Hero turned to look at him, the ice-filled cloth held slack in her hand. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that she personally stabbed Preston and Sterling and cut off their heads. But she wouldn’t be the first woman to hire someone to do her dirty work for her. Someone such as, say, Diggory Flynn.”
“Surely she can’t be that diabolical? To kill her own father. .”
Sebastian shrugged. “Patricide, matricide, fratricide: They seem so unnatural that we’re repelled by the very thought. Yet they happen-often enough that we’ve even coined words for them. Anne Preston wanted Captain Hugh Wyeth, but she knew he’d never marry her without her inheritance. Not because he’s a greedy fortune hunter, but because he saw what poverty did to his mother and he’s too noble to do that to a woman he loves.”
“So she removes Stanley Preston, and now she’s free to marry her captain and receive her inheritance? Is that what you’re suggesting? His noble qualms are stilled, and she never needs to worry about having to wash her own clothes in a muddy stream in some backward part of the world? Yes; it makes sense-if she’s that shockingly selfish and coldhearted. But it doesn’t give her a reason to kill Douglas Sterling.”
“Just because we don’t know of a reason doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist.”
Hero set aside the ice-filled cloth. “Why order the killer to cut off his victims’ heads?”
“Perhaps that was his own embellishment. Or perhaps she thought a more gruesome killing would help deflect suspicion from her.”
“Surely she can’t be that. . evil.”
“I wouldn’t have said so. But I’ve been wrong about people before.” He took the ice-filled cloth and carefully pressed it against his face. “The problem is, it still doesn’t explain why Stanley Preston made a most uncharacteristic visit to Bucket Lane just hours before he was killed.”
“That could be entirely unrelated to anything.”
“It could be,” said Sebastian, remembering the dusky-skinned woman with the long neck and the strange, turquoise eyes. “But I doubt it. And if it is related, then whoever Preston went to see that day might very well be in danger-although they probably don’t know it.”
Hero went to hunker down beside the black cat curled up before the dressing room fire. “One of the costermongers I interviewed lives near Fish Street Hill,” she said, her hand trailing down the cat’s back. “I could ask him to look into it. They all seem to know each other.” She shifted her hand to scratch behind the cat’s ears. “And Rowan Toop? How do you think he fits into all this?”
“I think he stole the royal relics from the crypt and was selling them to Preston. They’d arranged to meet at Bloody Bridge, except by the time Toop arrived, Preston was already dead. Toop was probably so horrified by what he discovered that he ran off-dropping the inscribed coffin strap in the process. It’s hard to say whether or not he saw-or knew-something that could have identified the killer. But the killer obviously thought he did. And killed him too.”
Hero kept her gaze on the cat. “Or Toop could have been so rattled by recent events that he simply slipped in the mud while taking his dog for a walk and pitched into the Thames-without anyone’s help.”
“True.” Sebastian set aside the melting ice and reached for a clean cloth to dry his face. “I’m hoping Gibson will have an answer when I see him tomorrow.”
If he’s not lost in an opium-induced fog, thought Sebastian.
Chapter 43
Monday, 29 March
After some thirty-six hours, Rowan Toop’s corpse had taken on the vague odor of rotting fish.
Naked and eviscerated, it lay on the stone table in the outbuilding at the base of Paul Gibson’s unkempt yard. The Irishman was there, cold sober and cranky. He was not singing.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said when Sebastian came to stand in the doorway.
“Good morning,” said Sebastian.
The surgeon grunted. “Nice black eye.”
“Thank you.”
Sebastian took one look at what was left of Toop, then looked elsewhere. “So did he drown? Or was he murdered?”
“Maybe both. Maybe one, maybe the other. It’s hard to say.”
“It is?”
“It is.” Gibson set aside his knife with a clatter and reached for a rag to wipe the gore from his hands. “He could have been hit over the head, then thrown into the river, whereupon he drowned. Or he could have fallen and hit his own head, slipped into the river, and drowned. He could even have slipped into the river, hit his head on something, and then drowned.”
“But you’re saying he was alive when he went into the water?”
“Not necessarily. He could also have been hit on the head, died, and then been tossed into the river. That’s a nasty blow he’s got there-nasty enough to kill him without any help from the river.”
“Was there water in his lungs?”
“There was. Water, sand-even a few bits of grass.”
“So he must have breathed all that stuff in. Right?”
“No. If there hadn’t been any water in his lungs, then I could tell you, yes, he was probably dead when he hit the water. But the action of the river could have driven water into his lungs even after he was dead.” Gibson picked up his knife and pointed at what Sebastian realized must be Rowan Toop’s lungs, sitting on a rusty tray parked on a nearby shelf. “See that white foam?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, who had no desire to peer too closely.
“You often find a fine white froth like that in the lungs of drownings pulled from the Thames. But you also see it in the lungs of men whose hearts have failed, or who’ve hit their heads. Now, your Rowan Toop’s heart was just fine. But you obviously can’t say the same thing about his head.”
Sebastian blew out a long, frustrated breath. “So you can’t tell me anything?”
“No. Only thing remotely queer about any of this is that they found him so fast. A freshly dead body’ll usually sink like a rock. They don’t typically come up again until enough gas builds in their guts to float them to the surface. And this time of year, that usually takes about five days.”
“Five days? So why was Toop found on Romney Island less than twelve hours after he disappeared?”
Gibson shrugged. “Must’ve been something about the way he went in the water. Trapped air in his cassock. It happens. He floated down to the island and got caught in the trees before he had a chance to sink.”
Sebastian braced his hands against the stone table and stared at the dead man’s pale, bony face. “I can’t believe he just slipped and hit his head. Somebody killed him.”
“Probably,” agreed Gibson. “But unless they find a bloody cudgel by the side of the river, you’ll never be able to prove it.”
Later that morning, Sebastian joined Sir Henry Lovejoy at a coffeehouse just off the Strand.
“I’ve had the lads looking into this Diggory Flynn you were asking about,” said Lovejoy, taking a cautious sip of his hot chocolate. “Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to find a trace of him.”
“It could be an assumed name.” Sebastian wrapped his hands around his own steaming coffee. “I’ve just come from Gibson’s surgery.”
“And?”
“He says Toop’s postmortem is inconclusive; the virger may have been killed, or he may simply have slipped and fallen in the river.”
Lovejoy looked thoughtfully at Sebastian’s discolored eye. But all he said was, “Perhaps that explains why Toop’s head wasn’t cut off-because he wasn’t actually murdered.”
“He was murdered,” said Sebastian.
“Then how do you explain the differences in both the method of murder and the treatment of the body?”
“It could be because the killer didn’t have time to be more grisly. Or perhaps he didn’t want us to realize that Toop’s death was connected to those of Preston and Sterling. Or. .”
“Or?” prompted Lovejoy.
Sebastian rested his elbows on the table. “Ask yourself: Why would a killer cut off his victims’ heads?”