Free What Remains of Heaven by C. S. Harris Page A

hour or so in the evening to learn the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Ever since my Mary died, I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to keep the sessions going. I knew Prescott was an advocate of education for the poor, so I was hoping he might be able to find a place for a couple of the brighter boys in one of the city’s charity schools.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “I should have known better.”
    “He refused?”
    “He wouldn’t even hear me out. Became abusive, really—as I’ve no doubt you’ve heard.”
    They turned to walk together down the hill. “Ironic, isn’t it?” said Franklin. “My own father disowned me as a traitor because I chose to remain loyal to the king he raised me to serve. But Prescott? As far as he was concerned, my father’s loyalty to the land of his birth makes me a traitor.”
    Sebastian was silent, trying to reconcile two seemingly ir reconcilable portraits of the Bishop: the dedicated philanthro pist, and the narrow-minded bigot.
    A faint smile rekindled in the depths of the American’s eyes. “I see by your expression you don’t believe me. You think, How could a man who fought for everyone from the poor slaves of the West Indies to the downtrodden Catholics of Ireland be so unreasonable in his dealings with an old man?”
    “I suppose we all have our prejudices,” said Sebastian.
    “We do indeed. Prescott may have been a reformer, but he was no radical. As far as he was concerned, France and America were ungodly places, united by revolution and a dangerous philosophy he considered a threat to the future of civilization.”
    “But your own loyalty to England never wavered.”
    “It didn’t matter. Prescott looked at me, and he saw my father. For him, that was enough.”
    “The war with America ended nearly thirty years ago.”
    Franklin shrugged. “For some, the passage of time means little.” He swung to face Sebastian again, his pale, watery eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. “If you want my advice, my lord, you’ll look at more than the past few days if you want to find out who killed the Bishop of London. Some men keep their friends for a lifetime. But Francis Prescott, he preserved his enemies. Forever.”
    “Do you have any idea who some of those enemies might have been?”
    “Me? No.”
    Franklin’s granddaughter was beginning to reel in her kite, the crimson silk dancing against the clear blue sky. He watched it, eyes squinted against the light, his features set in troubled lines. After a moment, he said, “There is one rather curious aspect of my meeting with the Bishop.”
    “Yes?”
    “When I arrived at London House, I found the Bishop paused on the footpath in conversation with a tradesman. A butcher. Prescott said the man was simply there over an account, but . . .”
    “You didn’t believe him?”
    “When was the last time you dealt with your butcher over an account?”
    Sebastian smiled. “I daresay I wouldn’t recognize the man if I passed him on the street.”
    “Precisely.”
    “Had you ever seen the man before?”
    “As a matter of fact, yes. I recognized him. He’s a fellow by the name of Slade. Jack Slade. He has a shop near Smithfield.”
    “Smithfield?”
    Franklin nodded. “Near the cathedral, although I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you his exact direction. I remembered the incident because it was obvious the encounter troubled the Bishop. Deeply troubled him. I suspect it does much to explain why he reacted so angrily to my own request.”
    The wind gusted up, then suddenly died. Tipping back his head, Sebastian watched the kite falter, red wings vivid against the blue sky. Ellen Franklin let out a squeal as the kite plummeted downward, silk flapping, to land upside down in the branches of an elm tee, a torn scarlet splash against a sea of green.

     
    “I want you to find someone for me,” Sebastian told his tiger. “A Smithfield butcher by the name of Jack Slade.”
    Tom’s eyes