What Remains of Heaven

Chapter 37

Lord Quillian’s elegant townhouse on Curzon Street was a bachelor residence. He had never married, always claiming whenever asked that he simply found households containing women and children too noisy and fatiguing to be endured.

Living in solitary state, he’d had one of the bedchambers on the second floor turned into a massive dressing room, hung with burgundy-and-navy-striped silk and fitted with vast stretches of dark cherry cupboards and drawers. When Sebastian plied the knocker at the barbaric hour of eleven that morning, he was shown up to this vast chamber.

Clothed in fawn-colored breeches, a white shirt open at the neck, and a paisley dressing gown, Lord Quillian had his hands soaking in two bowls of sudsy water. “What an unfashionable hour for a call,” he said, not looking up. “I take it therefore I can safely assume you are here for an unfashionable purpose?”

Tossing his hat and gloves on a side table, Sebastian went to lean against the frame of the tall window overlooking the street, his arms crossed at his chest. “You didn’t tell me you were in the Foreign Office thirty years ago.”

Quillian glanced over at the small, plump valet hovering nearby with a hand towel. “Leave us.”

The man bowed, laid the towel beside his master, and withdrew.

Quillian lifted his hands from the water and dried each finger with careful precision. “Didn’t I? Perhaps you are right. I do recall I mentioned that my situation as a younger son reduced me to the vulgar necessity of having to earn my own bread. But I may not have identified the exact nature of my”—he made a face at the word—“employment. It was not, needless to say, a high point in my life.”

“How did your brother die?”

“My brother?” Quillian looked up at that, his eyes narrowing. “If you must know, he died of smallpox. What precisely are you suggesting, my lord? That I was in such dire financial straits as a young man that I sold my country’s secrets to the Americans? And then, when an ill-timed peace ended that lucrative venture, I had my brother set upon by footpads so that I might inherit?”

Sebastian studied the toe of his boot. “I don’t recall saying anything about a traitor.”

Quillian held himself still for a moment, then inclined his head in wry acknowledgment. “Touché, my lord. You are quite right; you did not. Yet you are such an indefatigably inquisitive young man, I’ve no doubt by now that you have learned of the Alcibiades letters.”

“It’s my understanding that the existence of the Alcibiades letters was a closely guarded secret.”

Quillian reached for a small knife and began paring his nails. “And so it was—thirty years ago. But with the passage of time these things become less critical. Perceval let drop a few choice tidbits about the scandal within my hearing last April. Needless to say, my ears pricked up. I mean, the timing was so curious. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

Lord Quillian sighed dramatically. “In the end, it all came to naught, of course. Here I was hoping to discover that Sir Nigel was himself Alcibiades, whereas in fact Sir Nigel was actually the one who discovered the existence of the traitor. Although not, it seems, the man’s identity.”

“Not that we know.”

Quillian opened his eyes wide in a parody of enlightenment. “So you’re suggesting . . . what, precisely? That Sir Nigel confronted me with evidence of my supposed traitorous dealings, whereupon I killed him to keep him silent?” Quillian frowned. “Yes, I can see where such a scenario has a certain element of logic. There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not a traitor.” Quillian pushed to his feet and threw off his silk dressing gown. “Although I realize that’s an easy thing to say. Not so easy to prove.”

“I’m told you didn’t arrive at Carlton House before ten o’clock on the evening of the Tuesday in question,” said Sebastian. “Where were you before that?”

Quillian looked faintly amused. “Not anyplace I care to tell about,” he said, selecting a freshly starched cravat from the pile laid out for him.

His attention all for his own image in the mirror, Quillian carefully wrapped the white Irish linen around his neck and began the delicate business of tying the ends. “I take it your attempts to identify the Bishop’s killer have not exactly been crowned with success. Is that why you’ve turned your attention to the events of thirty years ago? Surely you don’t think the Bishop and his brother were both killed by the same man?”

“I consider it one possibility, yes.”

Quillian leaned forward, his gaze intent as he made a few careful adjustments to the exaggerated knot of his cravat. “I suppose you know what you are doing. But I think you’re wrong.”

“Really? So what do you think happened to the brothers Prescott?”

“I think Francis Prescott killed his brother thirty years ago for the inheritance. And then, when my helpful interference brought the body of the good Bishop’s victim to light, he went rushing back to the scene of his crime—only to fall victim in his turn.”

“To whom?”

Turning away from his mirror, the dandy reached for a silk waistcoat of the palest salmon silk backed by fine white linen. “I did give you a little hint the other day. Did you not follow up on it?”

Sebastian frowned. “You mean William Franklin? Would you have me believe the American killed Bishop Prescott over a mere slight involving a couple of schoolboys?”

“Dear me,” said Quillian, deftly fastening the row of tiny pearl buttons that ran up the waistcoat’s front. “Can it be that you don’t know?”

“Don’t know . . . what?”

“The depth of the animosity William Franklin held for our good Bishop. You see, as one of the senior Loyalists to take refuge in London, William Franklin worked tirelessly on behalf of his fellow Americans, petitioning Parliament for their relief. Yet when Franklin’s own case came before the Parliamentary Commission, he was awarded a mere trifle. The bulk of his claim—amounting to nearly fifty thousand pounds—was disavowed.”

“Why?”

“Because Francis Prescott convinced the commission that Franklin’s loyalty was suspect, due to the treasonous activities of his well-known father, Benjamin Franklin. It was Prescott’s contention that Franklin père et fils had deliberately supported opposite sides of the conflict, so that no matter who won, the Franklins would come out on top.”

“When was this?”

“The commission’s hearings? The late eighties, I believe.”

“So you’re suggesting that William Franklin waited more than twenty years, until he was old and infirm, before suddenly deciding one night to follow the Bishop out to a rural parish church and bash in his head?”

“La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid. Perhaps now that his wife is dead, Franklin feels he no longer has anything to lose?” Quillian shrugged. “But you are the expert on murder, so I suppose I must bow to your superior knowledge of the subject.”

Vengeance is a dish best enjoyed cold. Sebastian watched the Baron slip an intricately engraved gold watch into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I’m curious about one thing,” said Sebastian. “How do you come to know so much about Prescott’s dealings with William Franklin?”

Quillian added a fob to the end of his watch chain. “What’s the saying? ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ Francis Prescott made himself my enemy. Therefore I made it my business to know all the dirty little secrets our good Bishop didn’t want anyone else to know.” Reaching out, he gave the bell a soft tug. An instant later, the Baron’s valet appeared in the doorway.

“Are we ready to put on our coat, my lord?” said the little man with a bow. “Shall I ask James to assist?”

Sebastian pushed away from the windowsill. “It takes the combined efforts of your valet and a footman to get you into your coat?”

“I should rather hope so,” said Quillian, looking affronted. “Any excess material would lead to unsightly wrinkles. And that would never do.”

Sebastian reached for his hat and gloves. “I’ll show myself out.” But he paused in the doorway to look back and say, “One of these days, an abolition act will make it though Parliament, with or without Bishop Prescott. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I know it,” said the Baron, positioning his cuffs as the valet held a flawlessly tailored a coat of superfine in readiness and the footman waited to assist. “But without Prescott, I can’t see it happening for another twenty years or more. And who knows?” The Baron smiled. “By then I may well be dead.”

William Franklin stood at one of the open sides of the long, low building that stretched out for hundreds of feet along the edge of Penton Place, near Hanging Field. Known as a ropewalk, the structure had low brick walls that reached only to hip height and a simple shed roof supported by rows of crude posts. Within its shelter, hemp fibers were spun into threads and then twisted into rope. The strands could be twisted together in a straight line only with the strands fully extended, which accounted for the ropewalk’s great length.

“Fascinating, is it not?” said Franklin when Sebastian strolled up to him. The old man had to shout to be heard over the clickety-clack of spinning metal wheels. “When I was a wee lad, my father used to take me down to the ropewalk near the harbor in Philadelphia. Ellen always enjoys it, too.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes against the cloud of billowing hemp dust. It was messy work, the air heavy with the scent of hemp and tar and the whirl of the spinning fibers. “She’s not with you today?”

“She would have come, but she wanted to finish the letter she’s writing to her father.” The old man’s smile slipped slightly at the thought of his wayward son. “He keeps promising to visit her, but he never comes. He has my father’s papers, you know. I’ve been pressing him to publish them; I’ve even offered to help. But he’ll have none of it.”

Sebastian studied the American’s timeworn face. From what Sebastian had been able to learn, the domestic arrangements of the Franklin males tended to follow a similar, bizarre pattern. An illegitimate son himself, William Franklin had abandoned his own illegitimate son, Temple, to be raised by Benjamin. And Temple Franklin had, in turn, abandoned his illegitimate daughter, Ellen, to be raised by William. They were a brilliant but peculiar family. But then, Sebastian thought, perhaps most families were peculiar, each in its own way.

He said, “I’m told Bishop Prescott was largely responsible for the Parliamentary Commission’s decision to disavow the majority of your claim.”

Franklin cast him a knowing sideways glance. “So that’s why you’re here, is it? You’ve heard about the results of the commission.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Believe me, Lord Devlin, if I ever felt moved to kill Francis Prescott, it was twenty-four years ago. Not last week.”

“Sometimes these things build.”

“True,” said Franklin. “True.” He drew a plain gold pocket watch from his old-fashioned, snuff-stained vest and squinted down at the time. “I promised to take Ellen for an ice at Gunt er’s. But I’ve a few minutes yet.”

Something about the movement stirred the whisper of a recollection in Sebastian’s memory, a thought that was there and then gone before he could capture it.

He lifted his gaze to the ropewalk, where a man with a grooved wooden wedge known as a “top” drew the strands ahead of the twist, keeping it tight. The strands had to be kept under equal tension, without kinking, until the entire fathom of rope was twisted. The standard length of naval rope was a thousand feet.

The length required to hang a man for, say, murder, was considerably shorter.

Sebastian’s hands tightened around the top of the brick wall before them as he watched the strands of rope weave in together. “Good God,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

Franklin shook his head, not understanding. “Think of what?”

Sebastian pushed away from the wall. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Franklin.”

“Anytime, anytime,” Franklin called after him. “And good luck to you, Lord Devlin.”