Why Kings Confess

Chapter 7

Adiminutive but earnest man with a bald head and an abnormally high-pitched voice, Sir Henry Lovejoy was the newest of Bow Street’s three stipendiary magistrates. Sebastian had heard that, once, he’d been a moderately prosperous merchant, until the deaths of his wife and daughter had driven him to dedicate his life to something outside of himself. But he spoke little of those early years, or of the family he’d lost and the stern, somewhat controversial reformist religion that guided his life. In most ways, the two men could not have been more dissimilar. But there was no one whose integrity and honesty Sebastian trusted or admired more.

“Bow Street has received strict instructions from Carlton House that the residents of the Gifford Arms are under no circumstances to be approached,” said Sir Henry as the two men walked along the terrace of Somerset Place, overlooking the Thames. A frigid wind was kicking up whitecaps on the turgid gray water and dashing the incoming tide against the embankment’s walls. “Sir James is adamant that the wishes of the Palace be respected. There will be no investigation of Damion Pelletan’s death-either officially or unofficially.”

Sebastian looked over at the magistrate. “Ever hear of a murder victim in London having his heart cut out?”

Lovejoy pressed his lips into a tight, straight line and shook his head. “No. It’s the most troublesome aspect of this killing, is it not? At least that ghastly detail has been kept out of the papers. It could cause a dangerous panic in the streets, were it to become known.”

“Then let us hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“Merciful heavens.” Sir Henry pressed the folds of his handkerchief to his mouth. “You think it might?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Sebastian stared off across the river, to where the jagged construction of the new bridge stood out stark against the heavy gray clouds. “How much do you know about the other residents of the Gifford Arms-specifically Colonel Foucher and the clerk, Bondurant?”

“Nothing, frankly. But I could ask one of my constables to look into them. I don’t believe the Palace said anything in reference to making discreet inquiries about the residents of the inn.”

Sebastian ducked his head to hide his smile.

The magistrate said, “And the woman I’m told Paul Gibson found at the murder scene? Is she still alive?”

“Last I heard. I’m on my way to Tower Hill now.”

Sir Henry thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bitter wind. “Perhaps when-if-she regains consciousness, much of the mystery surrounding what happened will be solved.”

“Perhaps,” said Sebastian, although he doubted it. He suspected that if the unknown woman in Gibson’s surgery could identify Pelletan’s killer, she’d be dead.

• • •

Returning to Tower Hill, Sebastian found Paul Gibson seated at his kitchen table and eating a plate of cold sliced mutton with boiled cabbage.

Like the surgery beside it, Gibson’s house faced onto the old cobbled lane that curled around the rear of the Tower. The stone walls were thick, the ceilings heavily beamed and low, the floors uneven. Gibson employed a housekeeper named Mrs. Federico, although as far as Sebastian could tell, she did little beyond cook Gibson’s meals and clean his kitchen. She refused to enter any room in which he kept his “specimens.” Since the surgeon had alcohol-filled jars containing any number of body parts and assorted oddities scattered around the house, her prejudice effectively restricted her to the passageway and the kitchen.

But at the moment, the housekeeper was nowhere in sight.

“Bad luck, I’m afraid,” said Gibson as Sebastian poured himself some ale from the pitcher on the table and settled on the opposite bench. “A couple of constables from Bow Street came and took Pelletan’s body away with them.”

“I heard. Did you get a chance to examine it at all?”

Gibson shook his head and paused to swallow a mouthful of cabbage. “Not really. Although I did discover how he died.”

“Oh?”

“He was stabbed in the back with a dagger by someone who either knew what he was doing or got very lucky. The wound would have pierced the heart.”

“So he was dead before the killer hacked open his chest?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God for that, at least.” Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his ale. “Could you tell what the killer used to take out the heart?”

“Probably a big kitchen knife. Or a butcher knife.”

“Interesting,” said Sebastian.

Gibson looked up from cutting himself a slice of mutton. “Why’s that?”

“A dagger and a kitchen knife. Think about it: Who brings two knives to a murder?”

Gibson chewed thoughtfully. “Someone who knows how to kill with a dagger but realizes he needs a bigger knife to steal his victim’s heart?”

“Exactly.”

“In other words, our killer planned to take Pelletan’s heart.”

Sebastian nodded.

“Bloody hell,” Gibson said softly. “But. . why?”

“That I can’t even begin to guess.”

Gibson reached for the pitcher and poured them both more ale. “Did you go to Cat’s Hole?”

“I did.” He told Gibson, briefly, what he had found there.

“You didn’t by chance find Pelletan’s heart while you were having a look about, did you?”

“No. But there was a pig rooting in the passage when I arrived.”

Gibson grimaced. “Bad luck, that.” Pigs were notorious for eating anything and everything, human body parts included.

“You didn’t see the heart last night?”

“No. But then, I don’t have your ability to see in the dark. And I was a wee bit preoccupied with other things.”

“How is your patient doing?”

“She awoke this morning long enough to tell me that her name is Alexandrie Sauvage and she has rooms in Golden Square. I’ve sent a message to her servant, telling the woman her mistress is alive but injured.”

“Would it be possible for me to speak to her?”

Gibson shook his head. “She was restless and in pain, so I gave her a few drops of laudanum to help her sleep again. The possibility of bleeding in the brain still exists, so she needs to be kept as quiet as possible.”

“Do you think she’ll survive?”

Gibson looked troubled. “I don’t know. It’s still too early to say.”

Sebastian shifted his position to stretch out his legs and cross his boots at the ankles. “I had an interesting conversation with one Mitt Peebles at the Gifford Arms in York Street. It seems Damion Pelletan was with a small group of Frenchmen who hired the entire hotel three weeks ago. They then turned off most of the hotel’s staff and replaced them with their own servants-their own French servants.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Presumably because they’re worried about spies. I could be wrong, but I suspect Pelletan was here as part of an official delegation sent by Napoleon to explore the possibility of peace with England.”

Gibson stared at him blankly. “What?”

“I recognized Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil, the man you say came to identify Pelletan’s body. I didn’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before. With Jarvis.”

“But. . peace? Is it possible?”

“Six months ago, I would have said no. But Napoleon just lost half a million men in Russia and barely escaped with his own life. The Prussians and the Austrians are turning against him, and there’ve been rumors of plots in Paris. I’m not surprised to hear he’s sent a small delegation to London with instructions to quietly put out peace feelers.”

“And Alexandrie Sauvage?”

“I have no idea how she fits into any of this. But last night, a Frenchwoman and her male companion came to the hotel, asking to see Pelletan. He left shortly after talking to them.”

“You think Alexandrie Sauvage was that woman?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“So who was her companion?”

“That I don’t know.”

Gibson nudged away his plate. “When she was awake, she told me why they were in St. Katharine’s.”

“Oh?”

“She says Pelletan had agreed to go with her to see a sick child who lives in Hangman’s Court. She and Pelletan were on their way back from visiting the little girl when they were attacked.” Gibson pushed up from the table. “I promised to go there this afternoon and take a look at the child. The mother’s a poor widow.” He looked over at Sebastian. “Care to come along?”