Page 1 of Dead Beside the Thames
CHAPTER 1
SEPTEMBER 7, 1840. JEREMY STREET, LONDON.
Charlie Hastings sank deeper into his favorite armchair beside the hearth in his Jermyn Street house and turned the first page in that morning’s news sheet. To Charlie’s mind, this was the very best time of his day, when, while digesting the excellent breakfast his housekeeper, Mrs. Swann, had provided, he could sit in peace and comfort and indulge his curiosity over what his fellow men were doing with their lives.
Inevitably, the answer was more exciting than what he was doing with his life, a situation that routinely left him feeling quietly smug. He infinitely preferred the calm and orderly peace of “nothing happening” to the alternative.
Reaching for the corner of the next page, he paused as a niggle, a small one, wormed its way through his brain. There were times when he wondered if being cocooned in such untrammeled comfort while life passed him by was truly as pleasant as he told himself it was. That perhaps “nothing happening”—at all, ever—was just a trifle dull. Boring, even.
He contemplated that question for all of a minute, then quashed it deep.
Comfort and “nothing happening” was his cup of tea.
Determinedly, he gripped the next page and was about to turn it when a sharprat-a-tat-tatfell on his front door.
Charlie frowned, wondering who on earth would call at such an early hour; a quick glance at the mantelpiece clock confirmed it was barely nine o’clock. He wasn’t surprised to hear his man, Garvey, hurry up the front hall. There was something about the solid, deliberate nature of that summons that demanded an immediate response.
Garvey opened the door and, faintly breathless, inquired, “Yes?”
Charlie heard a deep voice rumble a from-this-distance-incomprehensible yet somehow ominous reply.
Apparently, Garvey recognized the visitor’s claim to entry and admitted him.
After trying and failing to identify the man’s voice, Charlie folded the news sheet and set the paper aside. He heard heavy footsteps approaching the parlor door and got to his feet, schooling his expression to one of mildly curious civility as the door opened and Garvey ushered in the visitor.
“Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard to see you, sir,” Garvey intoned.
Charlie felt his expression blank, then his eyes widened as they landed on the man who followed Garvey into the parlor. “Stokes?”
Detective Inspector Basil Stokes halted and nodded in greeting. “Hastings.”
Stokes’s expression was unreadable, yet Charlie couldn’t imagine this was a social call. His curiosity morphed into puzzlement, tinged with confusion and a touch of apprehension.
Charlie had always considered Stokes an unexpected policeman. Tall, well built, and broad shouldered, with steely gray eyes, dark-brown hair, and a face that appeared hewn from granite, Stokes effortlessly projected an imposing and faintlymenacing presence, but unlike the vast majority of the force, he was gentry born and grammar school educated. While most policemen struggled to navigate the upper echelons of society, Stokes possessed the background, insight, and experience to do so. His success in solving several high-profile cases involving the aristocracy had seen him rise through the ranks to his present position as one of the more senior inspectors at Scotland Yard.
Over the years, Charlie and Stokes had crossed paths several times when Charlie had been assisting his good friend, the Honorable Barnaby Adair, with solving some mystery or crime. Charlie was aware that Barnaby—now joined by his wife, Penelope—continued to assist Stokes in cases involving the ton; he’d heard that Barnaby and Penelope were now called on in an official capacity as consultants to the Metropolitan Police, of which institution Barnaby’s father, a close friend of Charlie’s father, was one of the overseeing peers.
Despite all those connections, Charlie couldn’t imagine what had brought Stokes directly to his door. He drew in a breath and asked, “Is there something I can help you with?”
Smoothly, Stokes replied, “A situation has arisen on which, I believe, you might be able to shed some light.” Stokes’s gray gaze cut to Garvey, who was hovering behind him.
Charlie took the hint and nodded a dismissal to Garvey, then waved Stokes to the second armchair, which was angled to face Charlie’s favored seat. “Of course. I’m happy to assist in any way I can.”
Charlie waited until Stokes sat, then resumed his seat, crossed his legs, clasped his hands loosely in his lap, and bent an inquiring expression on Stokes.
Stokes studied him for a moment, then grimaced. He drew out a small black book and a pencil from his coat pocket and, finally, volunteered, “A body was hauled from the Thamesyesterday, and items found on the corpse suggest the dead man is Viscount Sedbury.”
Charlie’s eyes flew wide. “Sedbury?” After a moment of stunned stupefaction, he repeated with more force,“Sedbury?”
When Stokes did nothing but watch him closely, Charlie blustered, “But good God, man! Sedbury was a great hulking fellow. How on earth did someone kill him?”
Stokes mildly replied, “I don’t have any details as yet, but currently, we’re working on the hypothesis that he was attacked and killed or stunned on one of the bridges and tipped into the river.”
“Good Lord!” Charlie just stared.
After scribbling some note, Stokes searched Charlie’s face, then on an exhalation that was close to a sigh, Stokes went on, “The reason I’m here is that while investigating Sedbury’s recent movements, I learned of an altercation between you and the viscount that occurred at White’s on Saturday evening. I was told that Sedbury bailed you up in the card room, and you responded to his statements with some degree of heat, the subject under discussion being a previous encounter between you and Sedbury earlier in the day.” Stokes trapped Charlie’s gaze. “Would you care to elaborate on that earlier encounter?”
Charlie met Stokes’s scrutiny with his best blank expression while his wits whirled. Sedbury dead? After…
