Page 10 of Who Cries for the Lost

“He does manage to convey that impression,” said Sebastian, and saw a rare hint of a smile touch the magistrate’s somber features.

Lovejoy was the newest of Bow Street’s three magistrates, a sparsely built man barely five feet tall—if that—with a balding head, gold-framed spectacles, and a peculiar high-pitched voice. The two men had met shortly after Sebastian’s return to London from the wars, when the Viscount had been accused of a murder he didn’t commit and Lovejoy charged with bringing him in to face justice. The differences between the Earl’s heir and the onetime merchant were many: Apart from the contrast in age, birth, and breeding, Lovejoy was a sternly religious man whereas Sebastian had long ago lost his faith on the battlefields of Europe. But with time the two men’s respect for each other had only deepened. Lovejoy admired the Viscount’s intelligence, ingenuity, and deep sense of honor, while Sebastian knew he had never met a more principled or determinedly honest man.

And yet Sebastian had also learned not to tell the little magistrate everything he might discover in the course of a murder investigation. And so he was very, very careful when Lovejoy said, “You’ve heard what the Marquis is saying about that French midwife, Madame Sauvage?”

“Yes.”

Lovejoy looked at him over the tops of his wire-framed spectacles. “Did you know?”

“That she was married to Miles Sedgewick? No.”

“Stamford claims it’s all a lie, that his brother never went through any kind of sham marriage ceremony with her.”

Sebastian thought about it a moment. “I suppose it’s possible the Marquis honestly believes that—although if he does, then either he didn’t know his brother very well or he is allowing his grief over Miles’s death to distort his judgment now.”

“You knew Sedgewick?”

“We were in the Peninsula together.”

“Ah. And you think him capable of such a base deception?”

“Without a doubt. Miles Sedgewick was handsome, charming, brilliant, and clever. But he was also deceitful, treacherous, and totally untrustworthy.”

“Sounds like a delightful fellow. When precisely did he sell out?”

“It’s been several years, at least.”

The magistrate started to say something, then glanced toward the outer office, staffed by his clerk, and said, “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

They turned down Bow Street toward the Strand and the river that lay beyond it. Once, back in the seventeenth century, this had been a prosperous, even fashionable area. But those days were long gone. With the construction of first one theater and then another had come prostitution, gambling, and so many taverns and gin shops that virtually every other building on Bow Street was a drinking establishment. Today the entire district was synonymous with decadence and dissolution, all of it colored by the vast, tumultuous market that operated from the nearby Italian-styled piazza known as Covent Garden. Even this late in the day, the air was filled with the endless rattle of cartwheels, the raucous cries of the costermongers, and the pungent, earthy scents of their wares.

“We’re told the anxiety and horror provoked by the manner of this murder has prostrated the Prince Regent,” said Lovejoy as they paused at the kerb to let an ironmonger’s wagon rumble past. “He’s convinced that such a brutal killing could only be the work of revolutionaries who’ve been inspired by Napoléon’s return and are now determined to murder us all in our beds.”

“Sounds like Prinny,” said Sebastian, stepping wide to miss a gutter overflowing with filthy water and garbage. He came down hard on his wounded leg and had to grit his teeth to keep from grunting.

Lovejoy glanced over at him. “Still bothering you, is it?”

“Just a bit.”

Lovejoy’s eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “The Palace has asked us to keep the details of the body’s condition from the press—the idea being, I suppose, that it’s bad enough to have the brother of a marquis murdered without the populace knowing that he was also savagely mutilated. I’m afraid it won’t be long before we come under pressure to arrest someone. Quickly.”

“Even if that someone isn’t actually responsible?” said Sebastian dryly. They’d both seen it happen too many times in the past.

“Oh, my colleagues will settle on someone who’s responsible for something,” said Lovejoy. “Even if it doesn’t happen to be this particular crime.”

“And if the real killer strikes again?”

Lovejoy let out his breath in a sigh as they paused to stare out over the sun-dazzled river that opened up before them. “Let us pray to God he does not.”

The two men stood for a time in silence, each lost in his own thoughts as they watched a barge make its slow, laborious way upriver. Then Sebastian said, “Did the Marquis have any idea as to who—besides Alexi Sauvage—might have wanted to see his brother dead?”

“Not really,” said Lovejoy as they turned to walk on, the breeze off the river feeling surprisingly chilly. “It seems Lord Stamford only recently came up to Town from his estates in Devon and hadn’t seen his brother for several months. So far, the last person we know to have seen Sedgewick was a simple acquaintance who encountered him by chance in Whitehall on Saturday night.”

“Whitehall? What the devil was Sedgewick doing there?”

“We’ve no idea. It’s odd, isn’t it, given that the encounter took place at something like ten o’clock. At this point, all we know is that Sedgewick must have been killed sometime after that.”

“That’s something, at least. Gibson says he thinks Sedgewick was probably killed either Saturday night or early Sunday morning. When did his wife last see him?”

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