Sebastian thought he was beginning to understand why Anne Preston was generally regarded as being both quiet and a bit strange. She must have learned long ago that this sort of conversation didn’t play out well in London’s drawing rooms.
They shifted to the third pedestal. This head was both the best preserved and the most gruesome of the three, its eyelids half-closed, its lips pulled away from the teeth as if frozen in a rictus of agony. At the back of the neck, Sebastian could see quite clearly a deep cut above the one that had severed the head from the body, where the executioner’s first stroke had obviously failed in its object.
The case was unlabeled.
“Who is this?” asked Sebastian.
“This was Father’s most recent acquisition. It’s believed to be the Duke of Suffolk—father to Lady Jane Grey. He was executed by Queen Mary in the Tower of London.”
“So were a lot of other people. One would think you could fill a room with the heads of Elizabeth’s victims alone.”
“True. But their heads didn’t usually survive. They were typically parboiled, set up on pikes above London Bridge, and then eventually thrown into the river.”
“But not Suffolk?”
“No. His head was buried with the rest of his body at Holy Trinity in the Minories. Father said it probably survived so well because it fell into a box of sawdust, and the tannins preserved it.”
Sebastian let his gaze drift, again, around that macabre cabinet of curiosities, but he didn’t see anything similar to the metal band he’d found at Bloody Bridge.
He said, “What do you know of an old piece of thin lead, perhaps a foot and a half in length and three or four inches wide, bearing the inscription ‘King Charles, 1648’?”
She looked puzzled. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why?”
“It was found near where your father was killed.”
She was reaching to draw the curtain across the display pedestals. But at his words, she paused, her fist clenching on the rich velvet cloth. “Is it true, what they’re saying—that whoever killed Father also cut off his head?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Can you think of anyone with whom your father might have quarreled recently?”
“No. No one,” she said quickly.
Too quickly.
“You’re certain?” he asked, watching her closely.
“Yes. Of course.”
“If you think of anyone, you will let me know?”
“If I think of anyone.”
She busied herself with closing the curtain. But he noticed that her hand was no longer steady, and it was obvious that the nervousness he’d glimpsed earlier had returned, tightening the features of her face and agitating her breathing. At first, he had mistaken her nervousness for the shyness of a young woman who felt ill at ease in company. Now he realized it was because she was afraid—afraid of him.
And of what he might learn.
Chapter 11
“He collected heads?” Sir Henry Lovejoy’s already high-pitched voice rose to a shrill squeak. “Men should be buried—not put on display as if they were in the same category as hunting trophies!”
“I suspect he didn’t see the heads as all that different from the daggers and pincushions he also collected,” said Sebastian.
The two men were walking up Bow Street toward the public office. The footpaths were still dark and wet from the latest rain, with gray clouds pressing low on the city and promising more. Lovejoy was silent for a moment, as if trying—and failing—to understand such a mentality. “It’s a disturbing coincidence—that the man should collect the heads of historical figures, only to have someone cut off his own.”
“If it is a coincidence.”
Sir Henry hunched his shoulders against the damp, blustery wind. “Most of Preston’s servants had a half day off on Sunday. But according to the butler, Preston went out for some hours on the day of his death. Unfortunately, he took a hackney rather than his own carriage, so unless we can trace the jarvey, we’re unlikely to know where he went. He returned at approximately four in the afternoon and spent some time puttering around with his collections until dining with his daughter at seven. Then, at something like nine in the evening—or perhaps half past—he went out again, walking this time, and stopped in an old public house just off Sloane Street.”
“The Monster?”
“As it happens, yes. You’ve heard of it?”
“Molly Watson told me he went there regularly. It sounds like the sort of place likely to appeal to someone with Preston’s interests.”
Sir Henry nodded. “It dates back to the days of the Dissolution. They say the name is actually a corruption of ‘the Monastery.’”
“How long was he there?”
“Not long. According to the barman, he fell into an argument with another gentleman in the taproom and stormed off shortly after ten. Fortunately, the gentleman in question is a regular patron of the establishment, so the barman was able to identify him as a banker by the name of Austen. Henry Austen.”