Page 89 of Who Cries for the Lost

His name was Elwyn Millard Dunn, and he was a specialist in medieval monastic architecture whom Hero had come to know through some work she’d once done on the remnants of medieval structures still to be found in London.

A tall, skinny man with a protruding potbelly, a bony face, and wispy, very fair hair, he was somewhere in his late thirties. He received them in the cluttered study of his rooms in Gilbert Street at the unfashionably early hour of eleven o’clock and invited them to sit on his somewhat dusty sofa.

“I’ve known Tiptoff since we were up at Cambridge together eighteen—no, goodness, I suppose it’s more like twenty years ago now,” said Dunn, templing his fingers before him as he leaned back in his chair. “Of course, he never finished his degree, you know.”

“He didn’t?” said Hero.

“No. Went off to stay with his uncle in Switzerland.”

“His uncle was Swiss?”

“What? Oh, no. His uncle was William Wickham.”

Sebastian and Hero exchanged one quick, guarded glance. William Wickham had essentially founded the British foreign secret service during the French Revolution. From his position at the British embassy in Switzerland he established an extensive network of spies that operated throughout southern Europe, schemed with the French royalists, and helped foment the disastrous uprising against the Republic in the Vendée.

“Interesting,” said Hero. “Did he stay in Switzerland long?”

“Oh, yes; fifteen years, at least—far longer than his uncle. To be frank, I never quite understood what he was doing there. I mean, he said he was studying the Swiss witch burnings—the Swiss were terrible about it, you know. The small cantons of Valais and Vaud alone executed something like three and a half thousand ‘witches’ and ‘werewolves,’ while at one point Geneva burned over five hundred in just three months. I think the last one they killed was a young girl from Canton Glarus, who was tortured into confessing she was a witch just over thirty years ago and beheaded.”

“How horrible,” murmured Hero. “So what makes you think that wasn’t the only reason Tiptoff went there?”

Dunn shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose people change over the course of ten or fifteen years. But he just seemed... different when he came back.”

“Different in what way?”

“I don’t know,” he said again, with all the confusion of a man accustomed to analyzing stones, not people. “But it was more than just the limp.”

“He didn’t limp before?”

“No. I’ve heard people say it’s some kind of birth defect, but that’s not true. He never had it when we were up at Cambridge. In fact, he was quite athletic in those days. I remember he could run like the wind.”

“What do you know of his family?” said Sebastian. “I gather Wickham was his mother’s brother?”

“No, his father’s—the father’s younger half brother, as I understand it. Tiptoff’s mother was French.”

“Was she?” said Hero, sitting forward with an encouraging smile.

“Oh, yes. They actually lived in France until he was fourteen or so. His mother and father were both killed in the Terror, but Tiptoff and his sister managed to escape and came here.”

“How awful,” said Hero. “I didn’t know he had a sister.”

“He did, but she died some time ago, I believe. He had an older brother, too, but he stayed in France. From what I remember, he was in the French Army.”

“Is he still alive?” said Sebastian.

“I’ve no idea.” Dunn looked at him, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you so interested in Tiptoff anyway?”

“It would be perhaps best if you didn’t ask. The interest is that of my father, Lord Jarvis,” lied Hero. “I’ve no doubt you’ll understand our inability to elaborate further.” She rose to her feet as all the color drained from Dunn’s face and he began to stammer. “Thank you so much for your time. Your assistance has been invaluable.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” said Hero as Sebastian handed her up into their waiting carriage.

He hopped up to sit beside her. “Neither do I.”

“The problem is, how to prove any of it?”

Sebastian stared out the window for a moment, his attention seemingly all for the ragged little boy sweeping the nearby crossing. Then he turned his head to meet her gaze. “I have an idea.”

The execution of Sebastian’s plan was complicated.

---