Page 2 of Dead Beside the Thames
It took less than a minute for Charlie to conclude that he would rather be talking to Stokes than being interrogated by anyone else. He huffed out a breath and considered giving the man a less-than-full account. Regretfully jettisoning that notion as a recipe for misunderstanding, he reluctantly accepted the inevitable, filled his lungs, fixed his gaze on the far wall, and admitted, “I was strolling in Long Acre at about eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, intending to look in at several establishments to see whether anything caught my eye. People were gatheringon the pavement just ahead, and when I reached the edge of the crowd, I saw that everyone was watching Sedbury, who had a young lad—a street sweeper—by the scruff of the neck and was shaking the boy like a rat. Sedbury was furious—red-faced and spewing threats the like of which were enough to chill anyone’s blood. Then he hauled the boy into the street and reached for his whip.”
“Whip?” Stokes looked up from his notebook.
“Sedbury carried a short-handled horsewhip in the same manner other gentlemen carry swordsticks.” Charlie shook his head. “An affectation, true enough, but Sedbury definitely knew how to wield that whip. He was famous for it.”
Frowning, Stokes nodded. “Go on.”
Charlie blew out a breath. “Well, it was clear Sedbury was going to whip the tyke, and in the mood he was in, he would have flayed the skin from the boy’s back. Then I heard a cry, and I saw a girl of maybe thirteen or fourteen screaming for the boy, and I—well, we, the whole crowd—realized that the boy had only been trying to protect his sister from Sedbury’s unwanted attentions.” Charlie huffed. “Well, I could hardly stand by and let Sedbury whip the lad for that. I couldn’t hope to physically overcome Sedbury, so I waited until he raised his whip, and I stepped in and filched it from his grasp.” Charlie smiled cynically. “I might not be up to meeting the man at Gentleman Jackson’s, but I do know whips.” He shifted his gaze to Stokes’s face. “As I’d expected, Sedbury rounded on me—and the boy seized the chance to wrench free. I walked steadily backward, and predictably, Sedbury stalked toward me, scowling and swearing, and meanwhile, the boy and his sister vanished down an alley.” Reliving the moment, Charlie acknowledged, “Mind you, by then, the crowd had definitely taken against Sedbury. Not that he paid them any heed.” After a second, Charlie focused onStokes and concluded, “Once the boy and girl were well away, I halted and handed Sedbury his whip.”
“You didn’t fear he’d use it on you?”
“He certainly threatened to,” Charlie admitted with a reminiscing smile, “but there are some lines even Sedbury knew he couldn’t cross.” Holding Stokes’s gaze, Charlie added, “I don’t regret my actions, Stokes—not that morning or that evening, either. If Sedbury went and got himself killed later, well, I doubt you’ll find anyone evincing any degree of surprise. He was a nasty piece of work—the absolute antithesis of a credit to the ton.”
Stokes grunted and scribbled several lines, then met Charlie’s gaze. “So, to the incident at White’s.”
Involuntarily, Charlie grimaced. He saw Stokes take note and felt a faint blush rise in his cheeks. “That was…uncalled for and…quite unseemly. I had no idea Sedbury was in the club until he bowled up, brash and bold as only he could be, and interrupted our game. He started flinging insults and followed up with threats. I can’t say that it was an edifying moment for any of us forced to hear him.”
Consulting his notebook, Stokes said, “I understand that at the table with you were Viscount Mollison, Mr. Carruthers, and Lord Abercrombie.”
Charlie nodded. “Quite. And there were others about—the room was rather crowded—and the longer Sedbury ranted, more wandered in to see what the commotion was about.”
“Was Sedbury with anyone? Any friends?”
“No.” Considering the point, Charlie frowned. “I don’t think he has any. Friends, I mean, as distinct from mere acquaintances. He is—was—a loner, was Sedbury. Very much one who preferred his own company.”
Stokes continued busily scribbling. “So, what happened to make Sedbury leave?”
Charlie huffed contemptuously. “I might not be top-o’-the-trees, but I am reasonably well-connected and well-known within the ton. The family is, too. Sedbury was loud and getting louder by the second, and the others who had gathered around started to object. Increasingly forcefully. In his inimitable fashion, Sedbury sneered at us all, then flung an order at me to stay out of his path or else and spun on his heel and stalked out.” Charlie looked at Stokes. “That was the last I saw of him.”
Stokes came to the end of his jotting and looked up. “Thus far, the last time for which we have witnesses to Sedbury being alive was when he quit White’s.”
Stokes studied the man before him. He’d met Charlie Hastings several times over the years, and his reading of the man was of a quiet gentleman who liked and, indeed, preferred the simple pleasures of tonnish life. However, behind the well-cut blond hair, the rather kindly brown eyes, and the pleasant features almost perennially set in a genial, easygoing expression was a steady solidity that spoke of principles and sound character. While intellectually, Charlie might be a lightweight compared to his good friends Barnaby and Penelope, the very fact that they’d remained close friends for decades spoke volumes.
Mentally reviewing his previous encounters with Charlie, Stokes acknowledged that the man before him had matured—physically, emotionally, and almost certainly socially. Hastings was a little over average height, lean rather than heavy, and cut an unobtrusively elegant figure. Stokes pegged him as a gentleman who would rather inhabit the background than take center stage.
Evenly, Stokes observed, “I understand that you left White’s soon after. Alone.”
Charlie looked faintly uncomfortable. “Well, my evening had gone downhill, thanks to Sedbury.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “Butyou can’t have found anyone to say I went after Sedbury because I didn’t. I came home—here.”
Stokes inclined his head. “I admit that we have no witnesses who saw you and Sedbury together after you both left the club.”
“That’s because weweren’ttogether later.” Charlie flung up his hands. “Just think of it—at that time, Sedbury was literally the last man in London I would seek out, much less look to spend more time with!”
Stokes studied Charlie. “I can certainly see how that might be. However, we also have it on good authority that you and Sedbury are rivals of sorts in the matter of collecting whips.” Stokes trapped Charlie’s gaze. “That was why, in Long Acre, you were confident in your ability to take the whip from him.”
Stokes hadn’t previously heard of gentlemen collecting whips, but given the time and attention gentlemen of the ton paid to all things to do with horses, he couldn’t say he was surprised that such a fraternity existed.
Charlie frowned, but readily admitted, “Yes, that’s true, but I can’t see what that has to say to anything. There are several whip collectors in London, and we don’t go around murdering each other over whips.” He spread his hands. “What would be the point?”
Stokes had to admit that was a reasonable question; men with collections of any stripe liked to display their acquisitions to others.
He was aware that Charlie was studying his face and knew there was nothing to be read there; he was long past the stage of allowing his thoughts to show.
Eventually, Charlie shifted, then stated, “I say, Stokes—I didn’t murder Sedbury, and I have absolutely no idea who did.”
Stokes believed him, not least because Charlie’s emotions were easy to discern; he was somewhat affronted to find himself considered a suspect in a murder, but at the sametime, he understood what had brought Stokes to his door and was trying to be reasonable and helpful without in any way incriminating himself. There was also, Stokes judged, the early stirrings of curiosity over how and why Sedbury had been killed. Yet the critical point in stamping Charlie as highly unlikely to be Sedbury’s murderer was the disparity in size, weight, and strength.
Stokes had never encountered Sedbury, but the initial description of the corpse from the Thames River Police was of a great hulking brute of a man in excellent physical shape, with no obvious injuries—not shot, not stabbed. Charlie’s comments had only added to the picture of Sedbury’s strength. Consequently, while Charlie was hardly a stripling or a weakling, it was seriously difficult to imagine how he could have overcome a man of Sedbury’s stature.
