Where Serpents Sleep

Chapter 14

Paul Gibson kept his surgery in an ancient sandstone building at the base of Tower Hill. Beside it stood his house, also of stone, but small and ill-kept, for Gibson house, also of stone, but small and ill-kept, for Gibson was a bachelor with a housekeeper named Mrs. Federico who refused to set foot in any room containing human parts in glass jars—a prejudice that effectively limited her to the kitchen, dining room, and hallway.

“It’s a pig’s fetus,” said Gibson, identifying the small purplish-pink curl floating in liquid in a jar on the parlor mantelpiece that had caught Sebastian’s attention. “I was using it for comparative purposes in my anatomy class at St. Thomas’s.”

“Ah,” said Sebastian, going to splash brandy into two glasses and carrying one to his friend.

“I told Mrs. Federico it was a pig,” said Gibson, taking the glass with thanks. “But she still refused to clean in here.”

Sebastian moved a pile of papers and books from the worn leather sofa to the floor and sat down. “One would think she’d be used to it by now.”

“Some people never get used to it.”

Sebastian wasn’t sure he himself would ever get used to the body parts Gibson scattered so carelessly around his house, but he kept that observation to himself.

Gibson said, “Sir William turned all of the women’s bodies over to the Friends for burial. The service is set for tomorrow evening. Unfortunately, the Friends refused to grant me permission to perform any postmortems. But they did allow me to examine the bodies more thoroughly.”

“And?”

“I don’t think any of those women died from the fire.” Gibson propped the stump of his left leg up on a stool, his head bowed to hide the grimace of pain that contorted his features. There were times, Sebastian knew, when the pain grew so fierce that Gibson could abandon himself for days to the sweet relief of opium-induced oblivion. “They were all dead—or close to it—when the fire was set. At least,” the doctor added, “I assume it was set. I have no evidence of that.”

Sebastian raised his brandy to his nostrils and inhaled its heady scent.

“It’s difficult to be certain,” Gibson continued, “but I wouldn’t say the killings were an act of passion. Whoever did it was very methodical. They must have killed each woman in turn, then simply moved on to the next. There was no superfluous hacking of the bodies.”

Sebastian nodded silently. In the War, they’d both seen men caught in the grip of a killing frenzy hack at bodies over and over again, long after life had expired.

“What can you tell me about the woman who was shot?”

“Not a great deal, I’m afraid. The body was badly burned. From her teeth I’d say she was less than twenty. She was a slim, fairly tall woman. Does that sound like your Rose Jones?”

“When she was at the Academy she called herself Rose Fletcher.”

Gibson raised one eyebrow. “You think that’s her real name?”

“Probably not. Joshua Walden thinks her name might once have been Rachel.”

Gibson grunted. “Not your standard Molly or Elizabeth.”

“No. Whoever she was, she was well-bred. Everything I’ve found so far suggests that her presence at the Magdalene House was the reason for the slaughter.”

Sebastian became aware of Gibson’s eyes upon him, studying him intently. “Why have you involved yourself in this?” Gibson asked.

Sebastian took a slow sip of his drink. “Have you noticed anyone else interested in solving these murders?”

“Women are murdered on the streets of London all the time, Sebastian.”

“Not like this.”

Gibson was silent for another moment. Then he said, “It’s because of Jarvis, isn’t it? It’s a way of sticking your finger in his eye.”

A slow smile curved Sebastian’s lips. “That’s part of it, yes.”

“Does Miss Jarvis know that your motives aren’t entirely chivalrous?”

“Oh, she knows, all right. In fact, she’s counting on it.”

Gibson shifted his weight, seeking a more comfortable position for his mangled leg. “I saw Miss Boleyn today, when I was in Covent Garden. She stopped her carriage and spoke to me.”

Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his drink and said nothing.

“She asked about you,” said Gibson. “She wanted to know how you are doing.”

“What did you say?”

“I lied. I told her you’re fine.”

Sebastian took another drink. “She isn’t Miss Boleyn anymore.”

“She still uses it as a stage name, does she not?”

She did, of course. But Sebastian was careful never to let himself think of her in that way.

“I told her you’d involved yourself in another murder,” said Gibson.

She wouldn’t like that, Sebastian thought. In the past, she’d always fretted about what his involvement in the pursuit of murderers cost him. Then again, perhaps she no longer cared. Or cared in a different way . . . as a sister, rather than as the lover she’d once been.

To Sebastian’s relief, Gibson changed the subject again. He said, “You think the brothel owner, this Kane, could be behind the killings?”

Sebastian blew out a long breath. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. “I think he’s more than capable of it. The problem is, I’m not sure why he would do it.”

“Rose Fletcher ran away from him, didn’t she? She sounds as if she was a valuable commodity.”

“Valuable, yes. But not exactly rare. This town is full of women ready to sell themselves to stay alive. And while Kane might have kept her in debt, you can be sure he never let the debt become excessively large.”

“She could have been killed as an example to others,” said Gibson.

“She could have been,” Sebastian agreed. “But to kill seven women just to get to one?” He shook his head. “No, I think whoever did this was desperate.”

“Or very angry,” said Gibson. “How do you intend to find this man O’Brian?”

Sebastian drained his brandy. “I’ll set Tom on it tomorrow.”

Gibson lurched to his feet and reached for his friend’s empty glass. “A girl like that—educated, wellborn—how could she have come to such an end?”

“Someone betrayed her,” said Sebastian, “and I’m not talking about whoever killed her. She was betrayed before that, by those whose duty it was to love her and care for her.”

“I wonder if her family even know she’s dead.”

Sebastian raised his gaze to the pig fetus on the mantelpiece. “I’d say that depends on whether or not they’re the ones who killed her.”