Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(90)

Unfortunately, the Bishop of Salisbury was not at Warwick House on this blustery Saturday morning. According to the whey-faced footman who answered the door, the prelate typically attended the Princess only on Thursdays and Fridays. He advised Sebastian to try the Bishop’s residence. At the Bishop’s residence, a somber cleric who identified himself as Fisher’s chaplain said he believed Salisbury intended to spend the day in the Reading Room of the British Museum. The staff at the Reading Room said Salisbury had been there and gone. They suggested a local coffee shop favored by the prelate.

When he drew a blank at the coffee shop, Sebastian decided on a long shot to try the House of Lords. The snow was coming down harder now but still wet, turning the streets and footpaths into an ugly brown slush.

“It’s bloody miserable out ’ere,” said Tom through the folds of his scarf as they plowed their way up Whitehall.

Sebastian kept his head ducked as he guided the curricle around a stalled brewer’s wagon. “Hopefully he’ll be here.”

The Reverend Doctor Fisher had been around Parliament that day—several people reported seeing him. But it was long past noon before Sebastian found a harried clerk who said he rather thought the Bishop had mumbled something about spending the rest of the day in the library of St. Paul’s.

The Cathedral Library was reached from St. Paul’s southwest tower, via a grand cantilevered stone staircase that spiraled upward in sweeping swirls. The door to the library was locked. Sebastian knocked discreetly, waited, then knocked again. The minutes ticked by. Impatient, he raised a fist and pounded hard, just as the Cathedral’s choir began to sing, the sweet notes floating up from below.

“Stop that racket!” hissed a voice on the far side of the panel as unseen hands worked the bolt.

The door jerked in to reveal a shriveled, white-haired librarian, who glared at Sebastian’s proffered card, sniffed, then stood back grudgingly to admit him into the stone chamber. The Cathedral’s collection was contained within a single soaring room lined with dark oak cases and smelling strongly of musty old books. Volumes were everywhere: overflowing the shelves, stacked on tables, and cramming the wooden gallery that ran around the entire space overhead.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the Great Up in a harsh whisper, scrambling down a steep ladder from the wooden gallery above. “You’re all wet!”

Sebastian swiped a crooked elbow across his face. “You’re not an easy man to find.”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down. And stay away from the books. You are dripping!”

As far as Sebastian could tell, the Bishop and the aged librarian were the only people in the chamber, but he obligingly lowered his voice. “I’ve been thinking about the day Jane Ambrose died. You said—”

“Merciful heavens, you aren’t still going on about that, are you?”

“You said you met her in the entrance hall as she was leaving Warwick House and exchanged a few pleasantries.”

“Y-yes,” said the Bishop, drawing the word out into two syllables. “And that triviality requires you to interrupt my studies and risk ruining a collection that dates back centuries?”

Sebastian held himself very still. “Did you actually see Mrs. Ambrose leave Warwick House that day? I mean, physically walk through the gate?”

“Of course not. I told you: I encountered her in the entrance hall immediately following the Princess’s lesson. After we spoke, I continued on my way up the stairs. Why would I watch her leave?”

“And you spoke of—what? The weather?”

“It is an endless topic of conversation these days, is it not? I’d recently returned to London, and needless to say the roads were atrocious.”

“So you did speak of the weather?”

“Yes; I thought I’d made that clear. I believe I made some reference to the state of the roads and said I was fortunate I’d decided to return to London when I did, since things had become so much worse. I spent the Christmas holidays with family in Petersfield, you see.”

“And did you speak of your trip out of town?”

“Briefly. I mentioned encountering Mrs. Ambrose’s brother at a coaching inn there, and as I recall, she expressed surprise, since she was not aware of his having been out of town.”

“You saw Christian Somerset in Petersfield?”

“That’s right.”

“You know him?”

The prelate sniffed. “Let us say simply that I know of him.”

“Well enough to recognize him?”

The Bishop tilted back his head so that he could look down his impressive nose at Sebastian. “That is rather implied by what I said, is it not?”

“And when was this? That you saw Christian Somerset in Petersfield, I mean.”

“Saturday the fifteenth of January. Why?”

“You’re certain of the date?”

“Of course I am certain. It’s the day I returned to London.”

“And Mrs. Ambrose was unaware of the fact that her brother had been out of town?”

“That is what I said. Seriously, my lord, are you not listening?”

“I simply want to be certain I understand exactly what you’re telling me.”

“About a trivial, inconsequential weather conversation?”