Page 91 of Who Cries for the Lost

“Not unless I miscounted when the clock in the bell tower struck the hour—which I suppose is possible. Is the time critical for some reason?”

“Probably not. I’ve simply been finding it difficult to pin down all of Sedgewick’s movements that day.”

Tiptoff rested his fork on the side of his plate, then looked up, a speculative expression on his face. “I heard that Sibil Wilde was shot and killed yesterday, and one of her sisters murdered just a day or so before. Is there some link between all these killings, do you think?”

Sebastian met the other man’s seemingly limpid gray gaze. “It’s difficult to say.” He took a deep swallow of ale. “I’ve been wondering, do you know exactly when Sedgewick’s interest in the persecution of witches and werewolves began?”

“I do, actually. It was after a visit to Würzburg. They burned children as young as nine there, you know, and boys as little as three and four were thrown in prison as consorts of the devil. It both troubled and intrigued him, and after that he started looking into it more.”

“Good God. I had no idea they went after children that young.”

Tiptoff nodded. “And Würzburg wasn’t even the worst, I’m afraid. The prince-bishop of Cologne burned over two thousand poor souls back in the 1630s, while the tiny town of Ellwangen burned three hundred and eighty-three in just seven years; they essentially killed every woman and girl child in town. Lately I’ve seen some scholars trying to argue that the number of witch burnings has been grossly exaggerated, that the records don’t substantiate the figures. But the truth is, most witch and werewolf burnings were never recorded. And even when they were, many—if not most—of the records have since been destroyed, either deliberately or by war or fire. Anyone who thinks they can count the few records we do have left and come up with an accurate tally is willfully deluding himself.”

Tiptoff took another mouthful of his dinner, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed and said, “But as to why Sedgewick was so fascinated by the subject, I don’t exactly know. I’ve sometimes wondered if perhaps one of his ancestors was burned as a witch. Most of those who suffered in the witch hysterias were poor, but not all.”

“Atrocities frequently do make more of an impact when they are personal.”

“So true,” said Tiptoff with a tight smile.

Sebastian pushed back his stool and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your help.”

“Any time.”

Sebastian started to turn away, then paused. “I almost forgot: Did you ever stop by Sedgewick’s house the day after you met him in Whitehall, to see that witch’s ladder?”

“No, I didn’t. I was delayed at the museum and ended up sending him a note, telling him I’d need to postpone until later in the week.”

If it was an excuse, it was a good one. In all the household confusion that had surely followed Sedgewick’s disappearance and death, the staff would never remember whether they’d received such a note or not.

Tiptoff sighed. “It’s a pity. I would like to have seen it. But I’ve no doubt his widow has destroyed it by now. I know she never shared her husband’s interest in such things, and her dear friend the Reverend would no doubt see such an artifact as satanic.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Sebastian, and left it at that.

Sebastian was walking down Southampton Street toward the river when he heard a high-pitched cockney voice shouting, “Gov’nor! Oy! Gov’nor!”

Sebastian turned to find Tom pelting down the street behind him, dodging an organ-grinder, an old woman selling ribbons from a tray, and a big copper-colored dog.

“I found somebody!” said Tom, gasping for breath as he skidded to a halt beside him. “It’s a pickpocket by the name o’ Dilly. She swears she was in Whitehall that night, and wait till ye ’ear what she’s got t’ say!”

Chapter 51

This time—after his experience with Phoebe Cox—Sebastian took Hero with him.

“I usually try to dress a little less extravagantly for my interviews,” said Hero as their carriage worked its way through the crowded streets toward Whitehall. She’d just finished dressing for dinner when he’d found her, and she hadn’t had time to change out of her gown of pale yellow batiste de soie festooned at the neck, puffed sleeves, and scalloped hem with rows of knotted lilac ribbons.

“I’ve no doubt Dilly will be dazzled,” said Sebastian with a soft laugh, then laughed again when Hero wrinkled her nose at him.

They found the young pickpocket sitting on the steps of an old chapel across from the Horse Guards, waiting for them. She looked to be perhaps eleven or twelve, but her light brown hair was chopped off to just above her shoulders, and she wore a pair of ragged trousers with a boy’s blue smock that hung loosely about her small frame. The streets were hard for little girls on their own, and most turned to prostitution by the age of thirteen. Dilly was obviously determined that wasn’t going to happen to her.

“You the nobs what wanted t’ hear ’bout what happened that night?” she said, pushing to her feet as they approached. Her eyes cut sideways to where Tom was waiting by the carriage. “He said ye’d give me a crown if’n I told you what I saw.”

Sebastian handed her a half guinea. “That’s right. You get the rest when you’ve finished telling us what you know.”

The girl pocketed the coin and sniffed. “What if ye stiff me?”

“And what if you have no real information to tell?”

She sniffed again and tapped the folded sketch Hero was holding. “You’re wantin’ to know if I saw this cove, and I did.”

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