Who Buries the Dead (6 page)

Sebastian thought he was beginning to understand why Anne Preston was generally regarded as being both quiet and a bit strange. She must have learned long ago that this sort of conversation didn’t play out well in London’s drawing rooms.

They shifted to the third pedestal. This head was both the best preserved and the most gruesome of the three, its eyelids half-closed, its lips pulled away from the teeth as if frozen in a rictus of agony. At the back of the neck, Sebastian could see quite clearly a deep cut above the one that had severed the head from the body, where the executioner’s first stroke had obviously failed in its object.

The case was unlabeled.

“Who is this?” asked Sebastian.

“This was Father’s most recent acquisition. It’s believed to be the Duke of Suffolk—father to Lady Jane Grey. He was executed by Queen Mary in the Tower of London.”

“So were a lot of other people. One would think you could fill a room with the heads of Elizabeth’s victims alone.”

“True. But their heads didn’t usually survive. They were typically parboiled, set up on pikes above London Bridge, and then eventually thrown into the river.”

“But not Suffolk?”

“No. His head was buried with the rest of his body at Holy Trinity in the Minories. Father said it probably survived so well because it fell into a box of sawdust, and the tannins preserved it.”

Sebastian let his gaze drift, again, around that macabre cabinet of curiosities, but he didn’t see anything similar to the metal band he’d found at Bloody Bridge.

He said, “What do you know of an old piece of thin lead, perhaps a foot and a half in length and three or four inches wide, bearing the inscription ‘King Charles, 1648’?”

She looked puzzled. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why?”

“It was found near where your father was killed.”

She was reaching to draw the curtain across the display pedestals. But at his words, she paused, her fist clenching on the rich velvet cloth. “Is it true, what they’re saying—that whoever killed Father also cut off his head?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Can you think of anyone with whom your father might have quarreled recently?”

“No. No one,” she said quickly.

Too quickly.

“You’re certain?” he asked, watching her closely.

“Yes. Of course.”

“If you think of anyone, you will let me know?”

“If I think of anyone.”

She busied herself with closing the curtain. But he noticed that her hand was no longer steady, and it was obvious that the nervousness he’d glimpsed earlier had returned, tightening the features of her face and agitating her breathing. At first, he had mistaken her nervousness for the shyness of a young woman who felt ill at ease in company. Now he realized it was because she was afraid—afraid of
him
.

And of what he might learn.

“H
e collected
heads
?” Sir Henry Lovejoy’s already high-pitched voice rose to a shrill squeak. “Men should be buried—not put on display as if they were in the same category as hunting trophies!”

“I suspect he didn’t see the heads as all that different from the daggers and pincushions he also collected,” said Sebastian.

The two men were walking up Bow Street toward the public office. The footpaths were still dark and wet from the latest rain, with gray clouds pressing low on the city and promising more. Lovejoy was silent for a moment, as if trying—and failing—to understand such a mentality. “It’s a disturbing coincidence—that the man should collect the heads of historical figures, only to have someone cut off his own.”

“If it is a coincidence.”

Sir Henry hunched his shoulders against the damp, blustery wind. “Most of Preston’s servants had a half day off on Sunday. But according to the butler, Preston went out for some hours on the day of his death. Unfortunately, he took a hackney rather than his own carriage, so unless we can trace the jarvey, we’re unlikely to know where he went. He returned at approximately four in the afternoon and spent some time puttering around with his collections until dining with his daughter at seven. Then, at something like nine in the evening—or perhaps half past—he went out again, walking this time, and stopped in an old public house just off Sloane Street.”

“The Monster?”

“As it happens, yes. You’ve heard of it?”

“Molly Watson told me he went there regularly. It sounds like the sort of place likely to appeal to someone with Preston’s interests.”

Sir Henry nodded. “It dates back to the days of the Dissolution. They say the name is actually a corruption of ‘the Monastery.’”

“How long was he there?”

“Not long. According to the barman, he fell into an argument with another gentleman in the taproom and stormed off shortly after ten. Fortunately, the gentleman in question is a regular patron of the establishment, so the barman was able to identify him as a banker by the name of Austen. Henry Austen.”

The name was unfamiliar to Sebastian. “What do you know of him?”

“I’ve had one of the lads looking into him. He’s the son of a Hampshire clergyman. Originally trained for the church himself, but joined the militia at the beginning of the war with France. Served a number of years, although he only saw action in Ireland. I gather he was involved in handling payroll and got caught up in the Duke of York scandal. That’s when he resigned his commission and went into banking. He’s done quite well for himself; his main bank is in Henrietta Street, here in the City, but he also has branches in various country towns such as Alton and Hythe.”

“What’s his connection with Preston?”

“That I don’t know. He seems a rather good-humored, even-tempered chap from all we’ve been able to discover. But I’ve kept the constables away from him so far—thought it might be better to let you have a go at him first.” The bells of the city’s churches began to toll, counting out the hour in a rolling cascade of sound as they drew up before the Bow Street Public Office. Lovejoy said, “There is one thing about Austen that may or may not be pertinent, but is nonetheless rather disturbing.”

“Oh?”

“His wife is the widow of a French count.”

“Please don’t tell me
he
lost his head as well?”

“I’m afraid so. He was guillotined in 1794. I gather she’s been ill for quite some time and may even be dying; Austen has his sister up from Hampshire to stay with them and help.”

“What do you know about her?”

“The sister? I gather she’s quite unremarkable. A spinster by the name of Jane. Miss Jane Austen.”

Sebastian went first to the Austen bank on Henrietta Street in Covent Garden, only to be told by a plump, supercilious clerk with heavily oiled, sandy hair that Mr. Austen was “currently unavailable.”

“Is he out, or simply not receiving?” asked Sebastian.

The clerk sniffed. “I’m afraid I really can’t say.” He started to turn away, a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

The icy menace in Sebastian’s voice brought the clerk to an abrupt halt, his chin sagging in a way that caused his mouth to gape open, his pale blue eyes widening as his gaze met Sebastian’s.

Sebastian said, “Consider your response very carefully.”

“He . . . he is not in today. Truly. He was scheduled to visit one of our branches down in Hampshire this morning, and I—I can only assume he went.”

“Where does he live?”

The man swallowed hard enough to bob his Adam’s apple visibly up and down. “I don’t think I should answer that.”

Sebastian gave the young man a smile that showed his teeth. “Actually, I think you should.”

The papers the clerk had been holding slipped from his fingers to flutter to the floor. “Sloane Street. Number sixty-four Sloane Street.”

“The keeper o’ the Hyde Park Turnpike is gonna think we’re up to somethin’ ’avey-cavey,” said Tom as Sebastian turned his horses toward Hans Town for the third time that day.

“Very likely,” agreed Sebastian, guiding his pair around a slow collier’s wagon.

The Austen house lay halfway down Sloane Street, not far from Sloane Square and the narrow, haunted lane that led to Bloody Bridge. One of a long line of terraces built late in the previous century, it had neat, white-framed windows and a shiny front door and was in every respect what one might expect of a prosperous, up-and-coming banker.

The door was opened by a young and rather inexperienced housemaid who confirmed the bank clerk’s information, saying breathlessly, “I’m sorry, me lord, but the master left at the crack o’ dawn, he did.” When Sebastian then asked to see Mr. Austen’s sister instead, the girl grew so flustered she dropped the card he’d handed her.

She retrieved the card with a stammered apology and hurried away, only to return a moment later and escort him up to an elegant octagonal drawing room. The salon was expensively furnished in the latest style, with Egyptian-inspired settees covered in peach- and lime-striped silk, ornately carved gilt mirrors, and an exquisite collection of French porcelains. The only odd note came from a small, rather plain writing desk that rested on a round, inlaid rosewood table positioned before the windows so that it overlooked the garden. At Sebastian’s entrance, the woman seated beside it thrust whatever she’d been working on beneath the desk’s slanted lid so quickly that the corners of some of the pages were left protruding.

“Lord Devlin,” she said, rising from her chair to come forward and greet him.

Like the plain writing desk, Miss Jane Austen looked vaguely out of place in the room, both more comfortable and less ostentatious than her surroundings. Somewhere in her mid- to late thirties, she had an attractive, pixie face framed by short dark hair that curled from beneath a spinster’s crisp white cap. Her cheeks were abnormally ruddy, her dress neat but not particularly fashionable, her dark eyes calm and assessing in a way that told him this was a woman accustomed to observing and analyzing her fellow men.

“I’m sorry my brother isn’t here to meet with you,” she said, “but he left for Alton this morning and isn’t expected back until tomorrow evening.”

“I appreciate your taking the time to speak to me instead,” said Sebastian, settling in the chair she indicated. “I understand your brother was acquainted with Stanley Preston.”

She sank onto the edge of a nearby settee, her hands nestled together in her lap. “Yes. My sister-in-law was great friends with the late Mrs. Preston, you see.”

“She died in childbirth?”

“She did, yes. It was quite tragic. Their daughter, Anne, was only fifteen at the time. It’s a difficult age for a young girl to be without a mother, and my cousin has attempted in the years since to stand in her friend’s stead.”

“Your cousin?”

“I beg your pardon; I should have explained. My sister-in-law, Eliza, is also my cousin. Her mother and my father were sister and brother.”

Sebastian studied Miss Jane Austen’s small, expressive face. It was difficult to think of this quiet, provincial vicar’s daughter as someone whose first cousin had been married to a French count guillotined in the Revolution. He said, “You’ve met Mr. Preston yourself?”

“At various times over the years, yes.”

“What manner of man was he?”

“Mr. Preston?” She reached for a nearby embroidery frame, using the movement, he suspected, to give herself time to consider her response. “I would say his character was very much that of a devout and honest man. In truth, he had many admirable qualities. He was utterly devoted to his children and the memory of his dead wife. He was extraordinarily well-read on a number of subjects, particularly history. And he was responsible and moderate in most things—with one notable exception, of course.”

“You mean, his passion for collecting?”

Her eyes crinkled in quiet amusement. “Yes; that is what I was referring to.”

Sebastian found himself smiling. “Now that you’ve satisfied the proprieties by listing his admirable qualities, perhaps you could tell me some of his less admirable traits.”

She took up her needle. “We all have our imperfections and idiosyncrasies, Lord Devlin. But I hope I am neither so unjust as to fault a man for falling short of perfection, nor so uncharitable as to catalogue his minor failings after his death.”

“Yet if everyone persists in painting Stanley Preston as a saint, I am unlikely to ever discover who killed him.”

She focused her attention on the neat stitches she was laying in her embroidery. “Well . . . I suppose you could say he had a tendency to be quarrelsome. He was also proud and socially ambitious. But in that I suspect he was not so different from most other men of his station.”

“A lowering reflection, but sadly true, I fear.”

He saw, again, that answering gleam of amusement in her eyes. She said, “The truth is, he was still a likeable man, for all that. There was no real malice in him.”

Sebastian wondered if the slaves on Preston’s Jamaican plantations would agree with that assessment. But all he said was, “Have you seen his collection of heads?” He could not imagine someone as prosaic and sensible as Miss Jane Austen fainting at such a sight.

“I have, yes. I’ve often pondered why he kept them. At first, I assumed he was driven by philosophical motives—that he derived some sort of salutary lesson from the contemplation of such tangible evidence that even the world’s most powerful men are eventually reduced to nothing but shriveled flesh and bone. But I finally came to realize that he actually collected them for essentially the same reason rustics will travel miles to see a two-headed calf, or pay a sixpence to gawk at a hairy woman displaying herself at a fair.”

“And why is that?”

“So that they may afterward boast of it to their friends—as if they are somehow rendered special by having seen something interesting. In Stanley Preston’s case, it was as if he felt his stature was enhanced by the possession of relics of important figures from the past.”

“He was impressed by wealth and power?”

“I would say there are few in our society who are not. Wouldn’t you?”

“I suspect you are right.” He let his gaze drift, again, around that fashionable, expensively furnished drawing room. “Tell me, does your brother’s opinion of Stanley Preston match your own?”

“Oh, Henry is far more charitable than I when it comes to the foibles and vanities of his fellow men. He really should have been a vicar, you know, rather than a banker.”

“So why did he quarrel with Preston at the Monster last night?”

She jerked ever so slightly, her thread snarling beneath her hands.

He said, “You do know, don’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

She rested the embroidery frame on her lap, her hands idle, her gaze meeting his. “It’s a difficult subject to speak of, I’m afraid.”

“Why’s that?”

“It . . . it involves Anne.”

“Yet it will come out eventually, whatever it is.”

Miss Austen drew a troubled breath and nodded, obviously choosing her words with care. “Some years ago, when Anne was just seventeen, she formed an attachment to a certain hussar cornet. The man himself was also quite young—only a year or so older, I believe—and utterly penniless.”