Now he knew.
Oliphant said, “One of these days, Devlin, you really must move beyond the events of that spring in Portugal. War is war; dreadful things happen. But do you think a London ball is the proper place to be dredging up the gruesome details?”
“When people are still dying—here, in London? Yes.”
“I take it you’re referring to this tiresome matter of Preston?”
“And Sterling.”
Oliphant sighed and handed his empty ice cup to a hovering waiter. “Shall I give you a little hint? Yes; I do believe I shall.”
“Sinclair is always most generous,” said Lady Oliphant.
Oliphant gave a small bow. “You are aware, of course, of the star-crossed love affair between Miss Preston and a certain hussar captain?”
When Sebastian remained silent, Oliphant said, “Of course, Preston and his son did an admirable job of hushing up the elopement six years ago. But somehow, whispers always seem to get about; have you noticed? I tend to blame the servants.”
Had Hugh Wyeth and Anne Preston attempted an elopement in the past? Sebastian wondered. If so, this was the first he’d heard of it. He kept his voice sounding bored. “This is your hint?”
“Oh, no; I assumed you already knew about the young captain. But are you aware, I wonder, that there are interesting links between the captain and Dr. Sterling?” Oliphant’s face creased into an indulgent smile. “Do you know where Captain Wyeth’s regiment was stationed before their transfer to Portugal?” He leaned forward and whispered loudly. “It was Jamaica.”
When Sebastian made no response, Oliphant’s lips pursed into a simulated moue of concern. “I’m afraid your obsession with the past is not only unhealthy, but is also negatively impacting your goal of catching this killer.” He raised one eyebrow in mocking inquiry. “At least, I assume that is your goal. Is it not?”
With a petulant frown, Lady Oliphant set aside her ice cup and shook out the skirts of her elegant satin ball gown. “Come away, Sinclair; do. I want to dance.”
Oliphant took her hand in his and rested it on the crook of his bent arm. “Of course, my dear.” He nodded casually to Sebastian. “Devlin.”
Sebastian watched them thread their way through the growing crowd of guests filtering into the supper room from the ballroom above. He watched as Lady Oliphant, a smile now plastered on her face, curtsied low to a dowager countess while Oliphant laughed heartily at a few pleasantries exchanged with her son, a cabinet minister.
The conviction that Oliphant was hiding something remained. But all the old doubts came crowding back as Sebastian acknowledged the possibility that maybe—just maybe—he was allowing the events of the past to color his interpretation of the present.
And because of it, men were still dying.
Chapter 42
C aptain Hugh Wyeth was throwing darts by himself in the Shepherd’s Rest public room, pitching one after the other at a battered board hanging against a pockmarked wall. He hardly seemed to be focusing or even looking, and yet his aim was true every time.
“You’re good,” said Sebastian, coming to lean against a nearby wall.
“I’ve had a lot of practice lately. There’s not much else to do.”
“When do you rejoin your regiment?”
Wyeth let fly another dart. “According to the doctors, not as soon as I had hoped.”
“Who were you with?”
“The Twentieth Hussars.”
“The Twentieth Hussars used to be stationed in Jamaica.”
Wyeth looked over at him, puzzled. “We were, yes. Why?”
“Did you ever meet Dr. Sterling there?”
“Not to my knowledge. Was he in Jamaica?”
“As it happens, yes.”
The captain sent his last dart flying at the target. “You look like you’re dressed for a ball.”
“I am.”
Wyeth grunted and went to retrieve his tightly clustered darts. He no longer wore his sling, but Sebastian noticed he held his right arm stiffly against his side.
Sebastian said, “You told me you didn’t know Sinclair Oliphant. Yet he seems to know you.”
Wyeth looked around in surprise. “What?”
“He’s the one who told me you were stationed in Jamaica—presumably to shift suspicion away from himself and onto you.”
“Did it work?”
When Sebastian returned no answer, the captain gave a soft, humorless laugh and said, “I suppose the fact that you’re here tells me all I need to know.” He walked back to the throwing line, then paused, weighing his first dart. “Why would I kill some old doctor? Tell me that.”
“I don’t know. But then, I can’t figure out why anyone would want to murder him—unless it was because he knew something worrisome about whoever killed Stanley Preston.”
Wyeth threw his dart and practically missed the target entirely.
Sebastian said, “Ever hear of a man named Rowan Toop?”
“No. Why? Is he dead too?”
Sebastian nodded. “They found him this morning, at Windsor.”
“Someone cut off his head?”