Page 16 of Who Cries for the Lost

“I always figured it was either Castlereagh or Bathurst or—” He dropped his voice and leaned forward again, his eyes widening as he whispered, “You know.”

Lord Castlereagh was Foreign Secretary, while Lord Bathurst was Secretary of State for War and the Colonies. And the man whose name Roche was reluctant even to whisper was doubtless the King’s powerful, Machiavellian cousin, Charles, Lord Jarvis.

Sebastian’s father-in-law.

Sebastian decided to start at the Colonial Office in Downing Street.

An Old Etonian known for his learning, wit, and affability—at least toward those of his own class—Henry Bathurst, Third Earl Bathurst, was both High Church and High Tory, the kind of man who believed the first responsibility of government is not just to protect but to strengthen the established order at home and abroad. He might have been born the heir to an earldom, but Bathurst had made politics his passion and his life, first entering the House of Commons when he was just twenty-one years old. Over the course of a long career he’d been Lord of the Treasury, Master of the Mint, President of the Board of Trade, and, briefly, Foreign Secretary. Sebastian knew him through Hendon, who had for some years served in the cabinet as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

“Devlin,” said Bathurst with a smile, coming around from behind his ponderous, heavily carved desk when a clerk ushered Sebastian into the secretary’s personal office. It was an elegant chamber with dark oak paneling, red velvet drapes, and a collection of massive battle scenes painted in oils and hung in heavy gilt frames. “Good morning. How are you? And how is your father?”

“Excellent, thank you.”

“Good, good.” The smile widened, but Sebastian was aware of the older man’s eyes narrowing, as if he were simultaneously assessing Sebastian and calculating his reason for being there. Now in his late fifties, the Earl was a slim, handsome man with a long face, high forehead, and good strong chin. He was dressed, as always, in the height of fashion, with an elaborately knotted cravat, a dark blue tailcoat with large gold buttons, and tight pale pantaloons. “How may I help you today?”

“I’m interested in Major Miles Sedgewick.”

“Ah, yes.” He shook his head sadly. “Such a tragedy.” He retreated behind his stately desk and stretched out a thin, aristocratic hand toward a nearby red leather chair. “Please, do have a seat. I understand from Bow Street that you are assisting in the investigation of this shocking murder, although I’m not sure I understand in what way you think I might be of assistance. Sedgewick sold out two or three years ago now, you know.”

“Yes. Except I understand he was traveling recently on the Continent. In fact, I gather he’s made quite a habit of it the last few years. That wasn’t in an official capacity, was it?”

“With the War Office?” Bathurst gave a light, practiced laugh. “Good heavens, no. Wherever did you get such an idea?”

“From someone who knew him quite well.”

“I’m sorry, but they were mistaken.”

“That’s certainly possible. The thing is,” said Sebastian, “he was last seen in Whitehall at ten at night. He wasn’t by chance coming here, was he?”

“What? No, of course not. Why would he be?”

“Why indeed?” said Sebastian with a smile. “Is there a chance he could have been working with Castlereagh?”

“With the Foreign Office?” Bathurst picked up the quill he’d been using to write a letter and fingered it thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s possible. But if so, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know anything about it.” He glanced at the heavy ormolu clock on the room’s Carrara marble mantel and pushed to his feet. “I fear I must beg your pardon, but if I don’t hurry, I shall be late for an appointment with the Prince. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more assistance. Please do give my best to your father.”

“Of course. Thank you; you’ve helped more than you know,” said Sebastian, rising with him, and seeing the man’s practiced smile freeze as he realized too late his mistake.

Chapter 10

Reckon I’m prob’bly one o’ the oldest wherrymen ye’ll find on the river,” the gnarled old boatman told Hero. He said his name was Jeeper Jones, and that he’d been working the Thames since 1773. He was built stocky and strong, with long, wild gray hair and a heavily lined, weather-beaten brown face that made him look seventy or eighty. Except he said he was fifty-eight.

Hero sat perched atop an old stone wall near the wooden jetty where the man kept his wherry chained, her notebook balanced on her knees. London’s wherries were basically the river’s version of hackney carriages. Shallow skiffs rowed sometimes by one man, sometimes by two, they were built long and narrow with extended overhanging bows so that their passengers could step ashore at the river’s various stairs and jetties without getting their feet wet. “I would imagine it becomes increasingly difficult to row against the river as one ages,” said Hero, putting up a hand to catch the brim of her fashionably wide chip hat as a salt-tinged wind gusted up from the choppy, sun-sparkled waters beside them.

The wherryman cupped one palm around the bowl of his white clay pipe and gave a slow smile. “Nah, it ain’t that. Most of us jist don’t live very long. If ye don’t drown, sooner or later the damp gets down in yer lungs and the river takes ye that way. But most of us jist drowns. Me sister’s boy was pulled outta the Thames only yesterday, after tryin’ to shoot the bridge, the young fool. It’s why I had t’ beg yer ladyship’s pardon fer not talkin’ t’ ye when we was first supposed t’. Takin’ it hard, she is.”

“I’m so sorry. He was also a wherryman?”

Jeeper Jones sucked on his pipe and nodded. “Finished his apprenticeship last year. Takes six years, ye know, because ye gotta learn the river, and it’s a wily one. His da was a wherryman, too; he was crushed by the ice back in ’fourteen when the river froze over.”

“The profession tends to stay in families?”

“Always. Ye grow up around boats on the river, it gives ye a taste for a waterman’s life so’s ye don’t want no other. Me da was a wherryman, and his da before him, and his da before him, on back t’ before the days of Henry VIII—or so I’ve been told. Course, things was different back then. In them days, with all the mud and ruts and stuff on land, the Thames was London’s main street—the only way ye could really get from one end t’ the other. Time was, the only bridge over the river was London Bridge, and there weren’t no theaters allowed in London, so’s anyone wantin’ to see a play had t’ take a wherry to Southwark. I’ve heard tell there was more’n twelve thousand wherrymen on the river, back in the day. Know how many there are now?”

Hero shook her head.

“Three thousand.”

“Good heavens,” said Hero.

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