Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(94)
“Oye!” yelped the bereft drinker as Sebastian ducked.
Erupting out the back of the tent, he caught his foot on one of the stakes holding up the canvas and nearly went down. “Shit,” he swore, stumbling against the mound of icy snow that formed the edge of a nearby skittles alley just as Somerset yanked the heavy wooden ball from the hands of one of the players and threw it at Sebastian’s head.
Sebastian feinted sideways, his slush-encrusted boots sliding on the smooth ice of the alley to send him smashing into the skittles. The pins went flying, and a roar of indignation rose from the players.
Jumping the far edge of the alley, he ran on, ducking beneath a young lady soaring high on a swing. Up ahead, he saw Somerset swerve onto one of the Frost Fair’s short side “streets.” Sebastian raced after him, past a last straggling shoemaker’s and a toy stand. And then they were in the open, heading out across the river’s ragged, uneven ice toward the opposite bank.
A small rivulet of water still ran down the middle of the river. Farther upstream, the gap had been bridged with planks, with boatmen there to hand fairgoers across for a small fee. But there were no planks or boatmen here, and as Somerset neared the center of the river he was forced to veer right again, running straight toward the looming stone arches of London Bridge.
Sebastian pelted after him, his breath coming in hard gasps, his boots slipping and sliding on the melting ice. Out here, away from the Frost Fair, the world was white: white sky, white ice, white snow, with a thin black ribbon of water surging beside them as they ran on and on.
They’d almost reached the bridge when a loud crack-crack cut through the night. A chorus of screams arose from the distant fair as a massive section of the ice sheared off in front of them with a roaring crash. Skidding to a halt at the edge of the ice, Somerset swung around, his gaze darting frantically from side to side as he fought to draw in air.
“End of the line,” said Sebastian.
Somerset shook his head, his chest shuddering with the intensity of his breathing. The rain poured down around them. “If you want me, you’re going to have to kill me. I’ve seen men hanged. I’m not dying like that.”
“They’ll never put you on trial,” said Sebastian. From the distance came more shrieks and cries of alarm as another loud crack echoed across the frozen river and fairgoers and booth keepers alike started a frantic rush toward solid ground. “They can’t afford to let anyone know about the Princess’s letters.”
The printer gave a ragged laugh. “So you’re saying—what? That Lord Jarvis will simply send one of his henchmen to Newgate to garrote me in my sleep? I suppose that’s better than hanging. Marginally.”
“Why the hell didn’t you just admit what had happened to your sister that day and face the music?”
Somerset took a step back, then another, his gaze never leaving Sebastian’s face. “I can’t go to prison again. If you’d ever been in prison, you’d understand that.”
“So instead you murdered Edward Ambrose? Just so you could cast suspicion away from you and onto your best friend?”
Somerset’s nostrils flared wide, his eyes wild. “I’m not proud of what I did.”
“What about Valentino Vescovi? Did you kill him, too?”
“Good God, no. Why would I?” He swiped the cuff of one sleeve across his face. “I didn’t mean to kill Jane. I loved her. She was my sister! She was all I had left in this world. Don’t you understand that?”
“Yes.”
Another series of massive cracks sounded, and the ice heaved and buckled at their feet. What had minutes before been a small rivulet in the center of the river was now a wide yawning gap. A chunk of ice with a shack advertising brandy balls went spinning past, a gray-faced man clinging to one of its upright timbers screaming, “Help! Somebody help me!” The air echoed with the terrified shrieks from the ruined Frost Fair.
Somerset took another step back, then another, the ice beneath him groaning as he edged closer to the cold, rushing black water.
“Don’t do this,” said Sebastian.
Somerset gave him a strange, wobbly smile. “Why not? You think I should fear for my immortal soul? If I have one, it’s damned already for what I’ve done. And if not, then at least I’ll end it all at a time and in a manner of my own choosing.”
If Sebastian were to lunge forward and haul Somerset back from the edge, he might have been able to save him. But for what? A few miserable days in prison that would end all too quickly in hideous certain death?
Something flickered across the other man’s face. “Thank you,” said Jane’s brother. Then he stepped back off the edge of the ice into the cold, dark water. He made only a small splash and sank quickly, coming up once with a gasp before being carried off on the swirling current.
The screams and shouts of the panicked fairgoers had for one suspended moment faded from Sebastian’s awareness; now they came roaring back. Turning, he sprinted for the riverbank, his feet slipping on the slushy surface, the ice cracking and collapsing behind him, the rain cold in his wet face. His world narrowed down to endless ice and wind-driven rain and the ragged rush of his breath rasping in and out. Then hands were reaching out to grasp him, haul him in, steady him as he sagged. Safe. He was safe.
Whirling, his breath a raw agony, he turned to stare out over the heaving, broken ice and black water.