THE SEBASTIAN ST. CYR MYSTERY SERIES
What Angels Fear
When Gods Die
Why Mermaids Sing
Where Serpents Sleep
For my daughters,
Samantha and Danielle
ONE murder makes a Villain,
MILLIONS a Hero: Princes are privileged
To kill, and numbers sanctify the crime.
Ah! Why will Kings forget that they are men?
And men that they are brethren? Why delight
In HUMAN SACRIFICE? Why burst the ties
Of Nature, that should knit their souls together
In one soft bond of amity and love?
They yet still breathe destruction, still go on,
Inhumanly ingenious, to find out
New pain for life, new terrors for the grave,
Artificers of death! Still Monarchs dream
Of universal empire, growing up
From universal ruin. Blast the design
Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied Victims at Ambitions shrine!
—From “Death: A Poetical Essay,” by Dr. Beilby Porteous, Bishop of London 1789-1809, The Cambridge Intelligencer (September 14, 1793)
Chapter 1
TANFIELD HILL, TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1812
His breath coming in undignified gasps, the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw abandoned the village high street and struck out through the lanky grass of the churchyard. He was a small, plump man, well into his middle years, his hair sparse and graying, his knees stiff. Looking up, he saw the belfry of the village church silhouetted dark against the white of the evening sky, and suppressed a groan.
“What have I done? What have I done?” he murmured to himself in a kind of chant. He never should have lingered so long with old Mrs. Cummings. Yes, the woman was dying, but he’d done what he could to ease her passing, and one did not keep the Bishop of London waiting—especially when one was a lowly churchman who owed the Bishop’s family his living.
Hot and breathless now in his haste, the Reverend reached the sweep of gravel before the church. His step faltered, the small stones crunching beneath the leather soles of his shoes. “Merciful heavens,” he whispered, his jaw sagging at the sight of the Bishop’s carriage, its coachman dozing on the box. “He’s here.”
Swallowing hard, Earnshaw cast a searching glance around the ancient churchyard. Despite the lengthening shadows, the jagged piles of stones and aged timbers left from the demolition of the charnel house that had once stood against the north wall of the chancel were clearly visible. But Bishop Prescott was nowhere in sight.
The Reverend hesitated, the urge to rush forward warring with a craven desire to duck into the sacristy for a lantern. He pushed on, his heart thumping painfully in his chest as he neared the gaping hole before him. The workmen had accidentally broken through the thin brick wall that afternoon. The wall had concealed a forgotten staircase of worn stone steps that led down to an ancient crypt far older even than the venerable Norman nave above it.
During his ten years of service here at St. Margaret’s, Malcolm Earnshaw had heard vague rumors of a crypt, sealed decades ago for health reasons. But nothing the Reverend had heard had prepared him for the workmen’s gruesome discovery.
Tugging his handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed the linen folds against his mouth and nostrils as the foul air of the crypt wafted up to him. He was near enough now to see the glow of lantern light on the worn steps coming up from below. The Bishop had indeed gone before him.
Again Earnshaw hesitated, not from indecision this time but from revulsion at the horror of what lay below. The Bible taught that the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible. And again in Ezekiel it was written that God shall put flesh on the bones of the dead and breathe life into them. Earnshaw knew that. Yet still he found himself trembling at the need to confront once again a sight that might have been conjured from the vilest visions of Dante’s Inferno.
Grasping the rusted railing that ran along one side of the steps, he stumbled down the shadowy stairs toward the flickering light below. “I most humbly beg your pardon, Bishop Prescott,” he began, his voice echoing back to him from that sepulchral vault. “I do hope I’ve not kept you waiting long?”
The oppressive silence of the crypt closed around him. Built of rough stone covered in limestone mortar and with a low vaulted ceiling supported by worn columns, the bays of the chamber stretched before him in shadowy phalanxes of death. Piles of coffins stacked five and six high were crammed into nearly every bay, their wood warped and split to reveal tomb-blackened remnants of tattered clothing and the occasional, unmistakable gleam of a skull or long bone.
But that clean scouring of time was rare. What truly horrified the Reverend and caused him to tighten his grip on the stair railing was the way the dry air had combined with the high concentration of lime to preserve most of the burials. All too often, what spilled from those crushed tombs was an arm or leg still recognizably human, or a hair-topped nightmare of a face, its flesh shriveled and tanned like that of a mummy brought back from Egypt.
“Bishop Prescott?” Earnshaw called again, his voice quavering. Misled by the gleam of lamplight, he’d obviously erred in choosing to come here directly. The Bishop must simply have abandoned his lantern in the crypt and returned to the sacristy to wait.
Devastated by his error, Earnshaw was turning back toward the stairs when his gaze fell on the far end of the chamber. A man lay facedown beside the last worn, spiraled column. Only this was not some ancient, desiccated corpse tumbled from its collapsed coffin.
“Bishop Prescott,” said Earnshaw with a gasp, recognizing the man’s tall, gaunt form, the distinctive purple cassock, the thinning white hair worn unusually long.
The Reverend staggered to where the Bishop lay with his head turned slightly to one side, his pale gray eyes open wide and blankly staring. From beneath the matted, crushed side of his head, a spreading stain of blood ran in a slow, dark rivulet across the ancient stone floor.
Chapter 2
LONDON, THE EARLY HOURS OF WEDNESDAY, 8 JULY 1812
The Circular Room at Carlton House was an inner sanc tum reserved for the most intimate friends of His Royal Highness George, Prince Regent. Here, amidst the glitter of crystal chandeliers and the glories of blue silk draped in imitation of a Roman tent, those with the privilege of entrée gathered late into the night to drink wine and listen to music and bask in all the benefits of being in the royal favor.
But tonight, the Prince was in a petulant mood, his full, almost feminine lower lip thrust out in a pout. “I hear the Bishop of London is set to give a speech against slavery before the Lords this Thursday,” said the Regent, snapping his fingers for another bottle.