He said, “You mean Jamie Knox?” Knox wasn’t actually Lowe’s brother. But the two had been raised together like brothers, and Sebastian could see Liv Weston making the mistake.
“Yes, that was his name. He went away a few years later, after the trouble we had. Frankly, I was glad to see the back of him. He may have been young, but he was dangerous. If anyone forced Emily, I’d say it was him. Jamie Knox.”
Sebastian was seated at a table near the front leaded window of the Ship’s public room, a tankard of ale before him, when Lowe came to pull out the opposite chair, turn it around, and straddle it.
“I hear you’ve been away for a few days,” said the publican, resting his forearms along the chair’s back.
Sebastian took a long swallow of his ale. “I have.”
“And did you discover what you were looking for?”
“Partially.” Sebastian set the tankard aside. “What can you tell me about the deaths of Sybil Moss and Hannah Grant?”
Lowe regarded him fixedly for a moment before answering. “Why are you asking about things that happened fifteen years ago?”
“Because I’m not convinced their deaths were suicides.”
Lowe blew out a long, harsh breath. “You and a fair number of other people.”
“Oh? How well did you know them?”
“Well enough. I was more than a bit sweet on Hannah when I was a lad, and Sybil was my niece.”
“Anne Moss is your sister?”
“My half sister, yes.”
Sebastian was reminded, again, of just how interwoven the relationships between the inhabitants of a small, isolated village like this could be. “Do you know who the girls were seeing?”
“Everybody knew. It wasn’t as if he ever tried to hide it.”
“He?”
“Seaton—the present lord’s father. Acted like he had some sort of medieval droit du seigneur over the prettiest girls in the village. Most of them lay with him willingly enough. But he wasn’t above forcing those who resisted.”
Sebastian studied the publican’s lean, dark face. “You think he could have killed them?”
Lowe shrugged. “Somebody did. I always figured he was as likely as anyone else.”
“What manner of man was he?”
“Leopold Seaton? Arrogant. Selfish. Thought the world owed him anything and everything he ever wanted. He was a rich lord—came into his inheritance when he was quite young. What do you suppose he was like?”
Sebastian sipped his ale. “You wouldn’t happen to recall a young gentlewoman named Lady Emily Turnstall? She was a guest at one of the Irvings’ house parties back in the early nineties.”
The publican’s mouth twisted in wry amusement. “Me and the Irvings, we were never exactly on visiting terms, you know.”
“I’m told she was rather taken with Jamie Knox.”
Lowe held himself very still. “Ah. I think maybe I do remember the lass, though I couldn’t have told you her name or even what she looked like. She wanted Jamie to let her draw his picture.”
“And did he?”
“He did, yes.”
“Was she a good artist?”
“Not bad. Nothing near as impressive as the young widow was killed last week, mind you. But not bad.”
Emma’s artistic ability obviously hadn’t come from her mother. So where had it come from? Sebastian wondered. Or had it been a gift, a talent that was uniquely her own?
“What’s she got to do with anything?” asked Lowe.
“Perhaps nothing.”
Lowe grunted. “Right. That’s why you’re asking about her, is it?”
Sebastian ran one finger up and down the side of his tankard. “Why did Knox leave Ayleswick?”
“M’mother told him to go. She was afraid he was gonna end up like Alex.”
“You mean Alex Dalyrimple?”
“Aye.”
“Who cut Dalyrimple down?”
Lowe’s hard gaze met Sebastian’s and held it. “He was Jenny’s husband. You think we were going to leave him up there to rot?” He looked around as two carters came into the public room, covered with dust from the road and calling loudly for ale.
Sebastian kept his gaze on the tavern keeper. “Is it true what they say? That he was conspiring with the French?”
“True?” Lowe gave a mirthless laugh. “Since when did the Crown ever care about the truth of their charges? Oh, Alex was a member of the local Corresponding Society; he never denied that. Thought every man should have the right to vote and even run for Parliament, if he wanted. That’s a far cry from ‘conspiring’ with the French. But a lot more dangerous when it comes right down to it, don’t you think?”
Sebastian studied the publican’s lean, handsome face. Jude Lowe would have been just sixteen or so himself in those days. What part had he played in the incidents that ended with four men hanged, six transported, and Alex Dalyrimple’s body rotting in chains on a gibbet?
“When did Leopold Seaton die?” asked Sebastian.
“Few years after they killed Alex. Why?”
“Did Seaton play a part in that? Alex’s execution, I mean.”
“Not so much.”