“Can—what?”
“Cantankerous. It means foul tempered. Testy. Bloody-minded.”
“Oh.”
“Because he then goes storming into the Shepherd’s Rest and threatens to horsewhip the impecunious Captain Wyeth, at which point Wyeth, in turn, threatens to kill him.”
“’E was a right ornery fellow, this Preston. What’d ye call it?”
“Cantankerous,” said Sebastian, his gaze following the course of the narrow rivulet that ran under the bridge. “Now, the next morning—Sunday, the day of the murder—Preston receives a visit from Dr. Douglas Sterling. The doctor claims the visit is for medical reasons, although no one close to Preston seems to know he’s ill in any way. And after the physician leaves, Preston calls for a hackney and drives off to Bucket Lane for reasons that seem to escape everyone. He returns home several hours later and putters about with his collections until shortly before nine, when he looks out his window to see Basil Thistlewood staring at his house. Preston charges out to indulge himself in a decidedly uncouth shouting match in the street. Then, sometime after that, he leaves the house again and walks to the Monster, where he berates Henry Austen for what he sees as the Austen women’s tendency to encourage Anne’s romantic notions.”
“And then ’e comes ’ere?” said Tom.
“He does. Presumably to meet Rowan Toop, who is selling the purloined head and coffin strap of King Charles I. Preston is standing here”—Sebastian stepped onto the grassy verge beside the lane—“with his watch in his hand, undoubtedly gazing back toward Sloane Square in anticipation of Toop’s arrival, when—” Sebastian turned so that he was facing the square, and frowned.
“What?” said Tom as Sebastian swung around again to study the overgrown thicket of shrubbery that choked both banks of the stream to the north of the bridge.
“Preston was stabbed in the back. That means that he either deliberately turned his back on his killer—which is unlikely if that person had recently threatened to kill him—or the killer crept up behind him. I’ve been thinking the killer probably followed Preston from the Monster. Except that, if he had, Preston would surely have seen him as he stared back toward the square, watching for Toop. Which means that whoever killed Preston must have known he was planning to meet Rowan Toop at Bloody Bridge that night and was already here waiting for him, probably in the shadows of that shrubbery.”
The tiger’s face lit up with quick comprehension. “So who knew Preston was gonna be ’ere?”
“It’s possible Thistlewood learned of the meeting from Toop, but I doubt it. I also find it unlikely that Henry Austen was privy to Preston’s clandestine activities. Preston’s daughter, Anne, claims she had no idea what he was doing at Bloody Bridge that night but could easily be lying.”
“So she could’ve told Cap’n Wyeth?”
“She could have. Although I think it more likely she hired Diggory Flynn and sent him to kill Preston.”
Tom’s jaw sagged. “Ye think she done fer ’er own da? Gor.”
“She’s definitely been moved into the suspects’ column,” said Sebastian. “But men like Diggory Flynn are trained to learn other people’s secrets. So it’s conceivable that Flynn could have found out about the assignation even if he was working for Priss Mulligan or Lord Oliphant.”
Sebastian’s gaze returned to the square, where a gentlewoman had emerged from Sloane Street to turn along the side of the square and enter the lane leading to the bridge. She wore a plain brown pelisse and a sensible hat, and her gait was the strong, easy stride of someone accustomed to walking miles along country lanes and across fields. She had her head bowed and appeared lost in thought. But when she looked up and saw him, she smiled.
“Lord Devlin,” said Jane Austen. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you again.”
He moved toward her. “Miss Austen. What brings you this way?”
“I try to take a walk every morning, either to the river or through Five Fields. There’s a small country chapel, just there, with a lovely churchyard.” She nodded toward the bell tower barely visible above the distant clump of trees. Then her gaze fell on the bridge, and a shadow crossed her small, even features. “It was one of Anne’s favorite walks as well. But I doubt she’ll ever want to come this way again.”
“And how is Miss Preston?” he asked.
The question was not as idle as it seemed.
“To be frank, she’s making herself ill with the fear you mean to see Captain Wyeth hang for her father’s murder.”
“I don’t believe Captain Wyeth killed Stanley Preston,” he said, studying the novelist’s round, small-featured face. He wished he could say the same thing about Anne, but he kept that thought to himself.
“May I tell her that?” said Miss Austen.
“Of course. Although I obviously don’t speak for Bow Street.”
“I think Anne is more afraid of you than she is of the authorities.”