Chapter 11
The sky was a crystal clear blue, the air sweet and fresh, the fields of ripening grain dancing gently in a soft breeze as Sebastian left behind London’s dirty, crowded streets and turned toward Richmond. Once a royal retreat beloved of the likes of Henry VII and Queen Elizabeth, what was now Richmond Park had long ago been thrown open to the general public. On such a balmy, sunshiny summer’s day, the rolling green hills and open woods of the park would normally be filled with everything from boys playing cricket to bird-watchers and picnicking families.
Not today.
“Why we stoppin’ ’ere?” asked Tom when Sebastian drew up before the honeysuckle-draped thatched cottage of the keeper he’d met briefly the evening before.
“Reconnaissance,” said Sebastian, handing the boy the reins.
The keeper himself was off looking at a downed tree on the far side of the park, but his wife was home and more than willing to talk.
Her name was Sally Hammond, and she was a plump, good-natured, sandy-haired woman somewhere in her forties. “People are staying away from the park,” she said as they walked along the reedy banks of the pond beside her cottage. “Reckon they’re scared, and I can’t say I blame them. Anybody in their right mind would be scared.”
“Who do people suspect might be responsible for the killings?”
She gave a faint snort. “Some folks are saying it must be the ghost of the ex-soldier they hanged after the last time something like this happened around here. It’s nonsense, of course. But when did that ever stop people?”
“And the others?”
“Well, some reckon it might be a French prisoner of war, although I don’t think they’ve let them go yet, have they? Others are sayin’ it must be some ex-soldier returning home from the wars who ain’t quite right in his head, same as they said last time.”
Something about the way she phrased it caught Sebastian’s attention. “Do you think he was responsible? Daniel O’Toole, I mean.”
Sally Hammond paused beside the trunk of an old willow, her gaze on the ducks paddling lazily out on the sun-spangled pond, a frown pinching her forehead as her arms came up to cross over her apron. “No, I never did. There’s no denying he weren’t right in his head when he came home, poor Danny. But he was a gentle soul. Always had been, even as a boy. That’s why the things they made him do and the things he saw in Ireland bothered him the way they did.”
“You knew him?”
“I did, yes. His mother and mine were cousins.”
Sebastian kept his gaze on her half-averted face. “So who do you think was responsible for the killings fourteen years ago?”
She pressed her lips into a tight line. “It’s not my place to say, now, is it? Idle speculation can hurt people.”
“What about Cato Coldfield? What can you tell me about him?”
He saw something flash in her eyes, something she hid quickly by looking away as she shook her head. “Let’s just say I don’t reckon anybody would ever call Cato Coldfield a ‘gentle soul.’ ”
“I’m told he was seen arguing with Mrs. Lovejoy and her daughter earlier in the afternoon they were murdered. Is that true?”
“He was, yes. He had a dog back then—a big brown thing he called Chester. He has a different dog now—a little mutt named Bounder. Now, Bounder, he’s as sweet as he can be. But Chester? That dog was impossible. Always going after the ducks and deer in the park, he was. Brought down at least one fawn every spring. My Richard—that’s my husband, you know—he was always threatening to shoot that dog if Cato didn’t keep him out of the park. But Richard never could bring himself to do it. He’s a soft touch like that. Always said it weren’t the dog’s fault that Cato let him run like that.”
“And Coldfield accused Madeline Lovejoy of throwing rocks at his dog?”
Mrs. Hammond nodded. “Chester was going after a fawn, you see. That’s why the girl was shouting and throwing rocks—to try to get that danged dog to leave off. Put Cato in a rage, it did.”
“Someone saw them arguing?”
She nodded. “I did. I caught Chester by his collar and told Cato to leave off shouting at the girl and take his dog home.”
“Did he?”
“He did, yes. Muttering all the while, of course. But he left.”
“I understand his cottage is near the park?”
“Yes, just outside the Petersham Gate. He shouldn’t be coming in here all the time without a ticket the way he does, but there’s no keeping him out.”
Sebastian turned to gaze off across the vast park. “Where exactly in the park were Julia and Madeline Lovejoy killed?”
“By Sidmouth Wood, that was,” she said. “Near what happened yesterday.”
“And how far is that from the Petersham Gate?”
Mrs. Hammond’s features contorted with a spasm of silent, unstated worry. “Not far. Not far at all.”
Cato Coldfield’s small, whitewashed cottage stood on a narrow lane near the southern edge of the park. The house’s long-straw thatched roof was new and masterfully done, with an elaborate ridge pattern using cross spar work. But the cottage’s walls were in serious need of whitewashing, and what must once have been a charming cottage garden was now an overgrown mess, with a broken front gate that hung open. As Sebastian drew up and hopped down to the lane, a black-and-white dog came bounding out to greet him, all wagging tail and wiggling hind end and happily lolling tongue.
“Look who’s a good boy, then,” said Sebastian softly, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ears as he cavorted around Sebastian’s legs. “Only, mind you don’t scuff the shine on my boots or Calhoun will have your hide.”
“Bounder! Git away from him!” shouted a man coming around the side of the cottage. He was a big, burly man probably somewhere in his fifties, his thickly curling dark hair threaded with gray, his full-cheeked face weather-beaten and sunbrowned. He had a bulbous nose and wide mouth and heavy dark brows that drew together now in a frown as he paused before the house’s closed front door. “Wot you want with me?”
Sebastian gave the dog one last pat and straightened. “You’re Cato Coldfield?”
“I am.” He sniffed. “Know who you are, too. You’re that fancy London lord they brung out here yesterday evenin’ to help with them new killings.”
“How do you know that?”
“Saw you, I did. See things, I do.”
“Did you see anything yesterday that might explain what happened to that woman and her daughter?”
“Wot? Me? No.” He raised one hand to point a thick, blunt finger at Sebastian. “That ain’t got nothin’ t’ do with me, you hear? Just like I didn’t have nothin’ t’ do with them other killings fourteen years ago.”
“Where were you yesterday at midday?”
“Me? I was right here. Feelin’ poorly, I was. Was supposed to start top dressin’ Jake Dempsey’s roof, but I musta ate something that was off. Hit me hard, it did. So I stayed home. You can ask Jake if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you.”
“And yet you saw me.”
Something flared in the other man’s eyes. “That was later. Feelin’ better by then, I was, so I went out t’ see what was goin’ on. But earlier in the day, when folks say them two was shot, I was here. Sick.” He stared at Sebastian, eyes wide and belligerent, as if daring him to doubt him.
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
Coldfield showed his crooked yellow teeth in a nasty grin. “Well, I reckon Bounder here could.”
At the sound of his name, the dog looked up, wagged his tail, and gave a soft whoof.
Sebastian let his gaze rove over the jumble of objects near the cottage door: the piles of split hazel spars; the long pole ladder splayed at its base; the biddles, legget, shearing hook, and thatch rake. Unlike the garden and cottage, the thatcher’s tools were well tended, with the metal blades of the shearing hook, eaves hook, and long eaves knife all carefully honed to a gleaming edge.
A tin pail filled with white ironstone soaking in soapy water stood nearby.
Sebastian said, “Where were you fourteen years ago when Julia and Madeline Lovejoy were shot in the park?”
“I was here then, too. Mindin’ me own business, like I always do.”
Sebastian nodded to the pail of ironstone. “I see you’ve acquired some new dishes.”
Coldfield’s jaw jutted out. “They was just left there in the park. Why shouldn’t I pick ’em up? Why leave ’em there to be ruined?”
“No reason I can think of,” said Sebastian, bringing his gaze back to the man’s sun-darkened face. “Who do you think killed that woman and her daughter yesterday?”
“How would I know?”
“You’ve no ideas at all?”
“Nope.”
“Seen any strangers hanging around here lately?”
“Nope.”
“Did you see the woman and her daughter earlier on Sunday, before they were shot?”
“Nope. Told you I was here sick, remember?”
“So you did.” Sebastian let his gaze drift, again, around the overgrown jumble of lavender and hollyhocks, stinging nettles and rampant ivy. “Thank you for your time,” he said, and turned toward where he’d left Tom with the curricle.
The thatcher sucked in a deep breath that flared his nostrils, but said nothing. He was still standing there beside his broken gate, the dog at his side, when Sebastian swung the curricle around and drove back toward the main road.
“I reckon ’e’s hiding somethin’,” said Tom as Sebastian turned toward the park again.
Sebastian glanced back at his tiger. “I agree. But what makes you think so?”
Tom shrugged. “Just somethin’ about the way ’e was standin’ there. So what ye reckon he’s hidin’?”
“I have no idea. But I think I’d like to take another look at that meadow by the wood.”