Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(51)

He told himself that one of these days he was going to need to make peace with the mystery of his origins and accept that he would probably never learn what he was so desperate to know.

He told himself these things. And still hope thrummed within him, undeniable and irrepressible.





Chapter 30

After leaving the river, Sebastian went first to the Admiralty, where he made inquiries into the fate of a certain Rothschild galley. Then, pondering what he’d learned, he turned his steps east again, toward the Bank of England and the Exchange.

Nathan Rothschild lived in the same modest brick residence from which he operated his businesses. Situated on a drab court off St. Swithin’s Lane, just a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, the Stock Exchange, and the official residence of the Mayor of London, the house was as squat and ugly as the warehouse that stood beside it. Dressed as he was for his meeting at the Cat and Fiddle, Sebastian half expected the middle-aged manservant in rusty livery who opened the door to turn him away. But before Sebastian had a chance to present his card, the man bowed and said, “Lord Devlin, yes? If you will kindly step into the bookroom, I will apprise Mr. Rothschild of your arrival.”

Sebastian was shown to a small, frigid room lined with shelves stuffed with dusty ledgers and crowded with three tall desks. None of the desks had a stool, and there were no chairs in the room. He was standing at the narrow window overlooking the court and watching a couple of workmen transfer wooden crates from the back of a wagon to the warehouse next door when he heard Rothschild’s heavy tread coming down the stairs.

“Vhat the devil do you vant now?” the financier demanded as he drew up just inside the doorway. His drab old-fashioned frock coat was frayed at the hems; the overlong graying red hair fringed a balding pate.

Sebastian turned to face him. “Tell me about the Viking.”

Rothschild’s full lower lip jutted out, and he closed the door behind him with a snap. “Vhat about it?”

“I’m told it was caught smuggling gold guineas.”

“That had nothing to do vith me.”

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”

Rothschild snorted. “I don’t care vhat you believe.”

From somewhere up above came the sound of a child’s laughter; then someone began playing the piano with exquisite skill. Sebastian glanced toward the sound. “According to the Admiralty, the Viking was seized in the Channel on the night of January third. Given the excellence of your family’s intelligence apparatus, I suspect it’s more than likely that you received word of the Viking’s fate the very next day—which coincidently happens to have been the last Tuesday of the Great Fog and the date of Jane Ambrose’s final visit to this house. So what happened? Did she overhear something she wasn’t supposed to hear? A conversation in which you betrayed your prior knowledge of the galley’s illegal shipment, perhaps? Is that why she was frightened? Not because you terminated your arrangement with her, but because you threatened her—perhaps even threatened to kill her if she told anyone what she had heard?”

Not a single trace of emotion showed on Rothschild’s face—not surprise, alarm, fear, or anger; he remained utterly inscrutable. “Vas Jane Ambrose here on the fourth? I do not recall.”

“You know she was.”

Rothschild shrugged. “And if your supposition vere true—vhich of course I in no way concede—do you seriously suppose that I would admit to it?”

Sebastian gave the man a hard, tight smile. “Actually, no. I’d expect you to react precisely as you have—scornfully dismissive, arrogant, and utterly unconcerned with the death of a talented, innocent young woman you knew.”

Rothschild made a rude noise. “I did not kill that voman.”

“What about the two men who attacked me the other day in Fleet Street? Did you send them?”

For the first time Sebastian saw the faintest hint of a reaction in the man’s pale protruding eyes, quickly hidden by lowered lids. “I haven’t the slightest idea vhat you are talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” Sebastian picked up his hat from where it rested on the nearest desk.

Rothschild opened the door for him. “As for the Viking, you don’t understand the importance of vhat you have bumbled into. Take my advice and stay out of it.”

“Oh? Or you’ll—what?” said Sebastian. “Send someone to kill me? You already tried that, remember?”

Something flickered again in the financier’s pale eyes. Something angry and brutal. But Sebastian noticed that he didn’t deny it.



“You think Rothschild is the one who sent those men to kill you?” Gibson asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Sebastian as the two men sat drinking mulled wine beside Gibson’s kitchen fire. “Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll ever be able to prove it.”

“And Jane Ambrose? Did he kill her, too?”

“I’d be inclined to think so, except . . .”

Gibson glanced over at him. “Except?”

Sebastian rocked back on his bench and crossed his arms. “I don’t know. Something feels wrong about it. Either that or I’m just missing something—something important.”

“When’s the fellow’s inquest?”