Sebastian frowned. “When did Earnshaw leave?”
“Some twenty minutes after his arrival.”
“Yet the Bishop himself didn’t set out for Tanfield Hill until—what? Seven?” Tanfield Hill lay an hour’s drive to the west of London. “Why the delay?”
The Chaplain sniffed. “Again, the Bishop did not take me into his confidence. I do know he had an important appointment scheduled for six. Presumably, he was reluctant to cancel it.”
There was a simple opening cut into the wall beside the hearth. Going to stand in the doorway, Sebastian saw that it led to a small bedchamber, unexpectedly plain, almost Spartan, the bed narrow and hard. He said, “It seems a strange thing for Earnshaw to have done, to involve the Bishop of London, personally, in the discovery of a decades-old murder in a rural parish church.”
The Chaplain cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, the Bishop provided us with little information before his departure. Only that there was an incident in Tanfield Hill requiring his attention, and that he might not return before midnight.”
“He didn’t mention the murder?”
“No.”
Sebastian cast one last glance around the rooms, then turned toward the stairs, the Chaplain following at a noticeable distance. As they reached the first floor, Sebastian said, “How long have you served as Prescott’s chaplain?”
“Four years now.”
“So you knew him well.”
The Chaplain gave a slight bow. “Quite well, yes.”
“Did he have many enemies?”
Sebastian expected a quick, automatic denial. Instead, the Chaplain said, “The Bishop was not a man to back away from taking an unpopular stance. Unfortunately, such men do make enemies. Many enemies.”
“What kind of unpopular stances are we talking about?”
“Catholic emancipation. The need for child labor laws. Slavery ...”
“Prescott was an abolitionist?”
“It was his principal cause. The Bishop of London is responsible for the spiritual welfare of the Colonies, and Bishop Prescott took that aspect of his duties very seriously. As far as he was concerned, seeing the Slave Trade Act passed a few years ago was only the beginning. He was determined to get a Slavery Abolition Act through Parliament.”
“That’s definitely a good way to make enemies,” said Sebastian. Some very powerful men in England had fortunes sunk in the West Indies; the loss of the islands’ slave labor would ruin them. “Ever hear anyone wish the Bishop harm?”
“You mean, threaten him?” The Chaplain paused at the base of the staircase, his brow furrowing as if he were in thought. But he only shook his head and said, “No. I don’t think so.”
Sebastian studied the cleric’s lean, acerbic face. The man was a terrible liar. “I’d be interested to see a list of the Bishop’s appointments for the past several weeks.”
The Chaplain sniffed. “I will check with the Archbishop. If he has no objection, I’ll direct the diary secretary to make you a copy of the Bishop’s schedule.” He nodded to a hovering footman to open the front door. “You’re actually the second person today to ask for that information.”
“Oh? Who was the first?” said Sebastian, pausing at the top of the front steps to look back. “One of the Bow Street magistrates?”
“No. Miss Hero Jarvis.” The Chaplain raised his handkerchief to his nose. “Good day, my lord.” He threw a speaking glance at the footman, who quietly shut the door between them.
Sebastian stood for a moment, staring out over the wide square, with its vast central reflecting pool and statue of King Charles. Then he raised the cuff of his coat to his nose and sniffed.
Chapter 9
His face crinkled in a pantomime of distaste, Sebastian’s valet lifted the discarded coat of dark superfine on one carefully curled finger and held it at arm’s length.
“I know,” said Sebastian, not looking up from the serious business of tying a fresh cravat. “Do what you can to get the smell out. But if it doesn’t work, burn it.”
Jules Calhoun drew back in mock astonishment. “What? You mean to say you don’t fancy walking around London smelling like a hundred-year-old cadaver?”
“A hundred years might be all right. It’s the in-between stages that are the smelliest.”
The valet gave a soft laugh. A small, slim gentleman’s gentleman in his thirties, Calhoun had started life in one of the most notorious flash houses in London—a beginning that had left him with an undeniable flair and a variety of useful connections to the city’s underworld.
Assembling the rest of Sebastian’s discarded raiment, Calhoun bundled the offending clothes together and said, “Are you likely to be returning to St. Margaret’s?”
“Possibly.”
“Then I suggest we keep these.”
Sebastian smoothed the folds of his cravat. “Good point.”
The valet watched Sebastian slide a slim dagger into the sheath hidden inside his right boot. “Expecting trouble?”
Sebastian straightened his cuffs. “When I’m dealing with the Jarvises? Always.”
Most daughters of the Upper Ten Thousand spent their days shopping on Bond Street, or attending a dizzying round of picnics, Venetian breakfasts, and morning visits. Not Miss Hero Jarvis.
When Sebastian tracked her down, she was at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea. A vast redbrick complex designed by Sir Christopher Wren and clustered around several wide court-yards, the hospital had been established by Charles II for the relief of the nation’s wounded and aged war veterans back in the seventeenth century. But after decades of continuous war, the facility was now grossly underfunded and overcrowded.
He’d heard that Miss Jarvis had made the improvement of the hospital one of her projects. As he crossed the sun-drenched main courtyard, he saw her step out of the chapel in the company of a stout gentleman with a swooping auburn mustache and the officious air of a physician. She was dressed in an emerald green walking gown ruched at the hem and finished with darker piping at the neck and sleeves, and carried a delicate silk parasol in a matching shade of green that she tipped at just the right angle to shade her face. A gray-gowned maid, fists clutching the strings of her reticule, hovered at a respectable distance.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Jarvis,” said Sebastian, walking up to her. “If I might have a word with you?”
She swung her head to look at him, her lips parting on a quickly indrawn breath. She was a striking woman, with her father’s aquiline nose and intelligent gray stare. Now in her twenty-fifth year, she had medium brown hair she usually wore scraped back in an unbecoming fashion better suited to a governess. But lately she’d taken to having a few wisps cut so that they fell artfully about her forehead. The effect was one of unexpected, misleading softness. None knew better than Sebastian that there was little that was soft about Hero Jarvis.
She might be disconcerted to see him, but she recovered almost immediately. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, “but Dr. McCain here has most graciously offered to escort me on a tour of the facilities, and I wouldn’t want to inconvenience—”
“I’m convinced the good doctor will excuse us for a moment,” said Sebastian, giving the stout physician a smile that bared his teeth.
“Of course,” said the doctor, withdrawing immediately with a polite bow.
“My efforts here are important,” she told Sebastian in a low voice as they turned to stroll together across the paved courtyard. “It is beyond shameful for a nation of our wealth and grandeur to ask men to risk life and limb in war, and then abandon them to poverty and neglect when they return home wounded and infirm.”
“Believe me, Miss Jarvis, I have nothing but admiration for what you’re trying to accomplish. I won’t delay you long.” He studied her classical profile. She looked thinner and paler than he remembered. Once, just two months before, Sebastian had held this woman in his arms, tasted the salt of her tears, felt the shudders rack her unexpectedly yielding body. But that had been a moment out of time, when they’d thought they faced certain death together.