Who Buries the Dead (4 page)

“I was under the impression Preston’s holdings in Jamaica are substantial.”

“They are. But that will all go to the son.”

“I assume the man was a Tory?”

“I should hope so. Although unlike Sidmouth, I don’t believe he was overly interested in affairs of state. His passion was collecting.”

“Collecting? What did he collect?”

“Curiosities of all sorts, although mainly antiquities. He had a special interest in items that once belonged to famous people. I’m told he has a bullet taken from the body of Lord Nelson after Trafalgar, a handkerchief some ghoulish soul dipped in Louis XVI’s blood at the guillotine . . . that sort of thing. He even has heads.”

Sebastian paused in the act of leaning down to throw more coal on the fire. “Heads? What sort of heads?”

“Those with historical significance.”

“You mean,
people’s
heads?”

“Mmm. I’m told he has Oliver Cromwell, amongst others. But don’t ask me who else because I’ve never seen them. They say he keeps them displayed in glass cases and—” She broke off. “How did you say he died?”

“Someone cut off his head.”

“Dear me.” She readjusted her shawl. “I take it you’ve involved yourself in this murder investigation?”

“I have, yes.”

“Amanda won’t like it. That girl of hers is starting her second season, and Amanda blames you for Stephanie’s failure to go off last year.”

Sebastian’s older sister, Amanda, was not one of his admirers. He said, “From what I observed, I’d say my niece was enjoying her first season far too much to settle down and bring it all to an end.”

“Yes, I’m afraid she’s your mother all over again.”

When Sebastian remained silent, she picked up her book and said, “Now, go away. I want to get back to my reading.”

He laughed and kissed her cheek again. “If you’re not careful, Aunt, people are going to start accusing you of being bookish.”

“Never happen.”

He turned toward the door. But before he reached it, she said, “Is it wise, involving yourself in this murder, Devlin? You’ve a wife and child to think of now.”

He paused to look back at her. “I am thinking of them. Whoever did this is not someone I want roving the city.”

“We pay constables and magistrates to take care of that sort of thing.”

“I don’t believe that means the rest of us can simply abdicate all responsibility for our own safety.”

“Perhaps. Yet . . . why you, Devlin? Why?”

But he only shook his head and left her there, her attention once more captured by the pages of her book.

“W
e costermongers is a proud lot,” the wizened old woman told Hero. “Ain’t no doubt about it. We all knows each other, and we keeps ourselves to ourselves.”

Her name was Mattie Robinson, and she sat perched on a three-legged stool behind an apple stall formed by laying a flat wicker tray across two upended crates. She’d been born, she said, in the year they sent poor Dick Turpin up the ladder to bed, which Hero figured made her somewhere in her seventies. She wore a man’s tattered greatcoat and had a plaid shawl knotted about her head, and still she shivered, as if the cold from all the decades spent sitting at her stall had irrevocably settled deep in her bones. She’d agreed to talk to Hero for two shillings—which was, she admitted, considerably more than an entire day’s take.

“I’ve kept me stall here at the corner of St. Martin’s Lane and Chandos Street e’er since me leg was crushed by a gentlewoman’s carriage.” She shook her head, as if the ways of the gentry were a puzzle to her. “Didn’t even stop to see if I was alive or dead.”

“When was that?”

“The year after me Gretta was born. Before that, I used t’ work the Strand.” Hero had learned enough by now to know what costermongers meant when they spoke of “working” a street or district.

“Me Nathan was alive then,” said Mattie. “He had his own handbarrow, y’know. We was doin’ grand, with two nice rooms and our own furniture.” Her watery brown eyes clouded with memories of a loss that was now some half a century in the past. “We was even sendin’ our boy, Jack, t’ school. But after I was laid up fer the better part of a year, we had to pledge all the furniture and move to an attic room in Hemming’s Row. And poor Jack, he had t’ leave school and start t’ work with his da.”

“How old was Jack?”

“Six. Afore that, Nathan used t’ hire a lad every mornin’ at the market. A coster needs a lad, you see, t’ help watch the barrow, else thieves’ll steal him blind when his back is turned. And a boy’s voice carries better’n a man’s. All them years of shoutin’ ruins a coster’s throat real quick.”

Hero checked her list of questions. “How many hours are you here, at your stall?”

“This time of year? I’m usually here from eight in the mornin’ till ten at night. My Gretta, she gets up early and goes t’ market t’ get me apples and things. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I can hobble down here by meself, but ’tain’t no way I could haul me basket of apples from market.”

“Is Gretta a coster as well?”

“Aye. She works Beaufort Wharfs with her da’s barrow. Ain’t many women can handle a barrow, but me Gretta’s always been a strappin’ lass. Course, she’s gettin’ on in years now herself; don’t know how much longer she’ll be able to keep it up. And then what’s t’ become of us?”

“She never married or had children?”

A gleam of amusement lit the older woman’s eyes. “’Tain’t one coster out of ten is married proper-like. Most see it as a waste of money could be better spent buyin’ stock. No parson never said words o’er me and Nathan, but it didn’t make no difference t’ us or t’ anybody else.”

“And Gretta?”

Mattie shook her head. “She always says costers treat their wives worse’n cheap servants, and ain’t no man ever gonna beat her.”

Hero suspected those sentiments spoke volumes about the behavior of the late Nathan Robinson, but all she said was, “What about your son, Jack? Is he a costermonger as well?”

The old woman turned her head to spit, as if needing to clear a foul taste from her mouth before she could speak. “Me Jack was impressed by His Majesty, back in the American War. Ain’t seen nor heard nothin’ from him since. I reckon he’s dead, but ain’t nobody ever told us fer certain.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hero.

Again, that faint sparkle of amusement. “What fer? Ye ain’t His Majesty, now, is ye?”

Hero laughed out loud. “No.” A donkey in the street beside them began to bray loudly. “What do you normally have for breakfast and supper?”

The question obviously struck Mattie as rather daft, but she answered readily enough. “Bread and butter, same as everybody else. A few herrings now and then. Course, if we’ve had too many days of wet weather, we don’t eat nothin’. Can’t eat up our stock money, now, can we? Then what would we do?”

Hero focused on recording the woman’s answer, being careful not to allow any emotion to show on her face. She’d thought, when she first began this series of articles, that she understood the plight of the city’s poor. But she knew now that she had never appreciated just how thin the line between survival and starvation was for a vast segment of London’s population. A few pence a day could make the difference between supper and a place to sleep, and a cold, hungry night spent huddled beneath the arches of the Adelphi.

Mattie said, “The nice thing about hunger is that while ye feel it at first, it goes off after a while if ye’ve nothin’ t’ eat. Don’t know why, but I ain’t one t’ question the goodness of God.”

“Do you go hungry often?”

“Mostly in the winter, when we’ve had a long spell of wet weather. And of course, in winter ye needs fire and candles, and they’re so dear. There’s many a night Gretta and I jist go t’ bed. But I ain’t complainin’. There’s plenty worse off than us. Least we ain’t got no little ones t’ worry about.”

Hero stared off down the street, to where a wagon loaded with lumber jolted heavily over the wet paving. There were more questions she’d intended to ask the old woman. But sometimes, the frank recitals of bad luck and loss and endless struggle threatened to overwhelm her.

“Thank you,” she said, and gave Mattie another shilling before walking away.

After the squalor and desperation of St. Martin’s Lane, there was something vaguely obscene about the opulence of the Prince of Wales’s London residence on Pall Mall.

As Hero followed a liveried and powdered footman through the silk-hung marble corridors of Carlton House, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Mattie Robinson and Gretta and the boy, Jack, dragged away from his family to fight in one of His Majesty’s wars so long ago.

The chambers set aside for the exclusive use of her father, Charles, Lord Jarvis, lay at the top of a sweeping grand staircase ornamented with exquisite plasterwork and copious gilding. She found him seated at a delicate French desk that, like so much else in the palace, had been supplied to the Prince of Wales by the same Parisian
marchand-mercier
who’d served as interior decorator to the ill-fated Marie Antoinette.

Jarvis looked up at her entrance and dismissed the footman with a curt nod, his eyes narrowing as his gaze traveled over her. “You’re looking surprisingly well—despite Devlin’s insistence on using you as a milk cow for his son.”

“The decision was mine and you know it,” she said, slipping off her pelisse.

Jarvis simply grunted and set aside his quill. “I had hoped motherhood would have a domesticating effect on you. But I’m told you’ve undertaken to write a new article, this one on that blackguard tribe of costers infesting our streets.”

“And who told you that, Papa?” she asked with a silken assumption of ignorance that brought an answering gleam of amusement to his intense gray eyes. Everyone in England knew Jarvis directed a vast network of spies and informants who reported not to the Prince or Downing Street, but to Jarvis alone.

The smile faded. He said, “No good can come of this project of yours, you know.”

“I disagree.” She unwrapped the brown paper parcel she had brought with her to reveal the thin strip of old inscribed lead. “I was wondering if you know what this is?”

He stood, taking the old metal band in his hands and carrying it to the window.

She watched him turn the upper surface to the light, his lips pursing as he ran his thumb over the scrollwork. Jarvis’s face never betrayed his thoughts or emotions. But she knew him well, so that very lack of any of the traces of surprise or interest one would expect told her she’d come to the right place.

He said, “Where did you get this?”

“It was found last night at Bloody Bridge, near where Mr. Stanley Preston was murdered. You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”

He fingered one sliced end of the strap, then set it aside and reached for his handkerchief to carefully wipe his hands. “Devlin’s involved you in this murder, has he?”

“I involved myself.”

He tucked away his handkerchief.

She said, “It’s always been my understanding that the final resting place of Charles I is unknown.”

“It was—up until a week or so ago.”

Jarvis clasped his hands behind his back and shifted his gaze out the window to the forecourt below. “Three years ago, after the death of the Princess Amelia, His Majesty decided to build an elaborate new royal vault at Windsor Castle, beneath the Wolsey Chapel at St. George’s. As originally constructed, the vault could only be accessed from outside the chapel. But the Prince Regent recently decided to install a new entrance in the form of a sloping passage that opens from the quire of St. George’s itself.” He paused to glance over at her. “You know Princess Augusta is gravely ill and unlikely to recover?”

“Yes,” said Hero. Princess Augusta, elder sister to King George III, was both aunt and mother-in-law to the Regent and had taken refuge in England after the death of her husband, the Duke of Brunswick, in battle against Napoléon.

“Because of her imminent death, the workers were urged to proceed quickly. Several days ago, they accidentally broke through a thin brick wall into the vault containing Henry VIII and Jane Seymour. The vault’s general location was known, but over the years its exact placement had been forgotten.” He slipped a delicate gold snuffbox inlaid with a swirl of seed pearls from his pocket and flicked open the lid with his thumbnail. “According to records, the vault should have contained only Henry and his favorite Queen. But in looking through the aperture they’d made, the workmen were surprised to see not two, but three adult-sized coffins.”

“The third being that of Charles I?”

“As it happens, yes.” He lifted a delicate pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. “The Dean of the chapel immediately contacted Carlton House. Given the importance of the find, I personally made the journey out to Windsor to inspect the discovery on behalf of the Prince.”

“And?”

“Henry VIII’s coffin is in decidedly poor condition. You can see where a crude opening had at some point been cut in the wall of the vault immediately above it and then filled in. Frankly, I suspect the opening was made by the men who lowered the third coffin into the vault, and they accidentally dropped it on Henry. Jane Seymour, however, was off to one side and intact.”

“And the third coffin?”

“The third coffin was still covered by its dusty black velvet pall, which, upon being raised, revealed a plain lead coffin encircled by a strap inscribed ‘King Charles, 1648.’” He nodded to the metal scroll. “Like this.”

“You had the coffin opened?”

“Not at all. Indeed, the Dean and Canons have strict instructions to guard the site well. The Prince is anxious to personally hold a formal examination of the contents of the third coffin as soon as the construction of the passage is complete—and Princess Augusta is dead and buried, of course.”

“Why? I mean, why examine the remains of Charles but not the others?”

Jarvis tucked the snuffbox into his pocket. “I’m afraid His Highness has long maintained a rather morbid fascination with the Stuarts. He says he wishes to answer some historical questions, but I suspect he’s mainly driven by a desire to look upon the mortal remains of a British royal so unpopular as to lose his head at the hands of his subjects.” His gaze returned to the metal fragment. “If this strap has indeed come from Charles’s coffin, the Regent will not be pleased to learn that someone has interfered with the burial before he’s had the chance to do so himself.”

“Do you think there could be political implications to this?” asked Hero.

“Anything involving the Stuarts is always cause for concern—as is the relationship between Stanley Preston and the Home Secretary.” He watched her fold the section of lead back into its brown paper wrapping, then said, “I don’t like your involvement in this, Hero.”

She looked over at him. “If it were up to you, I would neither write about the situation of London’s poor nor investigate murders—or even nurse my own newborn son. Pray tell, how would you have me pass my days?”

“Shopping in Bond Street. Embarking on an endless round of morning calls. Reading the latest lurid romance . . . Surely you know better than I how women of your station spend their time.”

She smiled. “I enjoy shopping and reading.”

“Then you should do more of it.”

“I’m not like that,” she said, suddenly serious.

His lips flattened into a tight line. “You should have been born a boy.”

“I like being a woman just fine.” She kissed his cheek, then carefully readjusted the tilt of her hat. “Will you be sending someone out to Windsor?”

He declined to answer her question.

But later, as she was leaving Carlton House, she saw one of the tall former guardsmen in Jarvis’s employ crossing the courtyard at a run.