Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(61)

She tipped her head to one side. “So certain?”

“Yes.” He held out one of the glasses, and after a moment she took it.

She said, “Someone tried to kill Devlin in Fleet Street.”

“So I had heard.”

“Was that you?”

Jarvis took a sip of his own wine. “He told you I warned him?”

“As it happens, no; he did not.”

“Interesting.”

Hero waited a moment, then said, “I notice you didn’t say it wasn’t you.”

“Not this time.”

“I hope that was said in jest.”

Jarvis reached out to touch her cheek in a rare gesture of affection. “I did not try to kill your tiresome husband. Not yet.” He hesitated a moment, his expression vaguely troubled, or perhaps simply confused. “Why do you continue to take such a personal interest in this woman’s death? Simply because you happened to be the one to find her?”

“That’s part of it, I suppose. But it’s also because . . .” She paused, searching for a way to put her thoughts into words. “If I were to simply go on with my life, forgetting about her and how she died, then it would be as if I myself had had a part in killing her.”

“This is nonsense. You barely knew the woman.”

“You think that should matter?” She searched his face, but found none of the reassurance she so desperately needed to see there and gave a faint shake of her head. “This is the fundamental difference between you and me, isn’t it? The Kingdom and its monarchy mean everything to you, and you will do anything to serve and protect them. Yet the people—the hardworking, poor, everyday people who form the bedrock of what Britain is and always has been—are to you nothing more than the coal beneath our soil or the timber in our forests: a resource to be exploited and, if necessary, destroyed.”

“Oh, I care about the people of Britain. But on an individual level? No, of course not. That would be ridiculous.”

Hero shook her head. “I can’t understand that way of thinking.”

“A defect you obviously share with your husband,” said Jarvis.

But at that, Hero only smiled.





Chapter 35

Sebastian was cleaning his pistol at his desk when he heard a distant door slam, followed by a shout. He looked up as Tom came skidding into the room.

“I got what ye wanted, gov’nor!” exclaimed the tiger, ignoring Morey’s loud hiss from the entrance hall. “I been askin’ around the Percy Arms about that Italian cove yer interested in, and I finally found a chambermaid says ’e went off about midday last Thursday. ’E come back fer a bit t’ change ’is clothes and get ’is ’arp, but then he went off again.”

Sebastian carefully replaced the pistol’s flint. “She’s certain about the day?”

“Aye. Says it was the day they got their chimneys swept, and the sweep’s boy got stuck up the one in Vescovi’s room for hours. Only Vescovi never knew it ’cause he didn’t come in till late!”



A respectable eighteenth-century redbrick inn with white sash windows and a tidy, symmetrical facade, the Percy Arms lay on Red Lion Square in Holborn. When Sebastian pushed open the street door and turned toward the public room, a warm atmosphere heavy with the smells of coal and tobacco smoke, roasting meat and spilled ale enveloped him. He ordered a tankard and then went to pull out the opposite chair of the table where Signor Valentino Vescovi sat eating a plate of sausages beside the fire.

The Italian froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Per l’amor di Dio. What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” said Sebastian, settling himself comfortably.

“But I’ve told you everything I know!”

Sebastian took a slow sip from his tankard and set it on the table between them. “I think not.”

Vescovi thrust a large chunk of sausage into his mouth and chewed in silence.

Sebastian said, “You can begin by telling me where you really were last Thursday. And don’t even think of trying to convince me you were here all day, because I now know that for a lie. I did warn you, did I not?”

The Italian swallowed his half-chewed sausage, his eyes going wide.

“Where were you?” Sebastian said again.

“With the Big Princess—Princess Caroline of Wales,” said Vescovi, his voice hoarse.

Sebastian sat back in his chair and folded his arms at his chest. “You do realize I will check, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes—of course. But I was there. I swear it.”

“All afternoon and evening?”

The harpist twitched one shoulder. “Late afternoon to evening. Before that, I was skating.”

“Why so long?”

“Pardon?”

“Why were you at Connaught House so long? You were obviously there for something more than a simple music lesson.”

Vescovi sat up straighter and said with an assumption of great dignity, “Her Highness was hosting a dinner party, and I provided the music.”

“Oh? And who was at this dinner party?”

Vescovi frowned. “I’m not convinced I should tell you that.”

Sebastian met the man’s gaze and held it. “Actually, I rather think you should.”