What Remains of Heaven

Chapter 11

One hand wrapped tightly around her kite’s spar, the young girl raced down the grassy slope at the edge of Green Park, knees kicking against the muslin of her simple gown. She was a plain child, somewhere between twelve and fourteen years of age, with the nondescript brown hair and plump cheeks of her famous forebear, Benjamin Franklin. As Sebastian watched, the breeze filled the kite’s red sails, flapping the silk. She held tight, shouting with delight to the small, rotund man who loped ahead of her.

William Franklin held a stout stick wound with the kite’s line in one hand, the other hand playing out the twine as he ran. He was dressed in the frock coat and buckled breeches of an earlier age, his stocking-clad calves flashing in short, rapid steps as he hollered, “Now!”

The girl leapt up, releasing the kite. For a moment it dipped, threatening to crash to earth. Then the wind caught the sails and it soared high, a crimson splash against the clear blue sky.

“Take the line, quickly,” shouted William Franklin, holding out the stick. She snatched it with a gay laugh, her skirts swirling around her as she raced across the park, the kite sailing above her.

Breathing heavily, Franklin bent to rest his hands on his knees. His plump cheeks were flushed and damp, but his small eyes danced with merriment as his gaze followed the plain, brown-haired girl with the kite.

“Your granddaughter?” said Sebastian, walking up to him.

The old man straightened. “Ellen. I’ve raised her myself from the time she was a wee babe.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes, although I’m surprised you remember me. The name’s Devlin,” said Sebastian, shaking the elderly gentleman’s hand. “I came to one of your lectures on the Gulf Stream, many years ago.”

William Franklin nodded to the girl with the kite. “It was Ellen’s father—my son, Temple—who helped my father chart the stream, you know. On a voyage between London and America.”

“I know.”

“You’ve an interest in water currents?”

They turned to walk together across the grass. “I believe a man should strive to remain aware of the scientific advances of his day, yes.”

“Hmm. Yet somehow, I don’t think you’ve sought me out to talk about water temperatures, have you, Lord Devlin?”

At the use of his title, Sebastian shifted to face the small American.

Franklin smiled. “I knew your father many years ago—although I doubt he ever told you of our acquaintance.”

“No. He didn’t.”

Franklin’s head turned as he followed his granddaughter’s progress across the park. “We shared a ship’s voyage together, once. Lord Hendon had been visiting the Colonies, while I . . . I was beginning my life of exile.”

He was silent a moment. The humor that had briefly animated his features had gone, leaving his face bleak and sorrowful. “I’d just lost my first wife. She died while I was being held in a rebel prison.” He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I must beg your pardon for sounding maudlin. The older I get, the more the memory of those days lies heavily upon my heart.”

They stood together, heads thrown back as they watched the kite dip and soar above them. After a moment, Franklin said, “You’re here because of Bishop Prescott, I assume?”

Sebastian glanced over at him. “How did you know?”

Franklin tapped one snuff-stained finger against his temple. “I’m not in my dotage yet. You might have a passing interest in science, but your real passion is murder. It’s not difficult to infer that someone told you I exchanged heated words with the Bishop of London recently.”

“It’s true then?”

“Oh, yes. Just because I’m not in my dotage doesn’t mean I can’t be foolish.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I run an informal school for some local children—nothing fancy, just a small group of lads who gather in my parlor for an hour or so in the evening to learn the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Ever since my Mary died, I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to keep the sessions going. I knew Prescott was an advocate of education for the poor, so I was hoping he might be able to find a place for a couple of the brighter boys in one of the city’s charity schools.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “I should have known better.”

“He refused?”

“He wouldn’t even hear me out. Became abusive, really—as I’ve no doubt you’ve heard.”

They turned to walk together down the hill. “Ironic, isn’t it?” said Franklin. “My own father disowned me as a traitor because I chose to remain loyal to the king he raised me to serve. But Prescott? As far as he was concerned, my father’s loyalty to the land of his birth makes me a traitor.”

Sebastian was silent, trying to reconcile two seemingly ir reconcilable portraits of the Bishop: the dedicated philanthro pist, and the narrow-minded bigot.

A faint smile rekindled in the depths of the American’s eyes. “I see by your expression you don’t believe me. You think, How could a man who fought for everyone from the poor slaves of the West Indies to the downtrodden Catholics of Ireland be so unreasonable in his dealings with an old man?”

“I suppose we all have our prejudices,” said Sebastian.

“We do indeed. Prescott may have been a reformer, but he was no radical. As far as he was concerned, France and America were ungodly places, united by revolution and a dangerous philosophy he considered a threat to the future of civilization.”

“But your own loyalty to England never wavered.”

“It didn’t matter. Prescott looked at me, and he saw my father. For him, that was enough.”

“The war with America ended nearly thirty years ago.”

Franklin shrugged. “For some, the passage of time means little.” He swung to face Sebastian again, his pale, watery eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. “If you want my advice, my lord, you’ll look at more than the past few days if you want to find out who killed the Bishop of London. Some men keep their friends for a lifetime. But Francis Prescott, he preserved his enemies. Forever.”

“Do you have any idea who some of those enemies might have been?”

“Me? No.”

Franklin’s granddaughter was beginning to reel in her kite, the crimson silk dancing against the clear blue sky. He watched it, eyes squinted against the light, his features set in troubled lines. After a moment, he said, “There is one rather curious aspect of my meeting with the Bishop.”

“Yes?”

“When I arrived at London House, I found the Bishop paused on the footpath in conversation with a tradesman. A butcher. Prescott said the man was simply there over an account, but . . .”

“You didn’t believe him?”

“When was the last time you dealt with your butcher over an account?”

Sebastian smiled. “I daresay I wouldn’t recognize the man if I passed him on the street.”

“Precisely.”

“Had you ever seen the man before?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I recognized him. He’s a fellow by the name of Slade. Jack Slade. He has a shop near Smithfield.”

“Smithfield?”

Franklin nodded. “Near the cathedral, although I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you his exact direction. I remembered the incident because it was obvious the encounter troubled the Bishop. Deeply troubled him. I suspect it does much to explain why he reacted so angrily to my own request.”

The wind gusted up, then suddenly died. Tipping back his head, Sebastian watched the kite falter, red wings vivid against the blue sky. Ellen Franklin let out a squeal as the kite plummeted downward, silk flapping, to land upside down in the branches of an elm tee, a torn scarlet splash against a sea of green.

“I want you to find someone for me,” Sebastian told his tiger. “A Smithfield butcher by the name of Jack Slade.”

Tom’s eyes brightened. “Aye, gov’nor. Any idea what part o’ the area ’e ’ails from?”

Sebastian gathered the gray’s reins. “No.”

Tom gave a cheery laugh and hopped down from his perch at the rear of the curricle. “I’ll find ’im, gov’nor. Ne’er you fear!”