Page 47 of Who Cries for the Lost

“No,” said McPherson. “You think that’s why Sedgewick was killed? Because of this list?”

“It’s obviously a possibility, although Sibil Wilde would have me believe it’s far more likely he was killed by a jealous husband.”

Sebastian kept his gaze on his friend’s face. But McPherson was very good at hiding his thoughts and emotions behind an expression of bland innocence when he wanted to; it was one of the talents that had made him so good at what they’d all once done. “So you visited the Weird Sisters, did you?” he said, a gleam of amusement lighting his pale blue eyes.

“I did. And then got jumped by a couple of unsavory types when I left.”

The amusement vanished. “You’re lucky they didn’t kill you. That kind will slit your throat for a penny.”

“Except these weren’t common thieves; they were messengers sent by someone who wants me to quit asking questions.”

“About Sedgewick? That sounds rather telling.” McPherson stared across the street at the leafy green swath of Bloomsbury Square, where a nursemaid was shepherding her three charges through the gates. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me the other day—if I knew of anyone who might want to see Sedgewick dead.”

“And?”

He brought his gaze back to Sebastian. “What do you know about Cabrera?”

The name stirred vague, dark memories, the kind that are all the more troublesome because you know deep down that the truth is actually far worse than anything you’ve heard. “You mean the island off Majorca where they sent the French prisoners who surrendered after the Battle of Bailén?”

McPherson nodded. “They say that altogether, somewhere between ten and fifteen thousand French prisoners of war were sent to the island. Did you hear how many made it back to France when they were finally released last year? Between three and five thousand.”

“Christ. Why?”

“You dump thousands of men on a tiny desert island with no food, water, clothes, or shelter, what do you think is going to happen?”

“But those men were Spain’s prisoners. What does any of it have to do with Sedgewick?”

“They were Spain’s prisoners, yes. Except that under the terms of their surrender, the French prisoners were supposed to be repatriated to France. We’re the ones who stopped the Spaniards from honoring their treaty obligations. We didn’t want all those men being sent back to France to live and fight another day, but we didn’t want them kept on the mainland either because we were afraid a French army would free them. So we basically told the Spaniards we’d blow their ships out of the water if they tried to transport the prisoners anywhere but the islands.”

“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with Sedgewick.”

“He was acting as a go-between at the time, shuttling back and forth between Admiral Collingwood and the various Wellesley brothers. Three of them had a hand in it, you know—not just Wellington but Henry and Richard, as well. And from what I understand, Sedgewick wasn’t simply carrying messages; he also served as an advocate for Wellington, pushing London’s demands. He was very good at that sort of thing, you know.” Monty fell silent for a moment, his head tipping back as he stared up at the leaves of the plane trees shifting in the wind against the pale blue sky. “That island was the worst kind of hell, and it lasted for five long years—or at least it did for the few rare souls who somehow managed to survive it. I can see some poor bastard who went through that wanting to kill anyone and everyone he held responsible for what was done to him.”

“Yes. Except there must be a hell of a lot of men who bear more responsibility for what happened at Cabrera than Sedgewick.”

“Perhaps,” said McPherson. “Except how many of them do you think are here in London now—and easy to get at? Castlereagh is so unpopular and afraid that he doesn’t go anywhere alone these days.”

Sebastian met his friend’s gaze and simply shook his head, and the silence became something they shared, something filled only with the clatter of hooves and the rattle of cartwheels and the sweet laughter of the children playing in the distant square.

Chapter 29

That evening, Sebastian arrived at Hendon House on Grosvenor Square to find the Earl seated in his favorite armchair beside the library fire, a worn leather-bound volume of Marcus Aurelius open on his lap and a glass of tawny cognac at his elbow.

“Huh,” grunted Hendon, looking up when Sebastian entered the room. “I hear you’re still at it. Chasing after whoever’s behind these ghastly murders, I mean.”

“Did you think I’d quit?” said Sebastian, going to pour himself a cognac.

Hendon’s jaw tightened. But there was a shadow in his eyes that belied his words. He set aside his book. “And have you discovered anything that might explain what the devil is going on?”

“I’ve found more than one person with a good reason to kill Miles Sedgewick. But are any of them responsible? I don’t know. It’s rather difficult to understand a murderer’s motives when two of his three victims are still unidentified.”

“Still?”

“Still,” said Sebastian, coming to settle in the chair opposite the Earl. “What can you tell me about Cabrera?”

Hendon stared at him. “Cabrera? What the hell has Cabrera to do with this?”

“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I’m told some of the responsibility for what happened to those prisoners rests with Britain. Is that true?”

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