Page 36 of Who Cries for the Lost

“I honestly don’t know. It’s been suggested that Sedgewick might have been planning to use the list for blackmail, although I find that hard to believe. But it is possible he hadn’t yet decided what to do with it. The thing is, even if the list wasn’t the motive for his killing, it’s conceivable that the murderer found the list by chance and has taken it himself to use for blackmail.”

“Have you told Kat about this?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I tried, but she was in rehearsals. I’ll go back to the theater again tonight.” He hesitated, then said, “Has anyone contacted you?”

“Good Lord, no!”

It was said with enough shock and indignation that Sebastian believed him. “You will tell me if someone does?”

“Bloody hell. Next thing I know you’ll be thinking I killed the bastard.”

“No. But others might, if this gets out.”

“Oh? And precisely why am I supposed to have shot off his face and castrated him?”

“Heard about that, did you?”

“It’s all over town.”

“Obviously.”

“If you ask me,” said Hendon, “that smacks of revenge—perhaps the work of a particularly vindictive woman whom Sedgewick had unwisely betrayed.”

“Perhaps. But while I can see such a woman shooting him in the face and maybe even castrating him, Sedgewick was a tall, strong man, and I doubt a woman could have managed to drag his body down to the river and dump it there.”

“She could if she enlisted someone’s help,” said Hendon. “Or the murder could be the work of a man who loved a woman Sedgewick had seduced and then betrayed.”

Sebastian simply stared back at Hendon without saying anything. So far he’d found two men who fit that description, and both were friends with whom he’d fought and bled and shared all the horrors of war: Paul Gibson and Monty McPherson.

“I can see a jealous man being enraged enough to destroy his rival’s handsome face and cut off his privates,” said Hendon, following his own train of thought. “But what about that other body they fished out of the Thames a few days ago? The one with no head or hands.”

“You heard about that, too?”

“You think people aren’t talking about all this?” said Hendon grimly. “Most people assume the two murders are related; are you suggesting they are not?”

“I have no idea.” Sebastian decided to keep all speculation about the mutilations’ possible connection to the execution of suspected werewolves and witches to himself. “But it’s a lot harder to chop off a body’s head and hands than it is to simply shoot off his face and emasculate him.”

Hendon grunted. “I can’t see someone interested in this list you say Sedgewick was carrying doing anything like that.”

“No. But one of the things that bothers me is the fact that Sedgewick was only wearing his shirt. The mutilation would explain the removal of his boots and breeches, and I suppose the killer could have used Sedgewick’s cravat to tie something to the corpse’s legs when he dumped it in the river. But I can think of only one reason for removing his coat and waistcoat.”

Hendon stared at him blankly. “What?”

“If Sedgewick was carrying a secret list of names, he wouldn’t simply have shoved it in one of his pockets. It’s far more likely he brought it from Vienna sewn into the lining of his coat or waistcoat, and someone interested in the list would know that.”

“Bloody hell,” growled Hendon, swiping one hand across his lower face.

“Of course, it’s also possible the damned list is safely at the bottom of the Thames right now.”

Hendon looked at him. “What are the odds?”

Sebastian met the Earl’s troubled gaze. “Frankly? Not good.”

After Hendon had turned back toward Carlton House, Sebastian went to stand beside the sullen gray waters of the long canal, his eyes narrowed and his hat pulled low against the gusting wind. It had been two days now since Miles Sedgewick’s faceless body had been hauled up from the murky depths of the Thames, and so far the only suspects Sebastian had been able to turn up were two of his own friends and the man he called Father.

“I found ’er, gov’nor!” A boy’s shout floated across the park, scaring up a flock of pigeons that took to the gray sky above in a whirl of wings. “I found yer governess!”

Sebastian turned as the boy skidded to a halt beside him, his feet sliding in the wet grass and one hand flying up to catch his hat. “I found ’er! ’Er name’s Phoebe Cox, and she’s takin’ t’ sellin’ oranges in the Haymarket!”

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