Sebastian left Gibson’s surgery on Tower Hill and went looking for Lovejoy.
According to the Bow Street magistrate’s clerk, Sir Henry had planned to leave early that morning for Surrey in order to consult the records of the trial of the man who’d been convicted and hanged for the murder of Lovejoy’s family. “I offered to do it for him,” said the clerk, a plump, bespectacled man named Collins. “But he insisted on going himself. After that I believe he intended to visit the Old Bailey to look at something there, so that’s probably where he is now.”
Sebastian could see his own worry reflected in the other man’s eyes, but all he could do was nod and say, “Thank you.”
Out of respect for Tom—whose memories of Newgate were painful—Sebastian left the boy with the horses at a watering trough by St. Paul’s Cathedral and walked up the street to the court. The criminal court known as the Old Bailey stood at the intersection of the streets of Newgate and Old Bailey, right beside the grim, hulking prison of Newgate. There’d been a time when condemned prisoners had been trundled through the streets from here to execution on the gallows at Tyburn, near Hyde Park. But when that area became fashionable with the wealthy, the hangings were transferred here, to a scaffold erected outside one of the doors of Newgate prison. As Sebastian walked up Old Bailey, he could see men working to erect the scaffold now, their hammering reverberating down the ancient narrow street. And standing to one side, quietly watching them, was the small, solitary figure of the magistrate.
He nodded a greeting at Sebastian’s approach, his gaze still on the scaffold. “They’ve four thieves scheduled to hang tomorrow,” he said as Sebastian drew nearer. “I’m told the youngest are nine and twelve.”
“Hell,” Sebastian said softly.
The two men turned to walk together toward Ludgate. “Learn anything?” Sebastian asked after a moment.
Lovejoy shook his head. “There have been no other even vaguely similar incidents in the area. And as for O’Toole, his case seems as straightforward to me today as it did fourteen years ago. The man was never right in the head after he was wounded in Ireland—used to roam the hills around Richmond dressed like a scarecrow, his hair and beard wild, shouting angry nonsense at anyone he chanced to come upon. People were afraid of him.”
“Did you or your wife know him?”
“No. I’d never even heard of him until . . .” The magistrate’s voice trailed away, and he drew a deep, shuddering breath.
“So how did O’Toole come to be suspected?” said Sebastian as they turned toward the cathedral.
“He was found standing over the bodies, covered in their blood.”
“I thought they’d been shot.”
“They had. But he’d taken and literally painted his face with their blood, as if it were war paint. It was quite horrible.”
“He still had the gun on him?”
“No. That’s the one problematic aspect of the case. The gun was never found, and there was no evidence that he’d ever owned one.”
“But he had been a soldier.”
“Oh, yes. And a spinster named Miss Carter who was walking in the park with her young nephews had seen him shouting at Julia—my wife—shortly before the murders.”
“Did she say what about?”
“She said it was all nonsense—something about women and children being burned alive in churches and kings doing the devil’s work.”
“Did she hear the shots?”
“No; no one did. A couple of bricklayers who’d been working on repairs to the park’s wall came upon the scene quite by chance. O’Toole ran away when he saw them, but they chased him down and caught him. It was assumed he must have thrown away the gun while in flight—although, as I said, it was never found.”
“And O’Toole continued to insist he was innocent?”
“He did, yes. To the end. Claimed they were already dead when he’d come upon them.”
“Did he say why he’d painted his face with their blood?”
“He said—” Lovejoy’s voice broke, and he swallowed, hard. “He said he hadn’t meant to, that he must have somehow got their blood on his hands and then touched his face.”
Sebastian was silent for a moment, his gaze on the soot-streaked walls of St. Paul’s rising up before them. “There were no other suspects?”
“Not really. Just a fellow who lived in a cottage not far from one of the park gates who was seen having words with Julia earlier.”
“Words about what?”
“He claimed Madeline threw rocks at his dog—which is rank nonsense. Madeline loved dogs.”
“And that was it? No other suspects?”
“No.”
“Was your wife involved in any way with the Foundling Hospital?”
“No. Not at all.”
“What about Sir Ivo or Lady McInnis? Did she have any contact with them?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.” They’d almost reached the steps of the cathedral, and Lovejoy paused to look back down the hill toward Temple Bar. “I spoke to him again this morning—Sir Ivo, I mean. He says he still has no idea who could have killed his wife and daughter, or why. Seems his son and Salinger’s heir recently left for a fishing trip in the Highlands with friends. He’s sent after them, but he’s concerned the lads might not make it back in time for the funeral. In this heat, it can’t be put off for too long.”
“When’s the inquest?”
“Tomorrow at eleven. Gibson assures me the postmortems will be completed by this evening.”
Sebastian nodded. “He’d almost finished with Lady McInnis when I saw him earlier.”
“Anything?”
“Not really. Just some older bruises—two sets, actually. Evidently Sir Ivo was in the habit of brutalizing his wife.”
“Good heavens,” said Lovejoy, looking distressed. “Not what one would have expected, is it?”
“I doubt it means anything, although it might explain his hostility to the postmortems.”
“Yes, I can see that. If it weren’t for the death of young Miss Emma McInnis, such a history would be more than suggestive. But I can’t see Sir Ivo murdering both his wife and his daughter—quite apart from the matter of the killer’s strange positioning of the bodies.”
Sebastian studied the magistrate’s drawn features. “Have you considered that someone could have committed these murders and staged his victims’ bodies in a way that echoes the deaths of your family in order to cause you grief?”
Lovejoy’s eyes widened. “What a chilling thought.”
“Is there anyone you can think of who might hate you enough to do something like that?”
The magistrate was silent for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then he let out his breath in a long sigh and shook his head. “I suppose there must be any number of people who hold me responsible for the execution or transportation of someone they loved. But to do something so diabolical, so evil, as to kill two innocent women to torment me?” He shook his head. “No, I can’t think of anyone like that. Not anyone recent, at any rate. But perhaps if I give it some thought . . .”
Sebastian hesitated. He wanted to say, Don’t put yourself through this, my friend. Let one of the other Bow Street magistrates take the lead on the case. You can’t bring to this ugly crime the kind of detached objectivity it requires, and the memories you’re forcing yourself to revisit are too painful, too raw. You’re going to destroy yourself.
Except of course he couldn’t say any of those things. And so he said instead, “This fellow you mentioned with a cottage near one of the park gates—is he still alive?”
“I’m told he is, yes. Coldfield is his name. Cato Coldfield.”
“I was thinking I might drive out to Richmond to have another look around, and I might as well talk to him while I’m at it.” Sebastian started to turn toward where he’d left Tom with the curricle, then paused. “Was there a particular reason Coldfield was eliminated as a suspect?”
“No,” said Lovejoy, looking more distraught than ever. “Only that O’Toole seemed the obvious culprit. I mean, he didn’t simply have their blood on his face; he was covered in it. What other explanation could there be?”
Sebastian thought about how a damaged young ex-soldier, traumatized by having repeatedly witnessed his government’s indiscriminate slaughter of innocent Irish women and children, might react were he to stumble upon the brutal murder of a mother and her daughter.
But he kept that theory to himself.