still a baby, you know, and the old Viscount never cared about much of anything besides his horses and his mistresses and the gaming tables. If it hadn’t been for my mother stepping in and being there for Laura, I don’t know what would have happened to her. We essentially grew up together. Why wouldn’t I see her when I was in town?”
“So you also know her brother, Salinger.”
“Yes, but not well. He was years older than we were.”
“And Sir Ivo? You know him?”
Something hardened in the other man’s face. “I used to run into him every now and then when he’d be at the Priory with Miles. And then of course he bought a hunting lodge nearby.”
“How much did you see Laura when you were in London before Boney’s escape from Elba?”
Finch gave a negligent shrug and looked away again. “I don’t know. Some.”
The artless evasion told Sebastian all he needed to know. “And how did Sir Ivo feel about his wife seeing her old childhood friend?”
This time Finch met Sebastian’s hard gaze and held it. “I didn’t think he knew.” He paused, then said, “I know how that sounds, but Ivo’s a nasty bastard and—” He broke off, then leaned back in his seat, his eyes widening. “My God. You think McInnis killed her because of me?”
“If his daughter hadn’t also been murdered, he’d be my first suspect.”
“Yes, of course.” Finch scrubbed a shaky hand down over his face. “This is all so horrible, I still can’t seem to take it in.”
Sebastian watched the other man lift his tankard to take a long, slow drink. “When you heard Laura had been murdered, who did you think had done it?”
Finch lowered his tankard. “Honestly? My first thought was McInnis. But with Emma dead, too, I realized that couldn’t be. . . .”
“Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to kill her—kill them both?”
“No.”
“What about a chimney sweep named Dobbs? Did Laura ever talk about him?”
“Hiram Dobbs? Yes, she told me about him. I know he threatened her. I was worried about her, but she wouldn’t take him seriously. Are you suggesting he could have done this?”
“At this point, I’m not ruling out anything. What about a foster mother near Richmond that she tangled with? Did Lady McInnis tell you about that?”
He nodded. “She did, yes. It’s beyond shocking, what she discovered about that place. Given how long they’ve been taking in infants, Laura suspected the Blackadders must have killed dozens of babies. Dozens. How is that even possible?”
“Do you know how she came to hear about the woman?”
The Major took another swallow of beer. “It was because of Rhodes.”
“Basil Rhodes?”
He nodded again. “I know everyone thinks he’s nothing more than an amiable, quick-witted buffoon, and God knows he plays the part well enough. But the truth is, he’s a vile son of a bitch. He rapes his housemaids the same way he’s always raped the slave girls on his Jamaican plantations. And then he dumps their babies on people like Prudence Blackadder, who can be relied upon to ensure the infants don’t live long enough to bother him.”
“Laura told you all this?”
“She did, yes. One of the women she dealt with at St. Martin’s workhouse used to be his housemaid. Not only did Rhodes rape her, but when she fell pregnant, he accused her of trying to foist some other man’s by-blow on him and then kicked her out without a reference after taking the baby from her. The poor girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, and she was so debilitated from the pregnancy and delivery and grief that she couldn’t work, which is how she ended up in the workhouse.”
“And this girl told Laura that Rhodes had given her baby to Prudence Blackadder?”
“Yes. It wasn’t the first time Laura had heard whispers about the Blackadders, so she started looking into them. At first, it all seemed unbelievable. I mean, how could something like that have been going on for years?”
“Is that why she confronted Rhodes in Bond Street last Saturday?”
“No. She didn’t confront him; he came at her. One of her friends is seriously involved with the man, and Laura had decided it was her duty to tell the woman about the pregnant housemaids and abandoned babies and the poor young girls he regularly abuses on his plantation. Except of course the woman refused to believe any of it, flew into a rage, and then told Rhodes what Laura was saying about him. That’s how Rhodes knew.”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
The Major frowned. “Not off the top of my head, no. She’s some shipbuilder’s widow Laura knew from when they were at school together. Rivers or Lakes or something like that.”
“Veronica Goodlakes?”
“That’s it,” said the Major. “Goodlakes.”
Sebastian walked home through dark streets lit dimly by the murky glow of widely spaced streetlights and the oil lamps that bracketed the front doors of the stately row houses along Brook Street. The night was cool and still, the moon and most of the stars above hidden by a hazy layer of coal smoke that hung low over the city. He could hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance, but otherwise Mayfair was quiet, with only the occasional lumbering hackney or gentleman’s carriage dashing past; the pungent scent of pitch from linkboys’ torches lingered hot and heavy in the night.
He was aware of a profound weight of sadness settling upon him as he walked. Murder had a way of peeling back the lies and polite subterfuges of people’s lives to expose the tragedies and ugly truths that all too often lay hidden beneath. The innocent, unwanted children left to suffer and die in strangers’ hands. The poor and vulnerable, abused by those with power over them. The young women—and men—forced into unhappy, loveless marriages for the sake of money. Money, power, prestige, position . . .
Greed could take so many different forms.
The church bells of the city began to ring, one after the other, counting out the hour. Sebastian walked on, his attention focused now on a solitary figure he could see leaning against a lamppost some thirty or more feet ahead. The man was simply standing there, his hands in his pockets, his hat tipped forward to throw his face into shadow. He looked to be of average height, young and strong, his green coat neither fashionably cut nor rough, his buckskin breeches and top boots serviceable. Sebastian had spent enough years in the Army to recognize a former military man when he saw one.
Without altering his gait, Sebastian slipped his right hand into the pocket of his coat to close around the smooth handle of his small double-barreled pistol.
The man didn’t move.
Sebastian was passing the entrance to Livery Row when he heard a sudden rush of feet as a second man, this one a big, burly ruffian in a round hat, came barreling out of the shadows to slam hard into his back. The impact threw Sebastian off-balance and shoved him forward just as Green Coat stepped away from the lamppost and brought up his right hand to smash Sebastian in the face with what felt like a lead-weighted sap.