“There is?”
“Preston could have been at the bridge to meet whoever stole the royal relics. Only, someone else followed him to the bridge and killed him.”
“Someone like Wyeth or Oliphant?”
“Or even Henry Austen. After all, we only have his word as to the nature of their quarrel.”
Gibson grunted. “What I don’t understand is how this old physician—Sterling—fits into anything. Why kill him?”
“My guess is he figured out who killed Preston, or at least had a pretty good idea.” Sebastian frowned. “Although there could always be another link that I’m missing entirely.”
Gibson swiped a shaky hand down over his pale, clammy face. “Alexi says she gave you the results of Sterling’s autopsy.”
“She did, yes.” Sebastian studied his friend’s heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes. “Did you ever get a chance to look at the body yourself?”
Gibson shook his head, his gaze sliding away.
“How’s your leg now?” Sebastian asked gently.
“Better.”
Sebastian remained silent, but Gibson seemed to know the direction of his thoughts, for he said, “It’s barmy, if you ask me—thinking you can get rid of the phantom pains from a man’s missing leg with nothing more than a box and mirrors.”
“We don’t understand much about the mind or how it functions, do we? Madame Sauvage seems to think it could work. So why not try it? What have you to lose?” Besides your pain and an opium addiction that’s going to kill you, Sebastian thought, although he didn’t say it.
Gibson set his jaw and shook his head, and Sebastian knew his refusal was all tied up with his pride, and a fear of looking foolish or weak, and a host of other emotions Sebastian couldn’t even guess at and suspected Gibson himself had no desire to probe.
The surgeon waited while the buxom young barmaid set two new tankards on the table, then said, “So where’s this king’s head now, do you think?”
“I suppose that depends on whether the thief and the killer are the same person. But if the thief isn’t the killer, then I’m afraid he’s probably in danger—and I suspect he knows it.”
Gibson stared at him. “How you figure that?”
“One of two things: either the killer used the King’s head to lure Preston to Bloody Bridge, in which case the thief knows who the killer is, or the thief had nothing to do with the murder but arrived at the bridge in time to see something.”
“What makes you think he saw something?”
“Because someone—either the thief, the killer, or Preston himself—dropped that inscribed lead strap beside the stream. And if it was the thief, then he must have been too rattled—or afraid of being seen—to take the time to look for it in the dark. Otherwise, why leave something that valuable—especially something that has the potential to tie him to murder?”
Gibson leaned forward. “Maybe that’s why Sterling was killed. He was a physician, after all. Most of them are more interested in drinking urine and dispensing potions than in studying anatomy, but some do. Could be he had ties to the resurrection men working out at Windsor and figured out who your thief was.”
Sebastian paused with his tankard lifted halfway to his mouth. “Do you know any of them?”
Gibson shook his head. “Resurrection men are fiercely territorial, and the lads I deal with tend to stick to the churchyards of the City or Mayfair. But I’ll bet that virger you talked to could give you their names. He might not have ever managed to catch them red-handed, but he knows who they are—you can count on that.”
“Actually, he was at pains to convince me that virtually anyone in Windsor could have accessed the crypt—something I suspect the Dean would be shocked to hear.”
Gibson grunted. “Sounds like he probably deals with them himself. God knows he wouldn’t be the first.”
Sebastian tried to picture toothy Rowan Toop surreptitiously leaving greased gates unlocked in anticipation of the stealthy midnight visits of body snatchers, or offering to sell choice items lifted from the crypts under his care.
And Sebastian found he had no difficulty imagining either scenario.
Chapter 38
Sunday, 28 March
T he next morning, Sebastian drove out to Windsor Castle to find the Right Reverend Edward Legge pacing back and forth before the chapel steps, his full cheeks flushed with annoyance. The morning had dawned cool and damp, with a fine mist that drifted across the lower court and hung in the half-dead trees near the cloisters.
“I don’t know where the fool has taken himself off to,” snapped the Dean when Sebastian introduced himself and asked for the virger. “He wasn’t here for morning services. And I’m to meet with the Canons in less than ten minutes. He’s supposed to be there! The internment of Princess Augusta is this Wednesday.”