Page 28 of What Angels Fear

“Yes. But there’s a difference, I should think, between being a spy and finding a killer.”

“Not as much as one might imagine.”

A hint of a dimple appeared in the Irishman’s cheek. “So. Have any suspects yet?”

Sebastian smiled. “Two, as a matter of fact. There’s an actor by the name of Hugh Gordon—”

“Ah. I saw him just last month. A very effective Hector.”

“That’s him. Seems Rachel York was his mistress when she first started at the theater. He took it badly when she left him.”

Paul Gibson frowned. “How long ago was this?”

“Some two years ago.”

The Irishman shook his head. “Too long. If she’d just left him, I could see it. But passions cool with time.”

“One might think so. Except that he still sounds surprisingly bitter to me. I get the impression Mr. Gordon nourishes republican sentiments that he believes Rachel York once shared. I’d say he’s as bothered by the blue blood of her recent lovers as anything else.”

The Irishman drained his glass. “So, who is her current lover?”

Sebastian reached for the bottle and poured his friend some more wine. “She seems to have been involved with an extraordinary number of gentlemen, at least on a superficial level. But the only one of any significance I’ve discovered so far is a Frenchman who was paying the rent on her rooms. An émigré by the name of Leo Pierrepont.”

“A Frenchman? That’s interesting. What do you know about him?”

“Not a lot. He’s a man in his late forties, I’d say. Came here back in ’ninety-two. He’s known as a good swordsman, but I’ve never heard anything to his discredit.”

“I put my money on the Frenchman.”

Sebastian laughed. “That’s because it’s the French who shot away the bottom half of your leg. Besides, he has an alibi: on the night Rachel was killed, he was giving a dinner party—or so he says. He could be making it up, of course, but it should be easy enough to check.”

“Unfortunate.” Gibson shifted in his seat, a grimace of pain flashing momentarily across his face as he moved his leg. “Neither sounds like a very promising suspect to me. Is that the best you can come up with?”

“So far. I was hoping Rachel’s body might give me some idea of what direction to look in next.”

Outside, the wind gusted up, buffeting the back of the house and eddying the flames on the hearth. Paul Gibson turned toward the fire, the flickering light playing over the thoughtful planes of his face. After a moment, he opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then finally said in a rush, “You know, there might be a way.... ”

Sebastian studied his friend’s averted profile. “A way to do what?”

“A way that I could get a look at Rachel York’s body. Do a thorough autopsy.”

“How’s that?”

“We could hire someone to steal the corpse tomorrow night, after it’s been buried.”

“No,” said Sebastian.

Gibson swung to face him. “I know some men who’d be willing to do it without—”

“No,” said Sebastian again.

His friend’s lips thinned with exasperation. “It’s done all the time.”

“Ah, yes. Twenty pounds for a long, fifteen for a half-long, and eight for a short—a long being a man, a half-long a woman, and a short a child. But just because it happens all the time doesn’t mean that I have to do it.”

The Irishman fixed him with a steady stare. “If she were given a choice, which do you think Rachel York would prefer? That her body be left to rot in its grave, or that the man who put her there be brought to justice?”

“Well, we can hardly ask her, now can we?”

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