“No mistresses?”
“No. Never. And if you’re thinking that might be what took Stanley to this Bucket Lane, then I’m afraid you really don’t understand the man who was Stanley Preston. If Stanley had been inclined to take a mistress—which he never did, of course, but if he had—he would never have chosen some common Billingsgate trollop. I remember hearing him say once that for a gentleman to lie down with a baseborn wench was tantamount to miscegenation.”
Sebastian thought of the Bucket Lane woman’s flawless, dusky skin and exquisite bone structure and wondered if Sir Galen actually knew his old friend as well as he thought he did. “An interesting choice of words,” said Sebastian. “Miscegenation. Do I take it he never had any interest in the enslaved women who worked his plantations in Jamaica either?”
“Good God, no!”
“Yet it’s not uncommon, is it?”
“It is amongst gentlemen of honor.”
Sebastian watched a ponderous coal wagon making its way up the street and said nothing.
Sir Galen cleared his throat. “To my knowledge, Stanley Preston seldom ventured east of Bond Street except on business at the bank or exchange. I can’t imagine what might have taken him to an area such as Fish Street Hill.”
“Yet he did business with the likes of Priss Mulligan.”
Knightly’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “Who?”
“Priss Mulligan—a decidedly unsavory woman who keeps a secondhand shop in Houndsditch.”
“Ah, yes; I remember hearing him speak of her. But then, I suspect Stanley would have ventured into Hades and done business with Satan himself if the devil happened to possess something Stanley wanted for his collection.” The Baronet’s eyes widened as if inspired by a sudden thought. “Perhaps that’s what he was doing in this Bucket Lane. Buying some relic or another.”
“The area’s inhabitants are costers and fishmongers. Not thieves and fences.”
“Some costers have been known to deal in stolen goods.”
“Stolen hams and bolts of cloth, perhaps. Not priceless relics.”
“Perhaps one got lucky.”
“Perhaps. Only, how would he know to offer it to Preston?”
“True; I hadn’t thought of that.” He shrugged. “Then I’m afraid I have no explanation.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “Are you no closer to discovering who might have killed him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Knightly pushed out a long, pained sigh. “And now Dr. Sterling is dead too. It’s beyond ghastly.”
“You were acquainted with Sterling?”
Knightly shrugged. “Jamaica is a very small island.”
Sebastian stared at him. “Are you saying Douglas Sterling spent time in Jamaica?”
“Yes. You didn’t know?”
“When?”
“He practiced there as a young man. And he still goes out every few years to visit a daughter who married a merchant in Kingston.” Knightly paused. “Although I suppose I should say he used to go.”
“That’s a long voyage for a man of his age.”
“It was, yes. But he always claimed the sea air was good for him—that it more than made up for the fatigue of the journey. Said it was the London fog that was going to kill him.” Knightly shook his head sadly at the implications of his own words.
“When was Sterling last in Jamaica? Do you know?”
“Recently, I believe. Although I couldn’t say precisely when.”
“During Sinclair Oliphant’s period as governor?”
“It must have been, I suppose.” Knightly drew up on the footpath before the Stevens. “You think that’s significant?”
“It may be. I don’t know.”
Knightly nodded, then glanced surreptitiously at his watch as a nearby clock tower chimed the quarter hour. “Would you care to join me for dinner?”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid I have a previous engagement.”
It was only partially a lie. Sebastian’s engagement was with Sinclair Oliphant.
The colonel just didn’t know about it yet.