Chapter 25
Sir Ivo McInnis was in the mews behind his house, hunched over with the hoof of one of his carriage horses between his knees, when Sebastian walked up to him.
“Someone attacked Percy and Arabella Priestly in Hyde Park this morning,” Sebastian said quietly and without preamble. “Did you know that?”
Sir Ivo straightened abruptly, the horse’s hoof settling back on the cobbles with a clatter. An expression Sebastian couldn’t quite read flickered across the man’s face, then was gone. “No. Good God. Why?”
“Presumably because whoever killed your wife and daughter is afraid the children might have seen or heard something that afternoon that could help identify him. Do you know if there were any threats against Emma? Was there someone she quarreled with, perhaps?”
“Emma? No, of course not.” McInnis nodded to the groom silently standing nearby, then waited while the man reached out to take the horse’s halter and led it back to its stall. “I went through all this with that magistrate from Bow Street. The girl only turned sixteen this past May; she was still in the schoolroom. What makes you even ask such a thing?”
“Two nights ago, a chocolatier’s apprentice named Gilly Harper was murdered in Piccadilly and her body posed in a way that suggests her death might have been the work of the same killer. The girl was about the same age as Emma.”
“A chocolatier’s apprentice? You can’t be serious. What could such a person possibly have to do with us?”
“Lady McInnis rescued Gilly from an abusive mistress some months ago and then met with the girl last week to ask if she was willing to be interviewed about the experience. Your wife didn’t mention any of this to you?”
Sir Ivo snorted. “No. My wife knew exactly what I thought of her ridiculous obsession with foundlings and poorhouse children.”
“You thought the work she did ridiculous?”
“Of course it was ridiculous. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner the wretched little brats all die, the better. They’re nothing but a useless, costly burden on society, and most of them only grow up to be murderers and thieves anyway.”
“Yes, I can see why your wife would refrain from discussing her work with you,” Sebastian said dryly. “So tell me this: Do you know anything about her quarrel with Basil Rhodes?”
McInnis had walked to the open doors of the stables, but at that he drew up and whirled around. “Basil Rhodes? Are you telling me Laura quarreled with him? Of all the stupid, bloody-minded things to do! Quarrel with the Prince Regent’s favorite bastard? God help us.” His jaw tightened. “She’s damned lucky I didn’t know about it.”
“Is Rhodes a close friend of yours?”
“I wouldn’t call him a ‘close’ friend, no. But I’m friendly with him, of course. Who is not?”
Sebastian studied the man’s tight, angry face. “According to the autopsy, your wife had days-old bruises on her shoulders and an even older bruise on her side. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No, I would not.” Sir Ivo stared back at him, as if daring Sebastian to contradict him. “I suppose she might have taken a fall, but if so, she never said anything to me about it. Laura had a tendency to be clumsy, and she bruised easily.”
“Of course.”
His brow darkened. “What does that mean?”
“Well, that is one explanation.”
Sir Ivo grunted and turned back toward the door. “And now you really must excuse me.”
“Just a few more things. I’m wondering, have you spoken to your younger daughter, Thisbe, about what happened to her mother and sister?”
“She’s been told about it, obviously, although not in any detail. No point in that, is there? The girl is upset enough as it is.”
“She didn’t say anything that might explain what happened Sunday?”
“What could Thisbe possibly know about it? She wasn’t there.”
“Was she ill?”
“Ill? No. Not that I heard, anyway.”
“I’ve been wondering why wasn’t she on the picnic.”
“Damned if I know. I left that sort of thing to my wife.”
“Would it be possible for me to speak to her?”
Sir Ivo’s lips tightened into a hard line, and he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. The girl just lost her mother and sister. I already told Sir Henry I don’t want her disturbed any more than she already is.”
“I understand,” said Sebastian as they watched a boy push a wheelbarrow piled high with fresh manure toward the mews’ arch, the barrow’s wooden wheel rattling over the cobblestones. “I believe your son, Malcolm, has a fencing master?”
“That’s right; Damion Pitcairn. What could he possibly have to do with anything?”
“I don’t think he does. But it’s always possible he knows something he doesn’t realize is relevant.”
The Baronet shrugged. “I don’t see how he could, but if you wish to waste your time chasing after that sort of nonsense, be my guest. And now you really must excuse me.”
“Of course,” said Sebastian. “My apologies again for intruding on what I know must be a difficult time for you.”
McInnis gave a negligent nod and walked off toward the house.
Sebastian stayed where he was, aware of a deep sense of disquiet as he watched the Baronet stroll away. Some men were better than others, he knew, at disguising their grief, and the marriage between Sir Ivo McInnis and the former Miss Laura Priestly had reportedly never been a love match. But the man had also lost one of his own children, a beautiful, innocent girl of sixteen.
And yet his only response to the investigation into her murder was boredom and indifference bordering on irritation.
The violinist stood alone in the center of the darkened stage of the King’s Theatre at the Haymarket, his instrument tucked between shoulder and chin, his fingers flying over the fingerboard, his body swaying with the music he conjured from the strings with his bow. His movements were supple and smooth, with the fluid grace of a dancer.
Or a master swordsman.
The lingering scents of oranges and greasepaint hung heavily in the air, but the pit before him was empty, as were the rows of gilded boxes hung with velvet curtains that arced high above. He was a young man, tall and slim, with tawny skin, thick dark curls that clustered close to his head, and a fine-boned face that exquisitely combined his Ethiopian, Arab, and European ancestry.
Slipping a coin to the attendant who made as if to stop him, Sebastian went to stand quietly before the stage. The violinist above was lost in his music, his eyes closed as he wove a melody of hopeless passion so piercingly sweet and sad that it tore at the heart and wounded the soul. Then he lowered his bow and opened his eyes, his chest heaving with emotion as he stared down at Sebastian.
“We’re closed for the summer,” said Damion Pitcairn hoarsely.
“I know,” said Sebastian, his own voice coming out surprisingly husky. “That’s a beautiful piece. Your own?” Pitcairn might be young, but Sebastian knew the man had already had several of his compositions publicly performed.
Damion Pitcairn lowered his violin. “Yes, but I’m still working on it.”
Sebastian let his gaze drift thoughtfully around the darkened interior of the vast opera house before bringing his attention back to the young fencing master’s face. “It’s a rare man who is gifted by the gods with even one great talent. But you have been blessed with three.”
“Perhaps,” said Pitcairn, swiping a forearm across his sweating face. “Although some might call those gifts a mocking curse, joined as they are with a certain inescapable reality.”
Sebastian gave a faint shake of his head—not in denial of the truth of what the man said, but in repudiation of the widespread ignorance and prejudice that made his words true.
“I know why you’re here,” said Pitcairn. He hesitated a moment, then added, “Lord Devlin.”
“We’ve met?”
“Not exactly. You attended the exhibition fencing match between Henry Angelo and me arranged for the Prince Regent at Carlton House last year.” A wry smile curled the other man’s lips. “You were the only man there who backed me.”
“And won handsomely because of it. But then, I’d seen you fence before.”
“So had half the other men there.”
Sebastian shrugged. “How long have you been Malcolm McInnis’s fencing master?”
“Ever since that match, so . . . it would be eighteen months now. Sir Ivo engaged me immediately afterward.”
“You must know Malcolm well, then.”
“Well enough.” The answer was guarded. Cautious.
“What about Lady McInnis? Did you know her?”
“Not really. She was always pleasant whenever I chanced to encounter her, although that wasn’t often.”
“And Malcolm’s sister Emma?”
Something flickered in the younger man’s eyes, something hidden by his thick, swiftly lowered lashes. He drew a deep breath before answering. “The violin concerto I was playing . . . it’s dedicated to her.”
“So you knew her?”
“How could I not, going to the house three times a week like that? She used to come and watch us fence. Sometimes—” he started to say, then broke off.
“Sometimes . . . ?” prompted Sebastian.
Pitcairn swallowed and gave a vague shake of his head. “I still can’t believe she’s dead. Who would kill someone like that—a beautiful, vibrant young girl of sixteen? For no reason. No reason at all.”
“When was your last lesson with Malcolm?”
Pitcairn frowned in thought. “Last Wednesday. Why?”
“So, right before he and his cousin left for Scotland?”
He nodded. “I think they were planning to leave the next day.”
“Did he say anything to you about his mother and sister’s projected expedition to Richmond Park?”
“No. Why would he?”
“No reason that I can think of,” said Sebastian as he watched Pitcairn crouch down to rest his violin and bow in the case that lay open at his feet. “Who do you think killed Lady McInnis and her daughter?”
Pitcairn closed the case, then buckled the straps. “You don’t want to know.”
“You underestimate me.”
He looked up. “Do I? And if I said Sir Ivo? What then?”
Sebastian held himself very still. “What makes you suspect Sir Ivo?”
“Do you know he was accusing his wife of having an affair?”
Sebastian stared at him. “Lady McInnis was having an affair? With whom?”
Pitcairn shook his head. “I didn’t say she was having an affair. I said McInnis accused her of it.”
“How do you know this?”
“Emma told me.”
Emma, Sebastian noticed. Not Miss McInnis, not Malcolm’s sister, but Emma. Aloud, he said, “Why would she tell something so personal to her brother’s fencing master?”
Pitcairn straightened. “Because I found her crying. It seems they’d had a big row about it right before I arrived at the house that day for Malcolm’s lesson—Sir Ivo and Lady McInnis, I mean. Emma overheard it. She was upset and needed someone to talk to and . . . I was there.”
“When was this?”
“The last lesson before Malcolm left for Scotland, so that Wednesday.”
“Who was Sir Ivo accusing his wife of having an affair with?”
“If Emma knew, she didn’t tell me.”
Sebastian studied the younger man’s carefully guarded face. “Sir Ivo would hardly be the first man to kill his wife because he thought she was having an affair. But why would he kill his own sixteen-year-old daughter?”
“I assume she was killed by accident.”
It was the obvious explanation, of course. And it would make sense if it hadn’t been for the surely premeditated way the killer had posed his victims’ bodies. Sebastian was silent for a moment, then said, “Did you know a young girl named Gilly Harper?”
“You mean the apprentice who was killed the other night in Piccadilly? No. Surely you don’t think the deaths are related?”
“They may not be,” said Sebastian. “What about Basil Rhodes? Do you know him?”
A glint of something dangerous flashed in the other man’s eyes. “Let’s say I know of him—I’m from Jamaica, remember. Why? What does he have to do with anything?”
“I’m told he quarreled with Lady McInnis. Did Emma tell you about that?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. He’s one of the biggest plantation owners in Jamaica, and Lady McInnis hated the institution of slavery. It’s one of the things she was working the hardest to change.”
“Was she? No one has mentioned it.”
Pitcairn nodded. “Sir Ivo didn’t like it, so she tried to keep it quiet.”
“And yet you knew. Did Malcolm tell you about it?”
A faint flush rode high on the other man’s cheekbones, and his eyes slid away. “I’m not sure where I heard it.”
So that came from Emma, too, thought Sebastian with a deep sense of foreboding.
He didn’t like where the implications of all this were leading.