Who Buries the Dead

Chapter 43

Monday, 29 March

After some thirty-six hours, Rowan Toop’s corpse had taken on the vague odor of rotting fish.

Naked and eviscerated, it lay on the stone table in the outbuilding at the base of Paul Gibson’s unkempt yard. The Irishman was there, cold sober and cranky. He was not singing.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said when Sebastian came to stand in the doorway.

“Good morning,” said Sebastian.

The surgeon grunted. “Nice black eye.”

“Thank you.”

Sebastian took one look at what was left of Toop, then looked elsewhere. “So did he drown? Or was he murdered?”

“Maybe both. Maybe one, maybe the other. It’s hard to say.”

“It is?”

“It is.” Gibson set aside his knife with a clatter and reached for a rag to wipe the gore from his hands. “He could have been hit over the head, then thrown into the river, whereupon he drowned. Or he could have fallen and hit his own head, slipped into the river, and drowned. He could even have slipped into the river, hit his head on something, and then drowned.”

“But you’re saying he was alive when he went into the water?”

“Not necessarily. He could also have been hit on the head, died, and then been tossed into the river. That’s a nasty blow he’s got there-nasty enough to kill him without any help from the river.”

“Was there water in his lungs?”

“There was. Water, sand-even a few bits of grass.”

“So he must have breathed all that stuff in. Right?”

“No. If there hadn’t been any water in his lungs, then I could tell you, yes, he was probably dead when he hit the water. But the action of the river could have driven water into his lungs even after he was dead.” Gibson picked up his knife and pointed at what Sebastian realized must be Rowan Toop’s lungs, sitting on a rusty tray parked on a nearby shelf. “See that white foam?”

“Yes,” said Sebastian, who had no desire to peer too closely.

“You often find a fine white froth like that in the lungs of drownings pulled from the Thames. But you also see it in the lungs of men whose hearts have failed, or who’ve hit their heads. Now, your Rowan Toop’s heart was just fine. But you obviously can’t say the same thing about his head.”

Sebastian blew out a long, frustrated breath. “So you can’t tell me anything?”

“No. Only thing remotely queer about any of this is that they found him so fast. A freshly dead body’ll usually sink like a rock. They don’t typically come up again until enough gas builds in their guts to float them to the surface. And this time of year, that usually takes about five days.”

“Five days? So why was Toop found on Romney Island less than twelve hours after he disappeared?”

Gibson shrugged. “Must’ve been something about the way he went in the water. Trapped air in his cassock. It happens. He floated down to the island and got caught in the trees before he had a chance to sink.”

Sebastian braced his hands against the stone table and stared at the dead man’s pale, bony face. “I can’t believe he just slipped and hit his head. Somebody killed him.”

“Probably,” agreed Gibson. “But unless they find a bloody cudgel by the side of the river, you’ll never be able to prove it.”

Later that morning, Sebastian joined Sir Henry Lovejoy at a coffeehouse just off the Strand.

“I’ve had the lads looking into this Diggory Flynn you were asking about,” said Lovejoy, taking a cautious sip of his hot chocolate. “Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to find a trace of him.”

“It could be an assumed name.” Sebastian wrapped his hands around his own steaming coffee. “I’ve just come from Gibson’s surgery.”

“And?”

“He says Toop’s postmortem is inconclusive; the virger may have been killed, or he may simply have slipped and fallen in the river.”

Lovejoy looked thoughtfully at Sebastian’s discolored eye. But all he said was, “Perhaps that explains why Toop’s head wasn’t cut off-because he wasn’t actually murdered.”

“He was murdered,” said Sebastian.

“Then how do you explain the differences in both the method of murder and the treatment of the body?”

“It could be because the killer didn’t have time to be more grisly. Or perhaps he didn’t want us to realize that Toop’s death was connected to those of Preston and Sterling. Or. .”

“Or?” prompted Lovejoy.

Sebastian rested his elbows on the table. “Ask yourself: Why would a killer cut off his victims’ heads?”

“Because he’s mad.”

“That’s one explanation. But there are others. The killer’s purpose could be to create fear-either in the community at large, or in one specifically targeted individual who knows he’s next.”

“Such as whom?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t know.” From the distance came the rat-a-tat-tat of a military drum and the tramp of marching feet.

“Either way,” said Lovejoy, “it’s still the work of a madman. No sane individual goes around cutting off people’s heads.”

“I think most of us are a bit mad, each in our own way.”

“But. . to cut off a man’s head?”

Sebastian stared out the bowed window at a street filled with stout matrons and City merchants and all the usual bustle of a London morning. But he wasn’t seeing any of it. He was seeing another time, another place. “It happens in battle,” he said. “More often than you might think. It’s as if the act of killing taps into something primitive within us-a deep and powerful rage that finds expression in the mutilation of a dead enemy.”

“You think that’s what we’re dealing with here? Rage? But. . over what?”

“I still don’t know. But I suspect that rage was directed at Preston and Sterling, whereas Toop. . Toop was killed simply out of concern he might have seen something.”

“What a disturbing thought.” Lovejoy sat for a moment in silence. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve had some of the lads interviewing the regular patrons at the Monster, as you suggested. They located a solicitor who was seated at a table near Henry Austen when Preston came into the tavern last Sunday night. He says the way Preston was yelling made it virtually impossible not to hear everything that was said.”

“And?”

“It seems that, amongst other threats, Preston swore he was going to withdraw his funds from Austen’s bank.”

“Did Preston bank with Austen?”

“He did. Indeed, his deposits were quite substantial. And here’s another interesting thing: Dr. Douglas Sterling was also a subscriber.”

“What does Henry Austen say about all this?”

“He claims his bank is strong enough to withstand the defection of a dozen such subscribers.”

“Is it?”

“Who can say? But this doesn’t look good for him. It doesn’t look good at all.”

Sebastian found Henry Austen coming out of a small brick chapel tucked away off Brompton Row. This was a part of Hans Town as yet unspoiled by London’s creeping sprawl, where budding chestnut trees swayed gently in the breeze and vast fields of market gardens stretched away to the east. The day had dawned gloriously warm, with the sky a rare, clear blue and the air fresh with the promise of spring.

Sebastian paused his curricle across from the chapel, the brim of his hat tipped against the strengthening sun, and watched Henry Austen walk out the chapel door, eyes blinking against the sudden fierceness of the light. His gaze focused on Sebastian and he momentarily froze before turning to speak to the two women who accompanied him: his sister Jane and their friend, Miss Anne Preston.

Jane Austen looked up, smiled, and nodded to Sebastian. Anne Preston stared at him, but she did not smile or acknowledge him in any way.

“That younger gentry mort don’t appear to like ye overly much,” observed Tom from his perch at the rear of the curricle.

“She doesn’t, does she?” agreed Sebastian.

Leaving the two women to walk on alone, Henry Austen crossed the street toward Sebastian, then drew up while still some feet away. “How did you find me?”

“Your clerk told me you were helping Miss Preston finalize the details of her father’s funeral.”

Austen nodded, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. “I know why you’re here.”

“I figured you would. Climb up. Tom will get down and wait for us.”

Austen hesitated a moment, then leapt into the high seat as Tom scrambled down.

“I won’t be long,” Sebastian told the tiger, and gave his horses the office to start.

“Fine pair,” said Austen, his gaze on the chestnuts’ sun-warmed hides as they bowled up the lane toward Fulham.

“They were bred on my estate down in Hampshire.”

Austen turned his head to look at Sebastian. “I take it you find my failure to tell you of Preston’s threat to my bank suspicious.”

“Should I?”

“Bow Street does.”

“Perhaps that’s because they don’t understand the important part that confidence plays in the stability of a bank. I’m not surprised you chose to keep it quiet. Or as quiet as you could after Preston shouted his intentions in a crowded tavern.”

When Austen remained silent, Sebastian said, “Could your bank have withstood Preston’s withdrawal? And before you answer, l should warn you that I have the resources to verify your answer.”

“Then why bother to ask?” snapped the banker.

Sebastian kept his attention on the road.

After a moment, Austen said, “Yes, the bank is solid, damn you. Preston was a large investor; I won’t deny that. But not by any means the largest.”

“Do you think he would have carried through on his threat?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. He was always flying off the handle and saying wild things, only to later calm down and reconsider.”

“And Douglas Sterling? Would he have followed his old friend’s lead and also removed his funds from your bank?”

Austen looked genuinely surprised. “Sterling? Of course not. Why would he?”

“Because of the friendship between them?”

Austen shook his head. “They knew each other, of course-had known each other for years. But I’d characterize them more as acquaintances than what you might call friends. Apart from the difference in their ages, Sterling was a physician from a relatively humble background, whereas Preston had grand ambitions of taking his place in Society. He was always talking about his late wife the Baron’s daughter, or his cousin the Home Secretary. Another man might have ignored the disparity in their rank and wealth. But not Preston.”

“Was Preston ill, do you think?” Sebastian asked, guiding his horses around an empty farm wagon.

“Not to my knowledge. But then, as I said, Preston and I weren’t exactly great friends either.”

“From the sound of things, he wasn’t intimate with many people.”

“In my experience, people who view others as social or financial assets rarely do accumulate close friends.”

“True,” said Sebastian. “You wouldn’t by chance happen to know what took Preston to Fish Street Hill last Sunday, would you?”

“Fish Street Hill? Good heavens; no.”

“Ever know Preston to keep a mistress?”

Austen’s eyes widened at the question. “No. He was genuinely, madly in love with his wife and never got over her death.”

“What about when he was a very young man? Say thirty or thirty-five years ago, when he was in Jamaica?”

Rather than answer immediately, Austen studied Sebastian from beneath half-lowered lids. “What are you suggesting?”

“Any possibility Preston could have had a child by one of the slave women on his plantations?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Is it so improbable?”

“Let’s just say that if you’d known Preston, you’d understand just how improbable it is. His belief in the superiority of the English was intense and unshakable. I mean, the man could never forgive my wife for once having married a Frenchman. And while I wasn’t acquainted with him thirty years ago, the mind frankly boggles at the thought of him raping one of his slave women-if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Those who rail the loudest against ‘racial impurity’ are often those who feel they have something to hide. Something that violates their own twisted moral code.”

Austen thought about it a moment, then blew out a long breath. “I suppose it’s possible, but. . Whatever gave you such an idea?”

“I have a very active imagination.”

Austen gave a startled laugh. “You must. I’m not convinced even my sister Jane could have come up with that one.” The banker stared off across a sunlit pasture dotted with grazing brown cows. His eyes narrowed, as if he were struggling to come to some sort of decision. Then he said, “Jane told me something the other day that might interest you, by the way.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“You know that fellow who keeps a curiosity shop in Chelsea?”

“Basil Thistlewood?”

“That’s him. Well, it seems that when she arrived at Alford House to take Anne up in my carriage, Preston and Thistlewood were standing in the middle of the street, shouting at each other. She didn’t think too much of it at the time-Preston was always squabbling with someone, you know. But while she has no desire to say something that might throw suspicion on an innocent man, she’s begun to wonder if perhaps you shouldn’t know about it.”

“This happened last Sunday evening?”

“Yes; around nine,” said Austen. “That surprises you; why?”

Sebastian swung his horses in a wide loop at the crossroads and headed back toward Brompton Row. “Because Thistlewood claims he never left his coffeehouse that day at all.”