The local magistrate proved to be a foul-tempered, heavy-featured squire named John Richards.
Well into middle age and running comfortably to fat, Squire John was far more interested in his hounds and the joint his cook was preparing for his dinner than in all the sordid, tedious requirements of a murder investigation. When Tom upon discovering that Sir Stanley and his lady had removed to London for a few days carried Sebastian s message to the Squire, the tiger had a hard time convincing the man to leave his cow pasture.
The Squire now stood on the shady bank of the moat, one beefy hand sliding over his ruddy, sagging jowls as he stared down at the waterlogged body at his feet. Well, hell, he muttered, his brows beetling into a fierce scowl. Truth be told, I was more than half convinced your tiger was making up the whole tale when he came to me. I mean, two bodies found floating in Camlet Moat in one week? Impossible, I d have said. But here s another one, all right.
At least this one s local, observed Sebastian.
The Squire drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his bulbous nose. But that s the worst part of it, you see. Can t imagine Bow Street interesting themselves in the murder of some blacksmith s son from Cockfosters. A hopeful gleam crept into his watery gray eyes. Unless, of course, you think this might have something to do with that young gentlewoman we found here last Sunday?
I wouldn t be surprised but what it does.
The Squire brightened. I ll send one of the lads off to London right away. A flicker of movement drew his attention across the moat, to where Philippe Arceneaux was methodically crisscrossing the island with Chien bounding enthusiastically at his side. The Squire wiped his nose again, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. Who did you say that fellow was?
My dog handler.
That s your dog?
It is.
Huh. Fellow s got a Frenchy look about him, if you ask me. They re saying it was a Frenchman who killed that gentlewoman, you know. What is this fellow doing with that dog, exactly?
I was hoping the dog might pick up some trace of the missing Tennyson children.
When the Squire still looked doubtful, Sebastian added, It s a a Strand hound. They re famous for their ability to track missing persons. This one is particularly well trained and talented.
Well trained, you say? asked the Squire, just as Chien flushed up a rabbit and tore off after it through the underbrush.
Behind him, Arceneaux shouted, Chien! moi. Imb cile.
He is sometimes distracted by the local fauna, Sebastian admitted.
The Squire sniffed. Best keep him away from Forster here. Don t reckon Bow Street would fancy dog prints all over the place.
Sebastian hunkered down again to study the dead man s charred clothing and gaping raw wound. The flies were already busy, and he brushed them away with his hand. He didn t need Gibson to tell him that the man had been shot and at close quarters. But whatever other secrets the dead man had to reveal would need to wait for the anatomist s examination. After a moment, Sebastian said, I m told Forster married a local widow this past year.
That s right. Rachel Clark, of Hollyhock Farm. I sent one of the lads over there to warn her, just in case what your tiger was telling me turned out to be true. The Squire sniffed again. She could ve done a sight better, if you ask me. Very prosperous property, Hollyhock Farm. But then, there s no denying Forster was a handsome man. And when it comes to good-looking men, it s a rare woman who doesn t make a fool of herself. The Squire s lips pursed as he shifted his brooding gaze to Sebastian. Course, it s even worse when they deck themselves out like a Bond Street beau and drive a fancy sporting carriage.
Sebastian cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. Yes, well I d best remove my Strand hound and his handler before they contaminate the scene. He motioned to Arceneaux, who dragged Chien from where he was now intently following the hopping progress of a toad and hauled the reluctant canine off toward the curricle.
For one moment, Sebastian considered as a courtesy telling the Squire of his intention to visit the twice-widowed Rachel of Hollyhock Farm. Then the Squire added darkly, And a title, of course. Just let a man have looks and a title, and when it comes to the ladies, it doesn t matter what sort of a dastardly reputation the sot might have.
Sebastian touched his hat and bowed. Squire John.
As they drove away, he was aware of the Squire still standing at the water s edge, the shade of the ancient grove pooling heavily around him, one meaty hand swiping the air before his face as he batted at the thickening cloud of flies.
I would like to apologize, said Arceneaux stiffly, one hand resting around the damp, happy dog as they drove toward Hollyhock Farm. I put you through all this, and for what? Chien found no trace of the boys. Nothing.
Sebastian glanced over at him. It was worth a try.
The Frenchman stared straight ahead, his face troubled. None of this makes any sense. What could have happened to them? How could they have simply disappeared like this? And why?
But it was a question Sebastian could not begin to answer.
Hero found the area around Covent Garden s vast square crowded with a swarm of fruit and vegetable sellers. Vendors cries of Ripe cher-ries, sixpence a pound and
Buy my primroses, two bunches a penny echoed through the narrow streets; the scent of freshly cut flowers and damp earth and unwashed, closely packed bodies hung heavily in the air. As they pushed their way closer to the market, the coachman was forced to check his horses to a crawl.
She kept her gaze focused straight ahead, ignoring the pleading cries of the urchins who leapt up to press their faces against her carriage windows and the roar of laughter from the ragged crowd gathered around a Punch and Judy show on the church steps. By day, the classical piazza laid out before St. Paul s by Inigo Jones was the site of London s largest produce market. But later, when the shadows of evening stretched across the cobblestones and the square s motley collection of stalls and lean-tos closed for the night, willing ladies in tawdry satins with plunging necklines and husky crooning voices would emerge to loiter beneath the colonnades and soaring porticos and hiss their lewd invitations to passersby.
Slowly inching through the throng, the carriage finally swung onto King Street and then drew up before a once grand mansion now divided into lodgings. Hero lowered her hat s veil and waited while her footman knocked on the house s warped, cracked door. It wasn t until the door was opened and the large, familiar form of Molly O Keefe, the house s mistress, filled the entrance that the footman came to let down the carriage steps.
The two women had come to know each other months earlier, when Hero was researching a theory on the economic causes of the recent explosion in the number of prostitutes in the city. Clucking at the sight of her, Molly whisked Hero into a dilapidated hall with stained, once grand paneling and a broken chandelier that dangled precariously overhead, then slammed the door in the faces of her gawking neighbors.
Yer ladyship! Sakes alive, I ne er thought to be seeing ye again.
Molly, I need your help, said Hero, and drew the portrait of Bevin Childe from her sketch pad.