Who Buries the Dead (11 page)

T
here was nothing in London quite like Basil Thistlewood’s coffeehouse, built overlooking the broad waters of the Thames at Chelsea. It had been in existence for nearly a century, with new and exotic items added to its overstuffed rooms every year. Admission was free for the price of a cup of coffee or the purchase of a catalogue.

“You’d like a catalogue, my lord?” asked Thistlewood, bustling forward as soon as he heard Sebastian talking to the barman. “Tuppence each. Three for fivepence, and a tanner will get you a personal guided tour.”

The coffeehouse owner was a wiry, gaunt-faced man, probably somewhere in his early fifties, with watery, bloodshot eyes, beard-stubbled cheeks, and unruly gray eyebrows that met over the bridge of a ponderous nose. A stale, musty odor rose from his old-fashioned frock coat and yellowed, ruffle-fronted shirt, as if he’d borrowed his clothes from one of the cases in his exhibit.

“A personal tour, please,” said Sebastian, duly handing over his sixpence.

Thistlewood swept a courtly bow. “Right this way, your lordship.”

He ushered Sebastian into a chamber jammed with dusty, glass-topped cases and walls crowded close with everything from curious pieces of driftwood and giant turtle shells to primitive spears and antique swords. Items too large for the cases or walls—a stuffed alligator, giant elephants’ tusks, even a canoe fashioned from a hollowed-out log—hung from the ceiling.

Pausing in the center of the room, Thistlewood sucked in a deep breath and launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed spiel, delivered in a singsong voice. “In this case here, you’ll see a Roman bishop’s crosier, antique coins found when they were laying down new water pipes in Bath, and a set of prayer beads made from the bones of St. Anthony of Padua.”

“Really?” said Sebastian, peering at the rosary. The beads certainly appeared to have been made from someone’s bones.

Thistlewood squared his shoulders and looked affronted. “Surely you are not questioning their authenticity?”

“No; of course not.”

They moved to the next case. “The most notable items here are a piece of sandstone bearing the fossilized imprints of ancient ferns, and a giant frog found on the Isle of Dogs.”

Sebastian studied the stuffed amphibian, which looked to be a good fourteen inches long. “Somehow, I suspect he was not native to fair England.”

“No,” agreed Thistlewood. “Most likely a stowaway hopped off one of the ships docked there, I always thought.” He raised a hand toward the wall above the case. “The sword you see hanging here was used in the coronation of King Charles himself. And—”

“First, or Second?” asked Sebastian, his interest caught.

“First.” Thistlewood nodded to the next case. “And here we have Queen Elizabeth’s prayer book and strawberry dish.”

“Where did you get all these”—Sebastian paused, searching for an appropriate word, and finally settled on—“objects?”

“The original collection was begun by my grandfather, the first Basil Thistlewood. He was valet to none other than Sir Hans Sloane himself, before Sir Hans bequeathed most of his collection to the nation. When my grandfather left his service in 1725 to open a coffeehouse on these premises, Sir Hans most graciously gave him a number of items to put on display. My grandfather himself increased the collection considerably, as did my father after him, and I have continued the tradition. Fortunately, we are quite popular with sea captains, who every year bring us a variety of new, interesting specimens from their worldwide voyages.”

Sebastian leaned over a nearby case to study the array of stone projectile points displayed there. “I’ve heard you were recently frustrated in your attempts to acquire the Duke of Suffolk’s head.”

Thistlewood worked his jaw back and forth, as if so overcome with fury as to find it difficult to spit out his words. “It should have been mine. I’m the one who heard about it first and identified it.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve long suspected Suffolk was buried at Holy Trinity. So when the sexton told me they’d found a small box containing a head while in the process of setting the crypt in order, it took only one look for me to know right away whose it was.”

“You recognized him?”

“Instantly! The resemblance to his portraits is striking.”

“I’d always heard Suffolk was beheaded with one clean stroke.”

“A tale, I’m afraid, put about to quiet the murmurs of the populace.” He nodded to a long-handled sword hanging near the doorway to the next room. “See that? It’s an executioner’s sword. They were typically between three and four feet long, and about two inches wide. The handle was made like that so the executioner could grip it in both fists to get a good leverage.”

Sebastian studied the plain, heavy blade. According to family tradition, two of his mother’s ancestors had lost their heads on Tower Hill. But until now, Sebastian had never given much thought to the particulars of their executions.

“There were two different types of blocks used, you know,” said Thistlewood, warming to what was obviously a favorite topic. “With a high block, like this one here”—he paused to put his hand on a worn chunk of wood several feet high, with a large, polished scoop on one side and a slight indentation on the other—“the prisoners would kneel and bend forward so that their heads rested over the top of the block. But with the low block, the poor condemned souls had to lie down flat with their necks on this little thing here—” He pointed to a long, narrow length of wood resting atop a nearby case. “That put their heads at all the wrong angle for the job, I’m afraid.”

Sebastian tried to ignore an unpleasant tickling sensation along the base of his skull.

“Of course,” Thistlewood was saying, “the block was only used when the executioner employed an axe, rather than the sword. Here in England, we tended to favor the style of axe you see here—” He pointed to a massive specimen hanging precariously from the ceiling. “It’s basically modeled after a woodsman’s axe.”

“Looks nasty,” said Sebastian, squinting up at it.

“It is indeed. The handle is a full five feet long, while the blade is ten inches. In Germany, they used something quite different—essentially a giant butcher’s cleaver, except with a longer handle. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those, so I can’t show it to you.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Sebastian. “How many blows did it take to cut off the head of Charles I?”

“Just one; all the reports agree on that. Whoever did it obviously knew his craft, which wasn’t usually the case, I’m afraid. The executioner who did for Anne Boleyn used a sword and did it in one stroke too; but then, he was brought over from France special, at her request, because he was so good. The thing is, beheadings weren’t all that common, and they were typically done by the hangman, who botched the job more often than not. Took three blows to get the head off Mary, Queen of Scots. And the idiot who did for the Countess of Salisbury struck the poor old woman
eleven times
before he got the job done.”

Sebastian found his gaze drawn, again, to the executioner’s sword. “So how did Preston end up with Suffolk’s head, if you’re the one who first identified it?”

“Pure greed on the part of the sexton, I’m afraid. Once he knew what he had, he went trotting off to Preston and offered to sell it to him.”

“It must have been infuriating to discover that Preston had managed to buy Suffolk’s head away from you.”

“Wasn’t it just!” agreed Thistlewood. “Why, I—” He broke off, eyes widening as he suddenly became aware of the dangerous trap yawning before him. Clearing his throat, he turned away to rub the sleeve of his coat across the top of the nearest case, as if wiping at a smudge. “But then, happens all the time. I’m used to it.”

“You didn’t quarrel with Preston because of it?”

“Well . . . we may’ve had words when we met by chance in Sloane Square one day. But nothing serious. No, no; I’m a humble man; can’t expect to compete with those blessed with deep pockets.”

“What is the going price for a head?”

“Depends on who the head originally belonged to, I suppose. But I couldn’t really say. Virtually everything here was given to me—or my father or grandfather—to be put on display for all to see.”

“I take it Preston bought many of the objects he collected?”

“He did, yes. But then, he could afford to, couldn’t he?”

“And you’re saying the sexton who found Suffolk’s head took it to Preston?”

Thistlewood’s enormous nose quivered with a renewed rush of indignation. “The very day I identified it!”

“Did he actually take the head to Alford House and offer it to Preston himself?”

“I suppose. I mean, he must’ve, right?”

Rather than answer, Sebastian let his gaze wander, again, around that extraordinary collection. “Who would one contact, if he were interested in trafficking in rare objects of an historical nature?”

“Well, there’s Christie’s, of course.”

“What if one were interested in something a little more . . . illicit?”

Thistlewood gave a quick look around, as if to make certain no one was listening, then leaned in close to whisper, “There’s a shop in Houndsditch, kept by an Irishwoman name of Priss Mulligan. She carries all sorts of things. Some of her stock comes from émigrés and others down on their luck, but not all. Or so I’m told.”

“Provides a market for stolen goods, does she?”

Thistlewood nodded solemnly. “Works with smugglers bringing items in from the Continent too. Only, you didn’t hear that from me, if you get my drift. She’s not someone you want to get riled at you. Folks who cross Priss Mulligan have a nasty habit of disappearing—or turning up dead in horrible ways.” He closed his eyes and gave a little shudder. “Horrible ways.”

“Do you think Stanley Preston could have run afoul of her?”

“Could’ve. Hadn’t thought about it, but there’s no denying he definitely could’ve. Heard he bought a Spanish reliquary from her a month or so ago. Some saint’s foot, although I can’t recall precisely whose, at the moment. Thing is, Preston had a temper—hot enough to override his sense, when he was in a passion. And anyone who deals with Priss Mulligan had best keep their wits about them at all times.” Thistlewood paused, his tongue flicking out to lick his dry lips. “You . . . you won’t be telling her where you heard any of this, will you?”

“I can be very discreet,” said Sebastian. “Tell me this: What do you think Preston was doing at Bloody Bridge that night?”

Thistlewood’s eyes went wide. “Don’t know. Does seem a queer place for him to be, don’t it?”

“Any chance he might have been taking possession of some new object for his collection?”

“At Bloody Bridge? In the middle of the night? Whatever for?”

“Perhaps the object—or objects—were illicitly acquired by the seller.”

“But . . . why Bloody Bridge?”

Sebastian had no answer for that.

He studied the curiosity collector’s slack, seemingly innocent face. “Where were you Sunday night?”

“Me?” Thistlewood’s gaze faltered beneath Sebastian’s scrutiny and drifted away. “Same place I am every night: here.”

“Never left?”

“Not for a moment, from noon till past midnight.” He cleared his throat. “Now; shall we move on to the next room?”

“Please.”

Sebastian continued to listen with only half his attention while Thistlewood droned on about Roman pitchers and Pacific dart guns. He figured it was at most a mile—probably less—from the coffeehouse to Bloody Bridge. It would have been easy enough for Thistlewood to walk there, whack off Preston’s head with one of the many swords in his collection, and hurry back, all within half an hour.

It was certainly a possibility; from the sound of things, Thistlewood was angry enough about Preston’s purchase of Suffolk’s head to have decided to exact such a ghoulish revenge.

Except, how would Thistlewood have known to seek his victim that night at Bloody Bridge?

“N
i-ew mackerel, six a shilling!”

Sebastian pushed his way through the ragged crowd of rough men, desperate-looking women, and sharp-faced, grimy urchins clogging the narrow lane known as Houndsditch. The decaying, centuries-old buildings rising from the pavement cast the lane in deep shadow, their upper stories leaning precariously toward one another until it seemed they might almost touch overhead.

“Wi-ild Hampshire rabbits, two a shilling.”

“Buy my trap, my rat trap!”

Once, Houndsditch had been nothing more than a defensive trench dug along the western edge of London’s city walls. Running southeast from Bishopsgate to Aldgate, it eventually grew so foul with refuse and offal and the bloated carcasses of dead dogs that city officials ordered it filled in. Never a fashionable area, it was occupied today mainly by immigrants and their descendants, particularly Huguenots from France, Jews from the Netherlands, Germany, and Poland, and, increasingly, the Irish. The poverty of the residents made it a center for rag fairs and secondhand shops. Crude stalls piled with everything from battered tin saucepans and worn-out boots to cheap tallow candles lined the street, while bellowing vendors dispensed hot tea from cans and guarded piles of sliced bread and butter from the hordes of ragged, starving children. The air was thick with the smells of herring, smoke, effluvia, and despair.

Priss Mulligan’s establishment stood on the corner of Houndsditch and a dark, narrow alley that curled toward Devonshire Square. Only two stories tall, with filthy, small-paned windows and sagging lintels, the structure looked to be in the final stages of dilapidation, its walls so darkened by grime as to appear almost black. Sebastian had to lean hard against the battered, warped door; a small brass bell jangled as it swung open.

He’d been expecting something similar to Basil Thistlewood’s eclectic collection of rare treasures mixed indiscriminately with the curious or merely odd. But this was more like a thieves’ den from a child’s fable, with exquisitely painted porcelain vases, snuffboxes with intricate filigreed lids, willowy Chinese maidens carved from ivory, gilded saints’ images, even a life-sized winged horse of glistening white marble.

He turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. When he came back around, he found himself being studied by a pair of beady black eyes.

“Who might you be, then?” demanded Priss Mulligan.

She couldn’t have stood more than four foot ten and was nearly as broad as she was tall, with thick dark hair and creamy white skin and puffy round arms that ended in incredibly small, childlike hands.

“A potential customer?” Sebastian suggested.

She gave a disbelieving grunt. “’Tis possible, I’m supposing. But is it likely?” She pursed her lips and shot a stream of tobacco juice into a nearby can. “Nah.”

In age, she could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, her massive hips churning beneath her high-waisted, brown bombazine gown as she came forward, her gaze never leaving his face. “You ain’t a beak; that I can tell, just looking at you.”

“No,” agreed Sebastian.

She sniffed and wiped her lips with the back of one hand.

Sebastian said, “I understand you recently sold a Spanish reliquary to a friend of mine.”

“Oh? And who might your friend be?”

“Stanley Preston.”

“Him as just got his head cut off?”

“So you did know him?”

“Sure, then, but any fool on the street would recognize that name. Ain’t often a body gets his head lopped off in London—leastways, not these days.”

“You didn’t sell him a reliquary?” Sebastian nodded to a gilded bronze receptacle molded in the shape of an arm—presumably because that’s what it contained. “Rather like that, except a foot.”

“Came out of a church in Italy, that one did.”

“How did it end up here?”

“Émigré sold it to me, just last week. Always coming in here, they are, looking to unload all manner of things. Need the money, you see.”

Sebastian caught the faint sound of a man’s hushed breathing coming from behind the curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. Someone was there, watching and listening.

He kept his gaze fixed on the woman before him. “Seems a curious item to pack when you’re fleeing for your life,” he said.

Priss Mulligan’s lips pulled back in a smile that showed small, sharp teeth stained brown by tobacco. “Some people have no sense.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Preston?”

“Didn’t say I had seen him, me.”

Sebastian studied the woman’s plump, creamy face and small, still faintly smiling mouth. Like most people who made their livings by buying and selling, she was shrewd and crafty and doubtless far from honest. But there was something else about her, something that went beyond mere venality. She was a woman whom even cocksure young boys would cross the street to avoid; whose presence made horses snort nervously and dogs slink, bellies to the ground. The degree of malevolence in her was palpable.

She was looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Have I seen you before?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

She smiled wider and pointed one fat, stubby finger at him. “I know what it is. You look more’n a bit like that rifleman keeps a tavern just off Bishopsgate. Got those same nasty yellow eyes, he does.”

“Interesting,” said Sebastian, careful to keep his voice bland, almost bored, although in truth he was fully aware of the existence of a Bishopsgate tavern keeper who looked enough like him to be his brother—or at least a half brother. “You essentially have two choices: You can either answer my questions, or I can suggest to Bow Street that an inspection of your premises might yield some interesting results.”

Her breath was coming fast now, in angry little pants. “Folks around here’ll tell you, it ain’t a good idea t’ mess with Priss Mulligan.”

“So I’ve heard.” Sebastian let his gaze drift around the crowded shop. “I don’t see any human heads.”

“Only heads I ever sell are saints’ heads, covered with silver or gilt bronze. Like that arm there.”

“When was the last time you saw Stanley Preston?”

“Never said I did; never said I didn’t.”

“So when was it?”

Her smile shifted subtly, became something reflecting true humor, although the source of her amusement escaped him. “A month or more ago it was, to be sure.”

“Who do you think killed him?”

“Someone who wanted him dead, I expect.”

“Know anyone who falls into that category?”

“Not so’s I can think of, offhand.”

“You had no disagreements with him?”

Her eyes widened with a practiced intensity and semblance of earnest honesty that almost—but not quite—struck him as comical. “I did not,” she said.

“How often would he buy from you?”

“Now and then.”

“Did he ever put in a request for anything special?”

“On occasion.”

“Such as?”

“Och, this ’n’ that.”

The breathing from the far side of the curtain grew harsher. Faster.

Sebastian said, “Must be something of a disappointment, to lose one of your best customers.”

Priss Mulligan worked the wad of tobacco in her jaw. “I got others.”

He touched his hand to his hat. “Thank you for your help.”

“Anytime, yer lordship. Anytime.”

He didn’t bother to ask how she knew he was a lord. The truth was, asking any question of the Irishwoman was unlikely to elicit either a direct or an honest response. People like Priss Mulligan lived their lives behind a miasma of subterfuge and deliberately generated fear. It said something about Stanley Preston that he had done business with the woman. Repeatedly.

Sebastian walked out of the shop into the ragged crush of Houndsditch’s overcrowded, desperately poor residents. The light was beginning to fade from the sky; whatever warmth there might once have been was gone from the day.

As he turned toward Bishopsgate, where he’d left Tom with the curricle, he was aware of a nondescript, slope-shouldered man slipping from the noisome alley alongside the shop to fall into step behind him.