“He might well be.”
Lovejoy watched the men from the deadhouse shift Sterling’s headless corpse onto the shell they would use to carry the murdered man to Paul Gibson’s surgery. “I wonder how long the poor fellow’s been dead.”
“Some hours, I’d say. Probably since last night.”
Lovejoy turned to survey the overcrowded rooms. “No sign of a struggle or forced entry that I can see.”
“No. Which suggests he knew his killer. Let him in, then realized his mistake too late and turned to run.”
“And was stabbed in the back?”
Sebastian nodded. “Multiple times.”
They watched as one of the men from the deadhouse carefully lifted the doctor’s head from the pillows and rested it atop his torso.
“Let’s hope he was dead before that was done to him,” said Lovejoy, pressing his folded handkerchief to his lips. “What I don’t understand is . . . why. Why cut off their heads?”
“I suspect if we can figure that out, it will tell us who the killer is.”
“Perhaps,” said Lovejoy, although he didn’t sound convinced.
Chapter 27
“Dr. Sterling? Dead?” Anne Preston stared at Sebastian with parted lips, her nostrils pinched, her eyes wide with horror. If it was an act, it was a good one.
He had come upon her walking in the weak, fitful sunshine in her garden, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her head bowed as if she were lost in thought.
“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian. “Would you like to sit?”
“No,” she said, although he noticed the hand holding her shawl clenched into a tight fist, and her chest rose and fell jerkily with her agitated breathing. “He didn’t die naturally of old age, did he? Tell me truthfully,” she added when Sebastian hesitated.
“No.”
She swallowed, hard. “Did the killer cut off his head too?”
When Sebastian remained silent, she let out a soft moan and whispered, “Oh, dear God; he did, didn’t he?”
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to sit?” said Sebastian.
She shook her head fiercely.
“At least he died quickly,” said Sebastian, although the truth was, he had no idea how long the aged physician had taken to die. The answer to that question would presumably come from Paul Gibson’s postmortem.
They turned to walk together along a sunken, mossy brick path, the hem of her mourning gown brushing the plantings of lavender and rosemary beside them.
“He was a good man,” she said, her voice quivering. “I know he could seem cranky and irascible and opinionated. But beneath it all he was gentle and caring and . . . harmless. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“Did you see him last Sunday when he came to visit your father?”
“Only as he was leaving.”
“Do you know why he came?”
“No.” She kept her gaze fixed on the weathered wooden gazebo at the end of the path. “I asked Father if he was ill, but he said no. He said Dr. Sterling had only stopped by to talk about old times.”
“How did your father seem after the physician left?”
She looked over at him, her brows pinched together with confusion. “I’m sorry; I don’t understand.”
“Was he pleased to have visited with an old acquaintance? Or upset—perhaps even angry?”
She stared out over the ancient garden toward the new row houses of Sloane Street. “He did seem a bit . . . preoccupied. Even a bit angry. But I don’t know why.”
“He didn’t say anything—anything at all—that might indicate what the two men discussed?”
“No. But it was shortly after that he called for a hackney and went off for a few hours.”
“Did he do that often? Call for a hackney, I mean, rather than take his own carriage.”
“Sometimes, yes. Often, he’d simply walk into the City, if the weather wasn’t too bad.”
“He liked to walk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he often walk at night?”
“Oh, no; only as far as his pub.” A faint smile touched her lips, then faded into something sad and painful. “He was accosted by footpads once as a young man. And while London is considerably safer these days than it was in the last century, he still worried.”
It fit with what Knightly had told him. But it made Preston’s behavior that fatal night all the more troublesome. “You still can’t think of why he might have gone to Bloody Bridge that night?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Had he said anything to you about his plans to purchase several new items for his collection? Some Stuart relics?”
“No.” They’d reached the gazebo at the end of the path, and she turned toward him. “I’ve had the constables here again, asking about Captain Wyeth. They think Hugh did it, don’t they? They think he killed my father.”
“They certainly consider him a strong suspect, I’m afraid.”
“But I told you, Hugh would never have killed Father! Never.”
“Yet they did quarrel.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “Hugh told you about that, did he?”