Page 53 of Who Cries for the Lost

The Reverend’s eyes widened in what looked very much like alarm. “Good heavens, no. Only that those who flirt with evil shall inevitably become its victims.” He glanced back at his grand new church, its western front turned a deep gold by the afternoon sun. “And now you really must excuse me. I promised our foreman that I’d go over the proposed changes to the galleries.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time.”

“Always more than happy to be of service,” said Palmer. Then he hurried away without looking back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the warm June breeze billowing the black skirt of his fine cassock out behind him.

After he had gone, Sebastian stood for a time on the pavement before the new church, his gaze on the leafy green expanse of Regent’s Park spreading out to the north. The sun was warm on his face, the air fragrant with the sweet scent from a red climbing rose that tumbled over a nearby garden wall and the hot spicy tang of the gingerbread being hawked by a man near the corner with a barrel.

There were at least four good explanations for Sedgewick’s murder. But the man’s habit of seducing and discarding women did nothing to explain the deaths of the two unidentified dead men, while the dangerous list of names he was said to be carrying might conceivably explain all three deaths, although not the mutilation of their bodies. And when it came to Cabrera, Sebastian couldn’t see how any of it fit.

But this troubling linkage of an interest in folklore to evil satanic forces did explain much of the mutilation, and it might conceivably explain the deaths of the other two men.

If only he knew who they were.

Chapter 32

Remembering what Dudley Tiptoff had said about the attacks he’d faced as a result of his research into the lore of witchcraft and werewolves, Sebastian decided to pay another visit to Bloomsbury.

He found the scholar at home, in an upstairs room that might once have been a bedchamber but was now lined with utilitarian shelves from floor to ceiling on all four sides and stacked with boxes in the center. The shelves were crowded with overflowing boxes and baskets, African masks and Native American beaded slippers jumbled together with red- and black-figure pottery from Greece and what looked like an ancient wooden statue of Quan Yin. Tiptoff was up on a ladder, rummaging through a box he had dragged half off one of the top shelves. When the housemaid showed Sebastian up to him, the scholar glanced over and said, “Don’t mind me; I shan’t be but a moment.”

“My apologies for the interruption,” said Sebastian, tipping back his head to look up at the man. “If you’d like, I could come back another time.”

“No, no; seriously, I shan’t be but a moment. Is there something you wished to ask me?”

“Actually, yes; I was wondering if you’re familiar with a reverend named Sinclair Palmer.”

Tiptoff paused in his search to squint down at him. “You mean that rector up at Marylebone?”

“So you do know him?”

“Shall we say I know of him? The man is quite vocally opposed to any scholarly interest in traditional folklore, but he takes a particularly violent exception to the study of the ancient tales of werewolves and witches. Why do you ask?”

“His name came up.”

Tiptoff shoved the box back into place and climbed down his ladder. “I’m not surprised. Sedgewick loathed the man. He was particularly irritated by his wife’s friendship with the fellow—which is rather amusing for a man with Sedgewick’s habits.”

“Sedgewick thought there was something between his wife and the Reverend?”

“As to that, I don’t know,” said Tiptoff, turning to rummage through a basket on one of the lower shelves. “Perhaps he simply grew tired of constantly tripping over the fellow in his own house. It’s not as if Palmer’s the type to keep his opinions to himself.”

“Has he ever attacked you for your interest in folklore?”

“Not in person, if that’s what you mean. But he wrote a particularly scathing attack on a paper I published in a journal last year. Accused me of doing the devil’s work and all sorts of other nonsense.”

“I gather he does have a reputation for zealotry.”

“Oh, yes. Zealotry and hypocrisy. But then, the two often go hand in hand, do they not?”

“True,” said Sebastian. “Although hypocrisy is hardly the private preserve of zealots.”

“Yes, I fear it is a quite common human failing. We tend to justify our own evil acts as necessitated by circumstances or provoked by others, while refusing to acknowledge the role that provocation might play in the less-than-admirable behavior of our enemies. Wouldn’t you say?”

“All too often,” said Sebastian, his thoughts drifting, inevitably, to Cabrera. No nation could scream louder and with more righteous indignation than Britain when an opponent failed to honor their treaty obligations. “Is he capable of violence, do you think? Palmer, I mean.”

“To be fair, I don’t actually know the man, only his type.” Tiptoff abandoned his search of the basket and straightened, his features grave as he turned to face Sebastian. “Tell me, my lord: Do you ever give much thought to the nature of evil?”

“Yes.”

Tiptoff studied him in silence for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I can see that.” He sighed and turned away to paw through one of the boxes on a shelf near the door. “Men such as Palmer prefer to think of evil as something metaphysical, something caused by—or at least inspired by—the devil or some other force of darkness. I suppose it protects them from having to confront the age-old quandary presented by the thought of a benevolent God creating a human heart capable of evil.”

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