Sebastian was sitting beside the library fire, the mechanical nightingale in his hands, his gaze on the coals glowing on the hearth, when Hero came to stand in the room’s entrance.
“Did you kill him?” she asked, pausing with one hand on the doorframe beside her.
He looked up at her. “If you mean Diggory Flynn, the answer is no; I haven’t been able to find him. And if you mean Oliphant, I’m afraid the answer is still no. I’ll admit I came damned close, but you were right; I can’t be completely certain that Oliphant is the one controlling Flynn.”
“Still?”
“I know Flynn was an exploring officer under Oliphant and that both men were in Jamaica together, but . . .” He held up the gilded bird. “I’m puzzled by this.”
“What is it?”
He wound the key and set the nightingale on the table beside him, the clear, heartbreakingly beautiful notes filling the air as the bird’s mechanical wings rose and fell. “It appears that Knox learned of Flynn’s identity from Priss Mulligan. According to Oliphant, Flynn has been using his talents in a variety of nefarious pursuits, from slave running to smuggling.”
“Smuggling? Well, you did first see him in Houndsditch.”
“I did.”
“So he could work for Priss Mulligan.”
“He could indeed.” He watched the mechanical toy slowly wind down and stop. “It seems as if just when I think I’m beginning to understand what happened to Preston and Sterling and Toop, everything shifts and I realize I don’t understand anything at all.”
Hero walked over to pick up the mechanical nightingale and wind the key. Then she set it on the table and together they watched the gilded wings beat slowly up and down in the glow of the firelight.
Chapter 48
Tuesday, 30 March
T he next morning dawned cold and misty, with a bitter wind blowing down out of the north. Priss Mulligan was wrapped in a heavy shawl and poking around the jumble of old glass and metal items displayed on a Houndsditch street stall when Sebastian walked up to her.
“I understand you know Diggory Flynn,” he said.
She looked over at him, her lower lip distended by a plug of tobacco, her beady black eyes widening ever so slightly. “Oh? And how ye know that?”
“Deduction.”
“Ain’t ne’er heard of nobody named Dee Duckshun,” she said with a sniff and returned her attention to the secondhand stall.
Sebastian watched her pick up a tarnished old candlestick and squint at it. He said, “You heard Knox is dead?”
“Aye.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “’Tis a pity. He was a good-lookin’ lad, that one.”
“I think Diggory Flynn killed him.”
“Now, what would he want to go and do that for?”
“Because he mistook Knox for me.”
Priss Mulligan stared thoughtfully at Sebastian, then turned her head to shoot a stream of tobacco juice into the gutter. “Aye; ’tis possible, I s’pose. There’s no denying the two of you is as alike as a couple o’ pups out the same litter.”
Sebastian said, “I think Flynn is working for you.” Or Sinclair Oliphant. Or Anne Preston, he thought, watching her carefully.
She used her tongue to shift the wad of tobacco to her cheek. “Sure then, but Flynn ain’t ne’er worked for me. With me, meybe, from time to time. But ne’er for me.”
“And why should I believe you?”
She shrugged. “Ask anybody knows him.”
“I could ask him myself if I knew where to find him.”
Her lips pulled into a wide grin that showed her small, tobacco-stained teeth. “Ho; you think I’m gonna tell you, do you? Not likely.” She winked. “Fact is, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. He contacts me; not t’other way around.”
He watched her set aside the candlestick and reach for a small glass figurine. He said, “You’re Irish, aren’t you?”
The question obviously took her by surprise, because she hesitated and looked up at him again. “What’s that got t’ do with anythin’?”
“Have you ever heard of a Dullahan?”
“Course I have. Why?”
“Tell me about it.”
She dropped her voice low and waved one small, childlike hand through the air like a storyteller conjuring an image. “Keeps his own head tucked up under one arm, he does. Oh, he’s a fright to look at: little black eyes always dartin’ this way and that, with a grinnin’ mouth as wide as his skull and skin like moldy cheese. Carries a whip made from a dead man’s backbone, and when he calls your name, it’s your turn to die. Ain’t nothin’ you can do to stop him. You can try barring your gate and lockin’ your door, but they’ll just open for him, like magic.”
“He rides a horse?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes he drives a carriage.” She sniffed. “Why you wanna know about the Dullahan? He don’t like bein’ watched, you know. You try watchin’ him, and he’ll pluck out your eyes with his whip. That, or throw a bucket o’ blood on you, markin’ you as the next to die.”