killed.”
She was reaching to draw the curtain across the display pedestals. But at his words, she paused, her fist clenching on the rich velvet cloth. “Is it true, what they’re saying—that whoever killed Father also cut off his head?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Can you think of anyone with whom your father might have quarreled recently?”
“No. No one,” she said quickly.
Too quickly.
“You’re certain?” he asked, watching her closely.
“Yes. Of course.”
“If you think of anyone, you will let me know?”
“If I think of anyone.”
She busied herself with closing the curtain. But he noticed that her hand was no longer steady, and it was obvious that the nervousness he’d glimpsed earlier had returned, tightening the features of her face and agitating her breathing. At first, he had mistaken her nervousness for the shyness of a young woman who felt ill at ease in company. Now he realized it was because she was afraid—afraid of
him
.
And of what he might learn.
Chapter 11
“H e collected
heads
?” Sir Henry Lovejoy’s already high-pitched voice rose to a shrill squeak. “Men should be buried—not put on display as if they were in the same category as hunting trophies!”
“I suspect he didn’t see the heads as all that different from the daggers and pincushions he also collected,” said Sebastian.
The two men were walking up Bow Street toward the public office. The footpaths were still dark and wet from the latest rain, with gray clouds pressing low on the city and promising more. Lovejoy was silent for a moment, as if trying—and failing—to understand such a mentality. “It’s a disturbing coincidence—that the man should collect the heads of historical figures, only to have someone cut off his own.”
“If it is a coincidence.”
Sir Henry hunched his shoulders against the damp, blustery wind. “Most of Preston’s servants had a half day off on Sunday. But according to the butler, Preston went out for some hours on the day of his death. Unfortunately, he took a hackney rather than his own carriage, so unless we can trace the jarvey, we’re unlikely to know where he went. He returned at approximately four in the afternoon and spent some time puttering around with his collections until dining with his daughter at seven. Then, at something like nine in the evening—or perhaps half past—he went out again, walking this time, and stopped in an old public house just off Sloane Street.”
“The Monster?”
“As it happens, yes. You’ve heard of it?”
“Molly Watson told me he went there regularly. It sounds like the sort of place likely to appeal to someone with Preston’s interests.”
Sir Henry nodded. “It dates back to the days of the Dissolution. They say the name is actually a corruption of ‘the Monastery.’”
“How long was he there?”
“Not long. According to the barman, he fell into an argument with another gentleman in the taproom and stormed off shortly after ten. Fortunately, the gentleman in question is a regular patron of the establishment, so the barman was able to identify him as a banker by the name of Austen. Henry Austen.”
The name was unfamiliar to Sebastian. “What do you know of him?”
“I’ve had one of the lads looking into him. He’s the son of a Hampshire clergyman. Originally trained for the church himself, but joined the militia at the beginning of the war with France. Served a number of years, although he only saw action in Ireland. I gather he was involved in handling payroll and got caught up in the Duke of York scandal. That’s when he resigned his commission and went into banking. He’s done quite well for himself; his main bank is in Henrietta Street, here in the City, but he also has branches in various country towns such as Alton and Hythe.”
“What’s his connection with Preston?”
“That I don’t know. He seems a rather good-humored, even-tempered chap from all
She was reaching to draw the curtain across the display pedestals. But at his words, she paused, her fist clenching on the rich velvet cloth. “Is it true, what they’re saying—that whoever killed Father also cut off his head?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Can you think of anyone with whom your father might have quarreled recently?”
“No. No one,” she said quickly.
Too quickly.
“You’re certain?” he asked, watching her closely.
“Yes. Of course.”
“If you think of anyone, you will let me know?”
“If I think of anyone.”
She busied herself with closing the curtain. But he noticed that her hand was no longer steady, and it was obvious that the nervousness he’d glimpsed earlier had returned, tightening the features of her face and agitating her breathing. At first, he had mistaken her nervousness for the shyness of a young woman who felt ill at ease in company. Now he realized it was because she was afraid—afraid of
him
.
And of what he might learn.
Chapter 11
“H e collected
heads
?” Sir Henry Lovejoy’s already high-pitched voice rose to a shrill squeak. “Men should be buried—not put on display as if they were in the same category as hunting trophies!”
“I suspect he didn’t see the heads as all that different from the daggers and pincushions he also collected,” said Sebastian.
The two men were walking up Bow Street toward the public office. The footpaths were still dark and wet from the latest rain, with gray clouds pressing low on the city and promising more. Lovejoy was silent for a moment, as if trying—and failing—to understand such a mentality. “It’s a disturbing coincidence—that the man should collect the heads of historical figures, only to have someone cut off his own.”
“If it is a coincidence.”
Sir Henry hunched his shoulders against the damp, blustery wind. “Most of Preston’s servants had a half day off on Sunday. But according to the butler, Preston went out for some hours on the day of his death. Unfortunately, he took a hackney rather than his own carriage, so unless we can trace the jarvey, we’re unlikely to know where he went. He returned at approximately four in the afternoon and spent some time puttering around with his collections until dining with his daughter at seven. Then, at something like nine in the evening—or perhaps half past—he went out again, walking this time, and stopped in an old public house just off Sloane Street.”
“The Monster?”
“As it happens, yes. You’ve heard of it?”
“Molly Watson told me he went there regularly. It sounds like the sort of place likely to appeal to someone with Preston’s interests.”
Sir Henry nodded. “It dates back to the days of the Dissolution. They say the name is actually a corruption of ‘the Monastery.’”
“How long was he there?”
“Not long. According to the barman, he fell into an argument with another gentleman in the taproom and stormed off shortly after ten. Fortunately, the gentleman in question is a regular patron of the establishment, so the barman was able to identify him as a banker by the name of Austen. Henry Austen.”
The name was unfamiliar to Sebastian. “What do you know of him?”
“I’ve had one of the lads looking into him. He’s the son of a Hampshire clergyman. Originally trained for the church himself, but joined the militia at the beginning of the war with France. Served a number of years, although he only saw action in Ireland. I gather he was involved in handling payroll and got caught up in the Duke of York scandal. That’s when he resigned his commission and went into banking. He’s done quite well for himself; his main bank is in Henrietta Street, here in the City, but he also has branches in various country towns such as Alton and Hythe.”
“What’s his connection with Preston?”
“That I don’t know. He seems a rather good-humored, even-tempered chap from all
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