“You heard about the explosion in Golden Square?”
“Ye’d be hard pressed t’ find a body hereabouts who hasna heard of it.”
“Did you know the charge was set directly beneath Madame Sauvage’s rooms?”
“Now, how would I know that?”
“I thought you might have heard. After all, it’s not often someone tries to blow up a London house with gunpowder.”
The cabinetmaker flung down his cloth with enough force to send thick golden globules of oil flying in all directions. “Wot ye sayin’? That I done it? Is that wot yer sayin’?”
Sebastian subtly shifted his weight, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You did threaten to kill her, remember?”
“Yeah? Well, she weren’t killed, now, was she? It was that Basque bitch wot bought it.”
Sebastian studied the man’s small black eyes. The scar across his cheek had darkened to a deep, vicious purple. “A mistake, I wonder? Or a deliberate attempt to hurt Alexi Sauvage by killing someone she loved?”
When the cabinetmaker remained silent, Sebastian said, “She didn’t kill your brother; he died of gaol fever, in prison.”
“She put him there!”
“You mean, by having the courage to stand up and say what everyone in the neighborhood knew to be true? That your brother was a brutal wife beater?”
“Why, ye-”
His face twisted with raw savagery, Bullock grabbed a long, sharp awl and lunged around the table to come at Sebastian with the tool clutched in his fist like a stiletto.
Sebastian yanked his own knife from the sheath in his boot, the carefully honed blade winking in the lamplight as he settled into a street fighter’s crouch.
The cabinetmaker drew up, his lips twitching, his fist still tight around the awl’s worn wooden handle.
“What’s the matter?” said Sebastian. “Does the idea of a fair fight give you pause? Do you prefer stabbing men in the back and blowing up women in their homes?”
A strange, eerie smile lit up the cabinetmaker’s face. “Ye think yer real smart, don’t ye? High-and-mighty lord that ye are, livin’ in that big fancy house, surrounded by all them other grand nobs. Think ye can come in here and talk t’ me like yer still a captain and I’m jest some swadkin? Think I gotta play by yer rules?”
“How do you know I was a captain?”
The man’s smile widened. “Think yer the only one can ask questions? I know all about ye-about ye and yer wife, and about the child she’s carryin’ in her belly. I even know ’bout that black cat you fancy.”
Sebastian was careful to keep all trace of his instinctive reaction off his face and out of his voice. All that remained was a cold, lethal purposefulness. “You stay away from my wife.”
“Wot’s the matter, Captain? Ye scared?”
“I see you anywhere near my wife, my house, or my cat, and you’re a dead man. You understand?”
Bullock laughed. “Ye sayin’ ye’d risk hangin’ fer killin’ the likes o’ me?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, the man’s self-satisfied smile slipped. Then it slid wide again. “I reckon maybe ye mean it, after all. But ye gots to see me comin’, don’t ye, Captain? And I can move real quiet when I wants to. Quiet as a raindrop runnin’ down a windowpane, or a dog dyin’ somewhere alone in the night.”
“I have extraordinarily good hearing,” said Sebastian.
And then he left Bullock’s workshop before he gave in to the temptation to kill the bastard then and there.
It was only afterward that Sebastian found himself wondering if he’d just made a terrible mistake.
Chapter 46
Sebastian had long ago come to the conclusion that there were two types of madmen in this world. Places like Bedlam were full of those society labeled as insane: men and women who heard voices, who lurched between mania and despair, or who were so tormented by life’s vicissitudes or their own demons that they simply disengaged from the world. Many were undoubtedly crazy enough to commit murder. But they seldom got away with it.
More dangerous by far, in Sebastian’s estimation, were those like Sampson Bullock: men with a solid grasp of reality who seemed sane, yet whose thought processes were breathtakingly brutal in their single-minded self-interest. Easily enraged and never forgiving of the most insignificant of perceived slights or injuries, they moved through life with an utter disregard for the wants and desires of those around them.
But there were times when Sebastian wondered if he was wrong, if perhaps people like Bullock weren’t actually mad, after all. Perhaps they simply lacked a fundamental component of what we like to believe it means to be human. The problem with that theory was that Sebastian had known dogs and horses capable of the very love and compassion such individuals seemed to lack. Utterly without conscience or empathy, they saw others not as fellow beings but as targets or opportunities. Not all were violent or lethal. But those who were could kill without guilt, convinced that their victims either brought death on themselves or were too inconsequential to merit consideration.
A man like Bullock could easily have killed both Alexi Sauvage’s brother and her aging, faithful servant as part of a twisted plan to avenge himself on the woman he held responsible for his own brother’s death. For the same reason, Bullock was also more than capable of cutting out a man’s heart. Sebastian had no evidence to suggest that Bullock knew about the relationship between the young French doctor and the woman Bullock hated, but it was certainly possible that in the process of following and watching her, Bullock had somehow learned of the connection. And yet. .
Why would Bullock also kill and mutilate Colonel Andre Foucher- or try to kill Ambrose LaChapelle? That implied a connection to the Bourbons or an interest in the peace negotiations that Bullock lacked. The connection between LaChapelle and the peace delegation was tenuous, but there.
Still thoughtful, Sebastian turned his steps toward the Gifford Arms.
• • •
Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil was feeding the ducks beside the Ornamental Water in St. James’s Park when Sebastian walked up to him.
“There was another murder last night. Just over there, on Birdcage Walk,” Sebastian said. “Did you know?”
The Frenchman scattered a handful of bread crumbs, his attention seemingly all for the ducks quacking and jostling around him. “According to what I am hearing, the attack was on one of the mollies who frequent the walk. What could it possibly have to do with me?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Perhaps you see connections where none exist.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Frenchman smiled faintly and scattered more bread crumbs.
Sebastian said, “I’ve been listening to some interesting whispers. Whispers that tell me Damion Pelletan discovered you’re playing a double game; that while you pretend to serve the interests of France, you’re actually cooperating with Lord Jarvis to ensure that the peace negotiations come to naught.”
Vaundreuil puffed out his chest and lowered his heavy dark brows with an admirable display of moral outrage. “That’s preposterous! Why would I do such a thing?”
“Material reward is the most typical reason. That, and revenge. For some previous slight, perhaps? Then again, there’s always the possibility of securing a prestigious position in the restoration government-although if that is your motive, you can’t be aware of Marie-Therese’s scathing opinion of you.”
Vaundreuil threw away the last of the bread crumbs in a swift, angry gesture. “What are you suggesting? That I killed Damion Pelletan because he discovered I’m an English agent of influence? What about Andre Foucher? Am I to have done away with him for the same reason? And why, precisely, would I steal their hearts and eyes? As grisly mementos of their past faithfulness and service?” He swiped one hand through the air before him as if brushing away an annoying fly. “Bah! This is ridiculous!”