“No.”
“Ye need somebody t’ watch yer back.”
Sebastian gave a sharp laugh. “In Chelsea?”
“Ye never know—”
Sebastian slid his dagger into the hidden sheath of his boot. “I’ll be fine.”
Much to her father’s disgust, Hero Jarvis spent a good part of that morning at London House, investigating church records. What she discovered was curious. Very curious.
She devoted several hours during the afternoon to accompanying her mother on a tour of cloth warehouses and mantua makers. Lady Jarvis returned to Berkeley Square tired, but happily laden down with bandboxes and piles of brown paper- wrapped packages. At first she protested she had no appetite, but Hero managed to coax her into drinking tea and eating some cakes. Then, when her mother went to lie down for a rest, Hero ordered her carriage brought ’round, and set off with her maid for Tanfield Hill.
Chapter 32
By the time Sebastian paid off his hackney outside the Old Bun House at the end of Jew’s Row in Chelsea, the rain had started up again, a slow but steady drizzle that dripped off the nearest roofs and ran in the gutters. Ducking beneath the colonnade that projected out over the foot pavement, he stood for a moment, his gaze assessing the empty wet street before he entered the fragrant interior of the Old Bun House.
The girl behind the counter was young and pretty, with honey-colored hair and dimpled cheeks. Sebastian bought a couple of buns and lingered, talking to her of the endless rain and the mud and the high price of corn. He complimented her on the buns, which were justly famous throughout the metropolitan area. Then he said casually, “I’ve come to Chelsea to see a Dr. McCain. Dr. Daniel McCain, lives in Cheyne Walk. Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, slipping the tray of buns back onto its rack. “He and his missus come in here regular-like, in the evenings. Buy a pocketful of buns, they do, then go for a walk along the river.”
“He’s been in Chelsea long?”
“Long as I can remember,” she said, which didn’t exactly mean much, given that she didn’t look much above fourteen or fifteen. “He’s nice,” she volunteered. “So’s his lady. They always buy extra buns to give to the cottagers’ children, down near the waterworks.” For nearly a hundred years, the Chelsea Water Works had supplied water to Westminster and much of the West End, two powerful steam engines now doing the work of the old waterwheels to lift water from a series of river-fed ponds into the pipes.
“The McCains have children of their own, do they?” asked Sebastian, nibbling on one of the buns.
The girl’s smile dimmed. “Oh, they’ve had four or five babies, at least. But the poor wee things never seem to live more than a day or two.”
Sebastian stared out the paned window at the rain dripping off the edge of the colonnade’s roof, at the muddy fetlocks of the team hauling a loaded wagon toward the river. A horrible possibility had begun to form in his mind, a confluence of events and interests and circumstances that he found profoundly, personally disquieting. He said, “Have you ever seen the Bishop of London around here?”
The girl gaped at the shift in topic. “You mean him as got killed last Tuesday?” She cast a quick glance left and right, as if verifying that no one could overhear. They were alone in the shop, but she still leaned over the counter, her voice dropping confidingly. “He was in here just last Monday, you know.”
“The Bishop of London?”
“That’s right. The day before he was murdered.”
“Was he ever in here before?”
Her eyes suddenly widened. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you’re asking me these questions. Are you . . .” She cast another conspiratorial glance around and gave a little shiver of excitement. “Are you a Bow Street Runner?”
“Shh,” said Sebastian, putting a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Cheyne Walk proved to be a cobbled lane faced by a single row of redbrick houses overlooking the river. Trimmed in white and varying in size from modest to prosperous, most looked to date back to the days of Queen Anne. Only a low stone embankment shadowed by an avenue of dripping limes and chestnuts separated the terrace and its narrow lane from the water.
Plying the knocker at Number Eleven, Sebastian expected to find only Mrs. McCain at home at this hour. But when he introduced himself to the young housemaid as Mr. Simon Taylor, he was quickly escorted to the parlor, where both Mrs. McCain and her stout, mustachioed physician husband awaited him—the same stout, mustachioed physician Sebastian had seen not a week before escorting Miss Jarvis around the Royal Hospital.
He’d discovered long ago that he didn’t need to actually say he was from Bow Street; all he had to do was look the part and say he was investigating a murder, and most people assumed the connection. “Mr. Taylor,” said the physician’s wife, a smile trembling on her lips as she extended her small white hand. “How may we be of assistance to you?”
She was a tiny woman, well under five feet and small boned, with soft brown hair and large gray eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. She looked to be about thirty, with an air of quiet sadness underlined by the half mourning of her gray, high-necked gown.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Sebastian, his voice and manner carefully wiped clean of any trace of the West End and the Earl’s son.
Dr. McCain’s eyes narrowed with puzzlement. “Have we met before, Mr. Taylor?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Sebastian, adjusting the modest tails of his brown coat as he took the seat indicated by his hostess. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but this shouldn’t take long.”
“You are investigating the death of Bishop Prescott?” said McCain, taking a seat opposite him.
“Yes. I understand the Bishop visited you and Mrs. McCain last Monday?”
“In the afternoon,” said McCain.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence, while husband and wife exchanged glances. It was Mrs. McCain who answered, saying quietly to her husband, “I don’t mind, Daniel.” To Sebastian, she said, “In the past eight years, we have buried seven babies. None lived longer than a month.”
“I am sorry,” said Sebastian. “Please believe me when I say that anything you choose to tell me from here on out will be treated with the strictest confidence.”
She nodded, her slender throat working as she swallowed. “Thank you. You see, I have always wanted—” She glanced at her husband and corrected herself, “Dr. McCain and I always wanted very much to have a family, to have children. But God in his infinite wisdom has not seen fit to allow our own children to live. So we thought . . . It seemed perhaps that He was telling us He wanted us to . . .” Her voice trailed away.
Sebastian said, “I take it Bishop Prescott spoke to you of adopting a child?”
“That’s right,” said McCain. “The usual scenario. A young gentlewoman not in a position to keep her child . . .” He cleared his throat in obvious embarrassment at discussing so delicate a topic. “You know how these things are.”
A gust of wind pattered the rain against the windowpanes as thunder rumbled in the distance. Somehow, Sebastian managed to keep his voice casual, disinterested. “And has the child been born already?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. McCain. “The child is not expected until sometime late this coming winter. But the mother is particularly anxious to have the necessary arrangements in place well ahead of time. As are we.”
Sebastian had no need to silently count off the months to know that if he and Miss Jarvis had indeed conceived a child during those moments of despair in the subterranean vaults of Somerset House, such a child would be born late in the coming winter.