“True. Yet Preston was afraid of footpads, and Bloody Bridge has a decidedly nasty history.”
Sebastian went to hunker down in the grassy verge where they’d found Preston’s decapitated body sprawled on its back. There was no sign now that it had ever been there. He rested a forearm on one thigh. “Molly Watson from the Rose and Crown says Preston’s greatcoat was open, with his pocket watch dangling on the grass beside him.”
“Ye think somebody was goin’ through ’is pockets, lookin’ fer somethin’?”
“That’s one explanation.”
Tom screwed up his face in puzzlement. “There’s another?”
“He was stabbed in the back, which suggests he either turned his back on his killer—obviously not a wise thing to do—or he didn’t hear the killer come up behind him.” Sebastian rose to his feet. “When do people typically look at their watches?”
“I don’t know. Ne’er ’ad one, meself.”
Sebastian found himself smiling. “Men generally check their watches when they’re late for an appointment, or when someone else is late.”
“So yer sayin’ ye think ’e was ’ere t’ meet somebody? Somebody who was late?”
“I think so, yes. And whoever it was, that person was obviously someone Preston was extraordinarily anxious to see.”
“How ye know that?”
“Because Preston was afraid of Bloody Bridge at night, yet he still agreed to come here, alone, after dark.”
Sebastian stared across the open green of Sloane Square toward Chelsea and the river that flowed out of sight at the base of the hill. Anyone traveling down from Windsor to deliver the stolen royal relics to Preston would in all likelihood have come by the Thames. If he landed at Cheyne Walk, he would need only to come up the short stretch of Paradise Row and skirt the shadowy gardens of Chelsea Hospital and the Royal Military Asylum in order to reach Sloane Square and—just beyond it—the quiet, deserted lane to Bloody Bridge. Above Sloane Square lay the long, straight stretch of Sloane Street and Hans Place, both well lit and heavily traveled. The kinds of places where a man might be seen—and recognized.
So Bloody Bridge was not simply out of the way and little frequented; it was essentially halfway between Alford House and the river.
Sebastian went to stand at the edge of the rivulet where he’d found the ancient inscribed length of lead strapping. He was now fairly certain that Stanley Preston had come here that night to take possession of the relics from a thief whose identity Sebastian still didn’t know. Was it a trap? Possibly. If so, who had set it? Priss Mulligan? Thistlewood? Oliphant? Or had the killer simply taken advantage of Preston’s unwise decision to venture alone to such a dark, out-of-the-way spot? And what about the thief? Had he arrived before or after the murder? Impossible to say. But the thief had been there; the presence of the coffin strap proved that.
So who was the thief? And where was the King’s head?
“What sort of fellow arranges a meeting in a dark, out-of-the-way spot?” said Sebastian.
“Someone who don’t want nobody t’ see ’im!” said Tom in triumph.
Turning away from that death-haunted bridge, Sebastian went to leap up into the curricle’s high seat and take the reins. “Exactly.”
“Stop glowering at us, Jarvis,” grumbled George, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Swallowing a half-masticated mouthful of buttered crab, the Prince reached for his wineglass and drank deeply. “It’s enough to give us indigestion.”
They were in one of Carlton House’s private withdrawing rooms, the table before the Prince spread with a feast intended to still the hunger pains that so often came upon His Highness in the midafternoon.
“Your meeting with the Russian Ambassador—” Jarvis began.
“Can be put off until tomorrow,” said the Prince, negligently waving a delicate silver fork piled with more crab. “The Countess of Hertford should be here any moment. You wouldn’t expect me to forgo such a treat, now, would you?” He flashed a smile that was meant to be roguish but came off simply as simpering and foolish.
He was fifty years old and grossly fat, his once handsome features coarsened by decades of dissipation and excess. But in his own mind, he was still the dashing young Prince Florizel who’d charmed the nation that now despised him for his extravagance and his irresponsibility and his breathtaking selfishness.
Jarvis kept his own features bland. One did not reach—or retain—his position of power by indulging in useless displays of annoyance and contempt. “The Ambassador has been waiting three hours.”
“Then one would think he’d welcome the opportunity to go home. Tell him to come back tomorrow. And take yourself off as well, before you bring on my spasms.”