What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

moment.”
    “There are some gentlemen of my acquaintance,” said Paul Gibson later, when they were seated at a table before the kitchen fire with a joint of cold ham, a crusty loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. “They’re in the brandy trade, if you know what I mean, and I’ve no doubt but what they’d be agreeable to—”
    “No,” said Sebastian, reaching for another slice of ham.
    Paul Gibson paused with his wineglass halfway to his mouth. “No?”
    “No. Why does everyone keep trying to introduce me to their friendly neighborhood smuggler?” Sebastian met his friend’s arrested gaze. “I’m not running, Paul.”
    Paul Gibson took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips. “All right. So how can I help?”
    “You can tell me what you know about Rachel York’s death. Are you the one who did the postmortem?”
    In the two years since he’d left the army, Paul Gibson had set up a small practice here, in the City. But he focused a considerable portion of his time and energy on research and writing, and the teaching of medical students, as well as providing the authorities with his expert opinion in criminal cases.
    “There was no postmortem.”
    “What?”
    He shrugged and emptied the last of the wine into Sebastian’s glass. “They’re not automatically done, you know. And in this instance, therewasn’t much of a reason for one, really. It was fairly obvious how she’d died.”
    “You saw the body?”
    “No. A colleague of mine was called in.” Lurching to his feet, the Irishman limped across the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine. “It was a brutal attack, from the sounds of it. She’d been beaten as well as raped, her throat slashed not once, but many times.”
    It fit with what Pierrepont had told him, but Sebastian had been hoping for more. “Would it be possible for you to arrange to see her?”
    Gibson shook his head. “Too late. The body’s already been turned over for burial. The theater is arranging it.”
    Sebastian swirled his wine thoughtfully in his glass.
    “What do you think you’re going to do? Hmm?” Gibson swung his wooden leg over the opposite bench to sit down again with an awkward lurch. “Find the man who killed her yourself?”
    “If I don’t, who will?”
    “It’s not an easy thing, solving a murder.”
    Sebastian looked up to meet his friend’s narrowed, worried eyes. “You know what I did in the army.”
    “Yes. But there’s a difference, I should think, between being a spy and finding a killer.”
    “Not as much as one might imagine.”
    A hint of a dimple appeared in the Irishman’s cheek. “So. Have any suspects yet?”
    Sebastian smiled. “Two, as a matter of fact. There’s an actor by the name of Hugh Gordon—”
    “Ah. I saw him just last month. A very effective Hector.”
    “That’s him. Seems Rachel York was his mistress when she first started at the theater. He took it badly when she left him.”
    Paul Gibson frowned. “How long ago was this?”
    “Some two years ago.”
    The Irishman shook his head. “Too long. If she’d just left him, I could see it. But passions cool with time.”
    “One might think so. Except that he still sounds surprisingly bitter to me. I get the impression Mr. Gordon nourishes republican sentimentsthat he believes Rachel York once shared. I’d say he’s as bothered by the blue blood of her recent lovers as anything else.”
    The Irishman drained his glass. “So, who is her current lover?”
    Sebastian reached for the bottle and poured his friend some more wine. “She seems to have been involved with an extraordinary number of gentlemen, at least on a superficial level. But the only one of any significance I’ve discovered so far is a Frenchman who was paying the rent on her rooms. An émigré by the name of Leo Pierrepont.”
    “A Frenchman? That’s interesting. What do you know about him?”
    “Not a lot. He’s a man in his late forties, I’d say. Came here back in ’ninety-two. He’s known as a good swordsman, but I’ve never heard anything to his discredit.”
    “I put my money on the Frenchman.”
    Sebastian laughed. “That’s because it’s the French who shot away the bottom half of your leg. Besides, he has an alibi: on the night Rachel was killed, he was giving a dinner party—or so he says. He could be making it up, of course, but it should be easy enough to check.”
    “Unfortunate.” Gibson shifted in his seat, a grimace of pain flashing momentarily