Where Serpents Sleep

Chapter 18

In an effort to humor his volatile French cook, Sebastian was picking at an elegant nuncheon of cold salmon in his dining room, when Tom returned with the information that Luke O’Brian, the man named by Ian Kane as Rose’s particular customer, was a purchasing agent with clients who ranged from India to the West Indies and Canada.

“He buys ’em everything from kegs o’ nails and plows to furniture and rugs and stuff for their ’ouses—whatever they need. I couldn’t find anyone what ’ad anything to say to ’is discredit. They say ’e’s ’onest as can be with ’is clients, yet ’e don’t seem to put the squeeze on the merchants, neither.”

“A regular paragon.” Sebastian folded his napkin and set it aside. Catching Morey’s eye, he said, “Tell Calhoun I’ll be needing him right away.”

The majordomo bowed and withdrew.

Tom frowned. “A para-what?”

“A paragon. A model of excellence and perfection.”

“That sounds like ’im all right.”

Sebastian pushed up from the table. “Which begs the question, doesn’t it? What’s this paragon doing frequenting someplace like the Orchard Street Academy?”

“The brown corduroy, don’t you think?” said Calhoun, sorting through that portion of Sebastian’s wardrobe culled from the secondhand clothing dealers of Rosemary Lane and Monmouth Street. “It will clash hideously with the red waistcoat, but Bow Street Runners seem to have a strong predilection for brown corduroy. And you’ll like this—” The valet turned, a black neckcloth held delicately between two extended fingers. “The individual who sold it to me assured me one could wear it for a month without washing it.”

Sebastian looked around from rubbing powder into his hair. Between the powder and some judiciously applied theatrical makeup, he had already added twenty years to his appearance. A bolster around his torso would add twenty pounds. “Only a month?”

Calhoun laughed. “Two, in a pinch.”

A few simple questions asked along the riverfront soon brought Sebastian to the outward-bound West Indian docks at the Isle of Dogs, where he found Luke O’Brian overseeing the loading of a shipment of canvas and hemp bound for Barbados. For a moment Sebastian simply watched him from a distance. The purchasing agent was a well-made man of perhaps thirty or thirty-five, expensively if quietly dressed, his manner easy toward ship’s captain and sailor alike.

Most of the Bow Street Runners Sebastian had met were gruff, bullying men. That was the demeanor Sebastian assumed now, sinking further into the persona as he walked the length of the wind-buffeted dock so that even his posture and manner of movement altered. It was a trick Kat had taught him when they were both young and in love and fatally unaware of the common blood that coursed through their veins.

“You’re O’Brian, aren’t you?” said Sebastian brusquely. “Luke O’Brian?”

The purchasing agent turned. He had light brown hair and hazel eyes that flashed with a lively intelligence. “That’s right. May I help you?”

“My name is Taylor.” Sebastian clasped the lapels of his corduroy coat and threw out his chest. “Simon Taylor. We’re looking into the death of Rose Fletcher.” He’d learned he never actually had to say he was from Bow Street; as long as he looked and acted the part, the assumption simply followed.

Sebastian watched as the guarded smile slid away from O’Brian’s face and his lips parted on a quick, silent intake of breath. “Dead? Rose is dead? You’re certain?”

“We believe she was one of the residents of the Magdalene House when it burned Monday night.”

O’Brian turned toward the canal, one hand coming up to cover his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut. He was either devastated or a very, very good actor. It was a moment before he managed to say, “You’re certain there’s no mistake?”

The smell of hot tar and dead fish pinched Sebastian’s nostrils. “We don’t think so. When was the last time you saw her?”

O’Brian shook his head, his face still half averted, his voice a torn whisper. “I don’t know. . . . Ten days ago, maybe. She didn’t tell me she was leaving Orchard Street. I just went there one day and they said she was gone.” He looked around suddenly. “You’re quite certain she was at the Magdalene House?”

“It’s difficult to know anything with these women, isn’t it? Did she ever tell you her real name?”

“No. She didn’t like to talk about her life . . . before.”

“She never told you anything?”

O’Brian fiddled thoughtfully with the fob at the end of his watch chain. It was of gold, Sebastian noticed, discreet but well-fashioned. The cuffs and collar of his shirt were carefully laundered, his cravat snowy-white. No black neckcloths for this agent. “Only that her mother was dead,” said O’Brian, staring out over the masts of the ships rocking at anchor off the docks. “From one or two things she let slip, I gathered the family lived in Northamptonshire. She may have had a couple of sisters—and a brother. I believe he was in the Army. But she didn’t like to talk about them.”

“Northamptonshire? Do you know why she left home?”

O’Brian shook his head. “No.”

“And you’ve no idea why she fled Orchard Street?”

“No. She knew how I felt about her. If she had trouble, why didn’t she come to me?”

Sebastian said, “You think her trouble was with Kane?”

O’Brian’s jaw hardened. “Maybe. More likely that bloody magistrate.”

“What magistrate?”

O’Brian’s nostrils flared on a quickly indrawn breath. “Sir William. The bastard knocked her around pretty bad a couple of times.”

“Ian Kane says he keeps rough customers away from his girls.”

“Usually.” O’Brian stared against the sun peeking out from behind a cloud to set the wind-ruffled surface of the water to sparkling and flashing. “But you can’t exactly keep a Bow Street magistrate away, now can you?”

“Bow Street? You mean Sir William Hadley?

O’Brian cast him a sideways glance, an unexpectedly hard smile curling his lips. “That’s right. Sir William Hadley himself. So what are you going to do about that? Hmmm, Mr. Bow Street Runner?”