Chapter 6
The sun was hovering low in the summer sky by the time Sebastian made it back to his house on Brook Street, in the district of London known as Mayfair.
He paused at the base of the steps leading up to the shiny black front door, his gaze drawn to the distant swath of green that was Grosvenor Square. The light was fading fast from the day, the shadows in the narrow, affluent street deepening, the air heavy with the scents of delicate dinners being concocted by expensive French chefs up and down the street. He could hear the laughing shouts of children mingling with the clear, sweet notes of a swift singing somewhere out of sight. Normally the simple beauty of the moment would have filled him with quiet joy. Now he found it served only to accentuate the disquieting ache in his heart.
The image of the dead mother and daughter—the woman cut down in the prime of life, the girl only just emerging from childhood—tore at him. He’d spent six years at war, yet he still found violent death disturbing and the senseless loss of the young particularly so. But there was something about the careful posing of those two innocent victims that transcended both tragedy and loss, that hinted at a level of human malevolence that reached beyond hate, beyond revenge, to something he could only understand as evil.
He was not a religious man. He’d lost his belief in the teachings of his youth long ago in the smoke-obscured charnel house of some half-forgotten battlefield. And yet he believed in good. And while he rejected the idea of evil as a personified external force, he knew it when he saw it. Still felt the intensity of its animus when he was in its presence.
And he’d felt it today, like a breathless chill lingering in that sun-warmed glade.
The two little boys sat side by side on the rug before the drawing room’s empty hearth, trying to arouse the attention of the big, long-haired black cat that lay curled up on a nearby chair, pretending to ignore them. Both boys were tall for their ages, tall and unusually lean, with their fathers’ almost black hair and strange yellow eyes. Except for a slight difference in their heights, they looked enough alike to be twins, although they were not even brothers. Only Simon, now two and a half, was Sebastian’s own son; Patrick, slightly older, was the orphaned child of a man who’d looked enough like Sebastian to be his brother—and died because of it.
“Papa!” the boys cried in unison, bounding up to run toward Sebastian when he walked into the room.
“I didn’t expect to find you two still up,” said Sebastian, hunkering down to wrap his arms around both boys and hold them tight.
“They wheedled me into letting them stay up a few more minutes in the hopes you might come,” said his wife, Hero, rising from one of the chairs near the room’s bow window. Like her son, she was tall—almost as tall as Sebastian, with warm brown hair and Jarvis’s aquiline nose, piercing gray eyes, and extraordinary intelligence. She was now nearly six months pregnant with their second child, and Sebastian had passed many a sleepless night worrying about the dangers to come, for Simon’s delivery had not been easy. When he’d first met her, Sebastian had thought her as cold, hard, and enigmatic as her father. Now he couldn’t imagine living without her.
“I think I hear Claire coming,” said Sebastian, and laughed when both boys chorused, “No!”
He gave them another hug, then rose and said to Hero, “Morey tells me you’ve pushed back dinner, as well. I fear Madame LeClerc may never forgive me.”
Hero’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Praise her trout meunière effusively enough and she’ll forgive you.” The smile faded. “Was it Laura?”
“It was, yes. I’m sorry. And her daughter Emma.”
“Dear God,” whispered Hero. “Were they—”
She broke off as the boys’ nurse, a Frenchwoman named Claire, appeared in the doorway, and Simon set up a howl.
“Hush, mon petit,” said Claire, scooping the little boy up into her arms and holding out a hand to Patrick. “You’re tired. Come now, say good night to Maman and Papa.”
After the children and their nurse had gone, Hero said quietly, “Were they both shot?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, going to pour himself a brandy. “How well did you know Laura McInnis?”
“I’ve known her for years. I admired her immensely, but I also liked her. She was an extraordinary person, so giving and caring, so passionate about helping others, so determined to make the world a better place for those in need.”
Sebastian paused, the carafe in hand, to look over at her. “You said she was involved with the Foundling Hospital?”
Hero nodded. “She’s the one who suggested I write the article I’m doing on the mistreatment of apprentices.” For several years now Hero had been writing a series of articles for the Morning Chronicle on London’s working poor. The endeavor was an endless source of rage for her father, Lord Jarvis. But she simply smiled and kept writing.
“What can you tell me about her marriage?”
Hero looked thoughtful. “Very little, actually. I could be wrong, but I wouldn’t say she and Sir Ivo were what you might call ‘close.’ I had the impression he disapproved of her work with poor children, with the result that she kept much of what she did as quiet as possible. Probably the only exception to that is the work she did for the Foundling Hospital. But then, that’s something that’s seen as socially acceptable, even laudatory, isn’t it?”
“Are there other children besides Emma?”
Hero nodded. “Yes, there’s McInnis’s heir, Malcolm—he’s either seventeen or eighteen—and a younger girl, Thisbe. She’s eleven or twelve.”
“I wonder why she wasn’t at the picnic.”
“Thank goodness she was not.” Rising to her feet, Hero went to stand at the window, one hand resting curled on the sill, her gaze on the darkening street below. After a moment, she said, “There’s no chance it could have been an accident?”
“No. Whoever killed them then deliberately posed the bodies—moved them so that their hands were together at their chests as if in prayer, with the soles of the mother’s shoes touching Emma’s.”
Hero’s lips parted, a frown drawing two thoughtful lines between her eyebrows. “I remember hearing about something similar that happened out at Richmond Park once before, although it’s been many years. I think I was still a child.”
Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his brandy and nodded. “Fourteen years ago a woman and her daughter were shot while picnicking in Richmond Park, their bodies posed in the exact same way.”
“The killer was never captured?”
“Oh, someone was hanged for it, all right. But you and I both know how fallible our justice system is.” He took another deep drink. “What I didn’t know until today was the identity of the earlier victims: Madeline and Julia Lovejoy.”
Hero stared at him. “Not . . .”
He nodded. “Sir Henry’s wife and daughter.”
“Oh, no. The poor man. How is he taking this?”
“About as well as one might expect—which is to say, not well at all. Although he’s trying his damnedest not to show it.”
“Where does one even begin with a killing like this?”
Sebastian brought up a hand to rub the back of his neck. “God knows. As far as we can tell, there were no witnesses beyond the two young men who found them, and they didn’t really see anything. Gibson might be able to tell us something after the postmortems, but I’ll be surprised.”
Hero said, “I have an interview scheduled with the director of the Foundling Hospital tomorrow morning to talk to him about their apprenticeships. I can see if he knows anything useful.”
“That might help. Thank you.”
Setting aside his glass, he went to stand behind her, his arms around her waist to draw her body back against his, his head resting against hers. For a long moment, he held her. Then he said quietly, “Why would someone do something like that? Pose their bodies like effigies atop medieval tombs?”
“The man they executed for the murder of Lovejoy’s family—did he ever explain it?”
“No. According to Lovejoy, the man maintained his innocence until the very end.”
“So perhaps he was innocent.”
“Perhaps. Although, if this is the work of the same killer, why the gap of fourteen years?”
“He could have been away.”
“He could have. Or perhaps there was something we can’t yet begin to imagine that drove him to it—then and now.”
“What could possibly motivate someone to do something so . . . hideous?”
He met her gaze and saw there a horror and fear that mirrored his own. “The only thing I can think of is madness,” he said, tightening his arms around her and burying his face in the soft fragrance of her hair. “You will be careful tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Why? Was there a connection between Julia Lovejoy and the Foundling Hospital?”
“Not to my knowledge. But then, I didn’t want to question Sir Henry too closely about his wife. I wasn’t sure he could take it.”
“What if—” Hero broke off, then said, “Dear God, what if the killer chose Laura and Emma at random and deliberately posed their bodies like that in order to torment Sir Henry?”
“That’s a frightful thought.”
“But it is possible, isn’t it?”
Sebastian felt his stomach roil at the idea. “Yes, it is.”