Page 13 of Who Cries for the Lost

There was no missing the man’s meaning. “You’re suggesting Sedgewick was?”

“A variation of it, at any rate. His arm was never right again after what happened in Portugal, you know. In the end he sold out, but it didn’t take him long to grow bored with life in London. He missed the excitement of it all.”

“I can understand that,” said Sebastian.

“Mind you, he never actually said what he was doing, but there were hints. You know what he was like. He was very good at what he did in every way but one: He had a big mouth.”

Sebastian waited while a barmaid dumped two more tankards of porter on the table, then said, “Do you know if he still maintained his interest in folklore?”

McPherson took a deep swallow of his drink and nodded. “If anything, I’d say he was more fascinated by it than ever. Truth is, it was about the only thing we had in common beyond what we did in the Army—well, that plus the fact that we both had French mothers, I suppose. Although I’d say that lately his interests had shifted more toward the occult. I heard he was spending a lot of time with the Weird Sisters.”

“Who?”

McPherson laughed. “That’s what people call them—the Weird Sisters, although their real name is Wilde or something like that. They’ve got a shop down in Seven Dials where they cast horoscopes and read cards and sell love potions and charms and such.”

“So are they supposed to be Scottish witches?”

“Well, the witch part is all for show, of course. But the eldest one—Sibil is her name—is definitely Scottish. I understand she used to be on the stage at one time.”

“Sibil Wilde, you mean?”

“You’ve heard of her, have you? I never followed the theater much, but I gather she made something of a name for herself at one time, especially for playing Lady Macbeth. Hence the ‘Weird Sisters,’ I suppose. They’re said to be able to ‘see’ things, but the truth is they’re simply very good at ferreting out everyone’s secrets. Which means they might be able to tell you something useful if you’re willing to venture down there.”

“Sedgewick seriously believed in them?”

“I don’t know if I’d say he actually believed in them, but they definitely fascinated him. Like I said, his interest in folklore had taken a strange turn lately, mainly toward the mythology surrounding witches—to the point I’d say they were becoming less of an interest and more of an obsession.”

“Do you know why?”

For a long moment, McPherson simply stared back at him. Then he shook his head and said, “No, I don’t. To be honest, it never occurred to me to wonder why. But it is odd, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so, yes. Very.”

Chapter 8

By the time Sebastian made it back to Tower Hill, a gentle, balmy darkness was falling over the city and the lamplighters were almost finished with their rounds.

He knew it was something he’d been avoiding—coming here again. He’d always felt awkward around Alexi because of what had happened between them in the past, and he wasn’t sure if what he now understood about her would make that better or worse. But to his relief it was Gibson who answered his knock at the old house’s heavy wooden door.

“Ah, there you are,” said the surgeon, opening the door wider. “I was just about to send you a message.” At some point during the day he’d shaved, made an attempt at combing his unruly hair, and tied a clean white cravat around his neck. But his eyes were still bloodshot, his skin sallow, his face sunken and haggard.

“Finished the autopsy, have you?”

“I have indeed. Come see.”

Sebastian followed the Irishman down a narrow passageway to the house’s ancient, smoke-darkened kitchen, where Gibson paused to light a lantern. “Alexi’s gone off to deliver some costermonger’s baby,” he said, thrusting a taper into the coals glowing on the hearth and waiting until it flared.

“Had she told you about Sedgewick before?” Sebastian asked as his friend turned to hold the burning taper to his lantern’s wick.

Gibson shook his head. “No. I only just found out about him this morning, after she saw the scars on the corpse’s torso.” He blew out the taper, then picked up the lantern and turned toward the door. “But I can now tell you what killed the bugger.”

“Oh?”

Gibson led the way along the path that wound through Alexi’s garden, dark now with the shadows of the coming night. “There’s a wee slit in his left side. Doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s there because somebody shoved a dagger up under his ribs, straight into his heart.”

Sebastian drew in his breath in a hiss. Bloody awful, isn’t it? Monty had said. Who’d have thought he’d go through all those years at war only to end up with a knife stuck under his ribs in London?

“What is it?” asked Gibson, glancing back at him.

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