When Gods Die

Chapter 35

His hold on Brown Coat broken, Sebastian found himself staring into the broad, whiskered face of one of the men from the Bow Street Patrol.

Sebastian shook his head to fling the sweat from his eyes. “Bloody hell.”

“Now then, let’s have none of that,” chided the second Bow Street man, grabbing Sebastian’s other arm.

Scuttling backward, Brown Coat scrambled to his feet and took off at a run.

“You stupid sons of bitches,” swore Sebastian, bringing his arm back to drive his elbow, hard, into the plump red waistcoat of the first man who’d grabbed him.

Air gusting out of a painfully pursed mouth, the Runner let go of Sebastian and hunched forward, his hands pressed to his gut.

“I say,” began the other Runner, just as Sebastian drove his fist into the man’s face and wrenched his left arm free.

By now, Brown Coat had made it to the end of the market. Sebastian pelted after him, the shriek of the Bow Street men’s whistles cutting through the night.

Up ahead, he could see the wide-open expanse of the Thames. The riverbank here had been built up into a stone-faced terrace fronted by a low wall. Dodging across the open space, Brown Coat leapt up onto the flat top of the wall, meaning perhaps to avoid the traffic clogging the street fronting the river by running along the wall to the top of the steps.

But the wall was old, the weathered stone damp and crumbling. His feet shot out from beneath him. For a moment the man wavered, his arms windmilling through the air as he sought to regain his balance. With a sharp cry, he toppled backward.

There was a dull thump. Then all was silent except for the insistent blowing of the Runners’ whistles and the lapping of the water at the river’s edge.

Leaning his outstretched arms against the top of the wall, Sebastian hung his head and gasped for breath. On the rocks far below, the man lay sprawled on his back, his arms outflung, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian, and pushed away from the wall to swipe one muddy forearm across his sweat-drenched forehead.

“IF YOUR MAIN PURPOSE was to find out who he is,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, staring down at the body at their feet, “then why did you kill him?”

Sebastian grunted. “I didn’t kill him. He fell.”

“Yes, of course.” Moving gingerly across the wet rocks, Lovejoy hunkered down beside the man’s still form and peered at the upturned face, ashen now in the moonlight. “Do you know who he is?”

“No. Do you?”

The little magistrate shook his head. “Any idea why he was following you?”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me discover that.”

Lovejoy threw him a pained look and stood up. “Have you seen this morning’s papers?”

“No. Why?”

Even though he had not touched the body, the little magistrate drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. “A park woman found a body in St. James’s Park. Just before dawn.”

A wind had kicked up and set a series of small waves to lapping against the rocks at their feet. The air was thick with the smell of the river and mud and ever-pervasive stench of sewage. Sebastian stared out at the dark hull of a wherry cutting through the dark water. In a city crowded with courtesans and prostitutes, the park women were the lowest of the low, pitiful creatures so disfigured by disease that they could only ply their trade in the dark, usually in one of the city’s parks.

“Is that so unusual?” said Sebastian.

“It is when the body in question has been butchered.” Lovejoy stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. In the pale moonlight, his face looked nearly as pallid as the corpse at their feet. “I mean that literally. Carved up like a side of beef.”

“Who was he? Do you know?”

Lovejoy nodded for the constables to remove the body and turned away. “That’s one of the more troublesome aspects. He was Sir Humphrey Carmichael’s eldest son. A young man of but twenty-five.”

Sir Humphrey Carmichael was one of the wealthiest men in the city. Born the son of a weaver, he now had a hand in everything from manufacturing and banking to mining and shipping. Until his son’s murderer was caught, the city’s constables and magistrates would be expected to concentrate on nothing else.

“Incidentally, one of the Bow Street men is talking about laying charges,” Lovejoy said, climbing the steps. “You broke his nose.”

“He ripped my coat.”

Lovejoy turned to run an eye over Sebastian’s exquisitely tailored coat of Bath superfine, now muddied and scuffed beyond repair. A faint smile played about one corner of the magistrate’s normally tense mouth. “I’ll tell him that.”