Page 90 of Who Cries for the Lost

It required, first of all, finding a likeness of Miles Sedgewick. But since both the dead man’s wife and his brother were refusing to speak to them, they were forced to turn to Isabella McPherson.

After first insisting that she possessed no likeness, Isabella finally admitted to having in her possession a miniature of the man she’d secretly loved, skillfully painted on a gilt-framed ivory oval. But she refused to allow it out of her sight, even briefly. So Hero was forced to take drawing paper and pencils to Norfolk Street and make a sketch of it there, while Isabella stood at the drawing room window, anxiously keeping an eye out for Monty’s return lest she be forced into having to make some awkward explanations.

Hero was a better artist than she tended to believe herself to be, and within an hour or so had reproduced a good pencil likeness of the portrait.

Returning to Brook Street, Sebastian sent for Tom.

“I have an assignment for you,” he told the boy, handing him Hero’s sketch.

“This that first cove what got hisself killed?” said Tom, turning the sketch to the light.

“It is. I want you to take this to Whitehall and see if you can find someone who saw Sedgewick there the night he was killed—probably somewhere between eight and ten.”

Tom looked up, a wide grin splitting his face. “Reckon I can do that, gov’nor!”

After that, Sebastian went in search of Mr. Dudley Tiptoff.

The streets were becoming increasingly clogged as people kept gathering in the parks, on bridges, and in places like Pall Mall and Fleet Street, hoping to be amongst the first to hear word of the arrival of Wellington’s official messenger from Belgium. It was late afternoon by the time Sebastian finally traced the folklore scholar to a small old-fashioned pub in a quiet side street near Covent Garden, where he was eating a simple dinner of roast beef and potatoes at a table near one of the darkly paneled room’s leaded front windows.

“Good evening, my lord,” said the scholar when he looked up and saw Sebastian. “Won’t you have a seat and join me?”

Sebastian ordered a pint of ale, then went to pull out one of the table’s stools and sit. “Thank you.”

“Have you heard the latest? A couple of Irishmen—a knight and some earl’s son—have now arrived from Belgium, and everything they’re saying contradicts the report brought by that fellow Sutton. They say Wellington actually retreated before Marshal Ney’s troops at Quatre Bras, while Napoléon utterly routed the Prussians at Ligny. And as of last Sunday morning, Wellington had his troops drawn up to meet Napoléon himself near some village called Waterloo. The stock market has crashed, and now no one knows what to believe. What the devil is wrong with Wellington, taking so long to send official word of the battles’ outcomes? It’s now Wednesday! Surely he knows we are all waiting with bated breath?”

“He was used to taking his time composing his dispatches from Spain,” said Sebastian. “Perhaps he simply doesn’t realize how important everyone considers this battle.”

“So it would seem!”

Sebastian took a slow sip of his ale and watched as Tiptoff sawed off another piece of his roast beef. If the image of a disheveled, preoccupied scholar was assumed, it was done well. His hair was uncut and disarrayed, his rumpled clothes loose and baggy enough to disguise what could easily be a trim, athletic figure beneath. After all, it wasn’t difficult to wrap padding around one’s middle to suggest an expanding waistline. Hadn’t Sebastian done it himself many times?

Now he said, “Someone was telling me that William Wickham is your uncle.”

Tiptoff glanced up, but his expression remained unchanged. “He is, yes. Do you know him?”

“Only by repute.”

Tiptoff chewed his slice of beef, then swallowed. “He’s a complicated man. Helped send Despard and Emmet to the gallows as traitors, then resigned from the government in protest over their treatment of the Irish and Catholics.”

“So he’s true to his convictions.”

“He is, yes. I’ve always thought he’d have made a splendid medieval knight.”

Sebastian took another swallow of ale. “I can’t recall—was he ever in the Army?”

“No; he studied law. His brother’s the one who was always army mad—like my brother.” Tiptoff took a mouthful of potato, then swallowed. “He died in Spain.”

“Your brother? I’m sorry,” said Sebastian, choosing his words carefully. “We lost a lot of good men in the Peninsula. As did France.”

“So true,” said Tiptoff, an enigmatic smile touching his lips. And Sebastian thought, He knows. He knows I suspect him.

Tiptoff said, “And have you made any progress in finding Sedgewick’s killer?”

“Some. What time was it you said you saw him in Whitehall?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Not nine?”

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