More dangerous by far, in Sebastian’s estimation, were those like Sampson Bullock: men with a solid grasp of reality who seemed sane, yet whose thought processes were breathtakingly brutal in their single-minded self-interest. Easily enraged and never forgiving of the most insignificant of perceived slights or injuries, they moved through life with an utter disregard for the wants and desires of those around them.
But there were times when Sebastian wondered if he was wrong, if perhaps people like Bullock weren’t actually mad, after all. Perhaps they simply lacked a fundamental component of what we like to believe it means to be human. The problem with that theory was that Sebastian had known dogs and horses capable of the very love and compassion such individuals seemed to lack. Utterly without conscience or empathy, they saw others not as fellow beings but as targets or opportunities. Not all were violent or lethal. But those who were could kill without guilt, convinced that their victims either brought death on themselves or were too inconsequential to merit consideration.
A man like Bullock could easily have killed both Alexi Sauvage’s brother and her aging, faithful servant as part of a twisted plan to avenge himself on the woman he held responsible for his own brother’s death. For the same reason, Bullock was also more than capable of cutting out a man’s heart. Sebastian had no evidence to suggest that Bullock knew about the relationship between the young French doctor and the woman Bullock hated, but it was certainly possible that in the process of following and watching her, Bullock had somehow learned of the connection. And yet . . .
Why would Bullock also kill and mutilate Colonel André Foucher— or try to kill Ambrose LaChapelle? That implied a connection to the Bourbons or an interest in the peace negotiations that Bullock lacked. The connection between LaChapelle and the peace delegation was tenuous, but there.
Still thoughtful, Sebastian turned his steps toward the Gifford Arms.
? ? ?
Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil was feeding the ducks beside the Ornamental Water in St. James’s Park when Sebastian walked up to him.
“There was another murder last night. Just over there, on Birdcage Walk,” Sebastian said. “Did you know?”
The Frenchman scattered a handful of bread crumbs, his attention seemingly all for the ducks quacking and jostling around him. “According to what I am hearing, the attack was on one of the mollies who frequent the walk. What could it possibly have to do with me?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Perhaps you see connections where none exist.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Frenchman smiled faintly and scattered more bread crumbs.
Sebastian said, “I’ve been listening to some interesting whispers. Whispers that tell me Damion Pelletan discovered you’re playing a double game; that while you pretend to serve the interests of France, you’re actually cooperating with Lord Jarvis to ensure that the peace negotiations come to naught.”
Vaundreuil puffed out his chest and lowered his heavy dark brows with an admirable display of moral outrage. “That’s preposterous! Why would I do such a thing?”
“Material reward is the most typical reason. That, and revenge. For some previous slight, perhaps? Then again, there’s always the possibility of securing a prestigious position in the restoration government—although if that is your motive, you can’t be aware of Marie-Thérèse’s scathing opinion of you.”
Vaundreuil threw away the last of the bread crumbs in a swift, angry gesture. “What are you suggesting? That I killed Damion Pelletan because he discovered I’m an English agent of influence? What about André Foucher? Am I to have done away with him for the same reason? And why, precisely, would I steal their hearts and eyes? As grisly mementos of their past faithfulness and service?” He swiped one hand through the air before him as if brushing away an annoying fly. “Bah! This is ridiculous!”
Sebastian studied the Frenchman’s red face and thrusting jaw. He had no trouble believing Harmond Vaundreuil capable of killing two of his colleagues, if he thought it necessary to protect himself. But the conviction that something else—or at least something more—was going on here remained.
Sebastian said, “Did Damion Pelletan ever speak to you of his father? Specifically, of his father’s visits to the Temple Prison in the summer of 1795?”
The Frenchman looked confused, his mouth hanging open, so that he had to swallow before he answered. “What?”
“His father, Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan, visited the Temple Prison at least twice in the summer of 1795. He treated the little Dauphin before his death, and he may have seen Marie-Thérèse, as well. Damion Pelletan never said anything about it to you?”
“No. But . . . surely you don’t think something that happened so long ago could have anything to do with the murders here in London today?”
“I don’t know. How much time did Pelletan spend with Colonel Foucher?”
Vaundreuil frowned. “Some. They would sit together of an evening, drinking brandy. Talking.”
“Talking about what?”