Page 88 of Who Cries for the Lost

Sebastian kept his gaze on his friend’s vaguely puzzled face. “Do you know if any of them were sent to Cabrera?”

“No, I’ve no idea.” Monty’s eyes narrowed. “What the bloody hell are you thinking, Devlin? That I’m the one who killed Sedgewick? Who’s been killing them all?”

Sebastian gave a faint shake of his head, unwilling to put his suspicions into words.

“Bloody hell,” said Monty again. He started to turn away, then swung back to face him. “Why are you asking about Cabrera? What have you learned?”

“There is a possibility it’s the link between some of the killings, although not all of them. But what I can’t figure out is how the killer could have discovered that Sedgewick was involved in the decision to send the French prisoners there.”

“So that’s why you suspect me? Because I knew? I can’t believe this.”

“Did you tell anyone about Sedgewick’s involvement in it?”

“Me? No. Why would I?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Did Sedgewick ever talk about it much?”

“He wasn’t ashamed of it, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, he brought it up the last time I saw him.”

“When was this?”

“That I saw him? I don’t know exactly. Not long before he went to Vienna. He was intrigued by a discussion on the nature of evil he’d just had with someone and wanted to know my thoughts on the subject.”

Sebastian felt the blood rushing in his head hard enough that he could hear it. “Did he say with whom he’d had this discussion?”

Monty frowned with thought. “He told me, but I can’t remember, no.”

“It wasn’t Tiptoff, was it?”

His frown cleared. “Yes, that was it. Dudley Tiptoff.”

Chapter 50

Hero was seated in one of the cane chairs beside the drawing room’s open windows and writing up some of the notes for her article when Devlin walked in, bringing with him all the scents of the city on a warm summer’s evening.

“What is it?” she asked as he tossed his hat and walking stick onto a side table and went to stand at the window, his gaze on the light drizzle that was beginning to fall.

He turned to face her. “How well do you know Dudley Tiptoff? I don’t mean his research and writing, but the man himself.”

“I’ve met him, but that’s about it. Why?”

He told her.

“It might mean nothing,” she said when he had finished.

“It might,” he agreed. “But I keep remembering how quickly he volunteered to Bow Street that he’d seen Sedgewick walking down Whitehall toward the Abbey, complete with the exact time: ten o’clock. Except that Alexi says she saw Sedgewick at Charing Cross that night at least an hour earlier, after which she says he walked off down Whitehall.”

“Why would Tiptoff lie about the time?”

“Perhaps in case anyone ever questioned his servants about when he got in that night? All I know is, I’m inclined to believe Alexi, both because it fits with when Sedgewick left Seven Dials and because we now know a wherryman who picked up two men from the Whitehall Stairs just after nine that night was later found stabbed.”

Hero set aside her notebook. “But you can’t suspect Tiptoff! He’s harmless, surely?”

“Is he? Can you think of anyone who might be able to tell us more about him?”

She was silent for a moment. “Actually, I can.”

Wednesday, 21 June

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