Why Mermaids Sing

Chapter 13

At twenty-seven, Barclay Carmichael had been just a year younger than Sebastian, a slimly built man with light brown hair and pleasant, even features. Sebastian had known him only slightly, for while Sebastian had been sent to Eton and Oxford, Carmichael had been educated at Harrow and Cambridge. Yet he’d been a familiar face in the clubs of St. James’s, at Ascot and Menton’s, Crib’s Parlor and Angelo’s. Sebastian knew nothing to the man’s discredit, and a morning’s discreet inquiries produced nothing to disrupt that image.

The picture that emerged was of an easygoing, affable man known for both his prowess on the hunting field and his willingness to help a friend. The worst anyone said of him was that he always paid his tailors’ bills on time.

Increasingly puzzled, Sebastian turned his steps toward the imposing stone bulk of the Bank of England.

The Bank was a private institution controlled by some of the wealthiest men in England. Their relationship with the government was both sympathetic and self-serving, and Sebastian doubted there was a man among the Bank’s twenty-four directors who was not a staunch Tory. The never-ending war with France had been very good for business—or at least, good for these men’s business. Sebastian had heard it said that in 1790 the Bank had employed only two hundred clerks; they now numbered over eleven hundred.

He found Sir Humphrey Carmichael walking briskly across the rotunda toward one of the funds’ offices. “Sir Humphrey,” called Sebastian. “If I might have a word with you?”

Sir Humphrey turned, an expression of annoyance shadowed by something else crossing his face. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, a jowly man with pale, hooded eyes and an unusually long upper lip. He sucked on his lip for a moment, those secretive lids lowered as if to hide his thoughts. Then he tightened his jaw, said curtly, “For a moment,” and led the way to an office of rich green velvet and polished mahogany that overlooked Threadneedle Street.

“I understand you’re the man to see if one is interested in making investments,” said Sebastian, declining the banker’s offer of a seat.

“Yes. But I don’t think you’re here to discuss investments, are you, my lord?”

Sebastian met the older man’s hard stare. His eyes were light gray and utterly inscrutable. Here was a man to be reckoned with, thought Sebastian. In the space of something like thirty years, Carmichael had risen from being a weaver’s son to become one of the wealthiest men in London, with a marquis’s daughter as his wife. It was a journey no one made without being brilliant and cunning and utterly ruthless. Hendon’s talk of factory housing and noonday meals had sketched a portrait of a philanthropist, but that portrait seemed difficult to reconcile with the man now before Sebastian.

Sebastian smiled. “Very well. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Sir Henry Lovejoy has asked for my help in discovering what happened to Dominic Stanton, and I was wondering if you knew of any possible connection between young Mr. Stanton and your son, Barclay.”

Sir Humphrey Carmichael went to stand on the far side of his broad, gleaming desk, his hands clasped behind his back, the features of his face utterly composed. They might have been discussing the price of cotton or the latest American challenge to Britain’s naval supremacy, rather than the brutal murder and mutilation of his firstborn son just three months before. Only the gleam of pain in the banker’s eyes, quickly hidden by those heavy lids, betrayed the raw agony of a father’s loss.

“Apart from the manner of their deaths,” said Carmichael slowly, “no. I know of no connection between them.”

Sebastian let his gaze wander the office. It was an elegant chamber, the walls hung with dark oils depicting sleek horses and racing hounds, the paintings sandwiched between massive bookcases crammed with books and curious objets d’art that could come only from a lifetime of travel. “Is there a connection between you and Lord Stanton?”

“I have dealings with most of the wealthy and influential men in this city, Lord Stanton being no exception.”

Which didn’t exactly answer the question, Sebastian noticed.

“I understand you’re a follower of Robert Owen and the reformers.”

Carmichael grunted. “Not me. My wife.”

Sebastian knew a flicker of surprise. So it was the marquis’s daughter rather than the weaver’s son who had interested herself in the needs of the working poor, who had built houses and hired surgeons and served soup. It said something unexpected about the relationship between the banker and his lady wife, that he had allowed her to indulge her concern for his workers even if he didn’t share it.

“Yet you encourage her,” said Sebastian.

“Her projects have proved to be surprisingly good for business. I encourage anything that’s good for business.”

“And Barclay? Did he interest himself in his mother’s projects?”

“At twenty-seven? Hardly.”

Sebastian’s gaze fell on a dark wooden statue prominently displayed on a table near the window. Some fourteen inches high, it depicted what he thought might be a woman, although the figure was wrapped in an Eastern cloak, making it difficult to be certain. Seated on a lion, she waved something like eight or ten arms in the air. “An interesting piece,” said Sebastian, moving to examine it more closely.

“It’s from Ceylon.” Carmichael’s tongue flicked out to moisten his lips in a quick gesture. And Sebastian thought, He’s nervous. Why is he nervous?

“I have interests in a firm that imports tea,” Carmichael was saying. He moved to take the statue into his large hands. The hands were scrubbed so clean they were pink, the nails carefully manicured. But these were no gentleman’s hands; the fingers and palms still bore the calluses left by the labors of his youth. “It’s a statue of the Hindu goddess Shakti.”

“Have you been to India?”

“Several times.”

Sebastian thought about the page from a ship’s log shoved in Barclay Carmichael’s mouth by his killer. “What about your son? Did he ever travel with you?”

“I travel on business. My son was a gentleman,” snapped Carmichael. It was, after all, the reason Sir Humphrey Carmichael had paid through the nose for the privilege of marrying the daughter of a marquis, so that his son might call himself a gentleman. A gentleman’s wealth came from land, or investments, or inheritance; he never actually took a direct hand in the vulgar business of earning money.

“Your son was a remarkably well-liked man,” said Sebastian. “Do you know of anyone who might have wished him harm?”

“No.” Carmichael’s eyes narrowed. “But if I did, do you really think I would tell you?” It was said without any apparent heat, only a glimmer of something that was visible for an instant in those hooded eyes, then gone.

Sebastian stared at the man’s sad, fleshy face. “It might help to make sense out of what is happening in this city.”

“And what concern might that be of mine at this point?”

“To ensure that such a thing doesn’t happen again?” Sebastian suggested.

“My son is dead. You think I care if it happens to some other man’s son?” He swiped one large, work-worn hand through the air in a quick, dismissive gesture. “Well, I don’t.”

Sebastian’s fingers twitched on the brim of his hat. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Good day, sir,” he said, and strode from the room.

Behind him, Sir Humphrey Carmichael’s hand tightened around the head of the Shakti. With a sudden oath, he whirled, his arm jerking to send the statue hurtling across the room.