Later that morning, Sir Henry Lovejoy paid a visit to a neat brick row house on Sloane Street in Hans Town.
Lying to the south of Knightsbridge, this was a part of London that had until late in the previous century been nothing more than open fields and market gardens. It still maintained something of a rural flavor, and its comfortable, modest-sized houses were popular with professional men and moderately successful merchants. Back in the days when Julia and Madeline were alive, Lovejoy used to come here often, for this was the home of Julia’s sister, Elizabeth Nelson. Even after the tragedy of fourteen years ago, Lovejoy had for some time made an effort to keep in touch with his sister-in-law and her family. But the visits between the two households had dwindled over the years.
How long has it been? Lovejoy wondered as he plied the knocker on the house’s shiny green door. Two years? Three? His sister-in-law was a widow now, her children long since grown up and gone away. And as the minutes ticked past, Lovejoy found himself wondering if Elizabeth even still lived here. Then the door was opened by a young maidservant who dropped a quick, nervous curtsy when Lovejoy introduced himself and then hurried off to discover if her mistress was at home to visitors.
Elizabeth received him without ceremony in her small rear garden, where she was supervising a workman redoing a section of plantings. She was a sturdily built woman in her late fifties, of average height, with iron gray hair, a shelflike bosom, and a no-nonsense manner.
“Henry,” she exclaimed, coming forward to meet him with both hands outstretched. “It’s been a long time.”
“Elizabeth.” He took her hands in his, awkwardly, then let her go. She looked much as she had the last time he’d seen her, which he realized now was four years ago, shortly after her husband’s funeral. “You’re looking good.”
“You’re very kind, Henry, but I know how I look,” she said with a laugh. “Julia was always the pretty one.” The amusement faded from her plain features. “And I’m not such a fool as to think you just happened to be passing through Hans Town and decided to drop in. What is it, Henry? What is it about these ghastly new murders out at Richmond Park that brings you to see me?”
“To be frank, I’m hoping you might know something—or at least remember something—that I don’t,” said Lovejoy as they turned to walk along the flagstone path that wound through the garden. “Do you know if there was any connection between Julia and Lady McInnis?”
“So that’s what you’re thinking, is it?” Elizabeth stared out over the garden for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so—at least, not that I knew about.”
“Could Julia have had anything to do with a farm woman named Prudence Blackadder? She fosters orphaned infants and foundlings for St. Martin’s parish.”
“No. What could Julia possibly have had to do with such a person?”
“Nothing that I can think of. What about a chimney sweep named Hiram Dobbs?”
“A chimney sweep? Henry, you can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t,” said Lovejoy. “But they’re often unsavory types. I suppose she could have quarreled with the fellow.”
“She might have. But if she did, I don’t recall her saying anything to me about it.”
Lovejoy let out his breath in a long sigh. “I was always so preoccupied with business. I was hoping you might have known of something—or at least remember something that I do not.”
“Surely you’re not thinking these new murders are the work of the same killer?”
“I see it as more than likely.” He glanced over at her. “You don’t?”
She shook her head. “I think they hanged the right man fourteen years ago. Whoever is doing this now is obviously copying him for some disturbing reason.”
Lovejoy studied her plain, confident face and wished he could share her easy assurance. “Can you think of anyone at all that Julia or Madeline might have quarreled with in the weeks before they died? Someone we perhaps overlooked at the time?”
“Well . . .” She paused. “There was that tradesman—a butcher or some such person, wasn’t there?”
“Yes; Arthur Grant was his name. But he died of a heart attack less than a week after Julia and Madeline were killed. I remember his wife accused me of setting Bow Street to harass the man to death.”
“Ah, that’s right; I had forgotten.” She was silent for a moment, watching the gardener set to work digging a layer of manure into the newly emptied garden bed. “I don’t recall anyone else at the moment, but I can think on it. Something might come to me.”
Lovejoy nodded and turned to go. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I know it’s not easy, remembering those days.”
“Henry—” She reached out her hand, stopping him. “Please don’t torment yourself like this. The man who killed Julia and Madeline has been dead now for fourteen years. He was a deeply disturbed soul and he paid for what he did with his own life. But whoever is doing this now is evil. And I firmly believe the answer to who he is lies somewhere in the lives of the poor woman and her daughter he killed. Not in the past, with Julia.”
Lovejoy nodded again, although he was not sure he agreed with her. “I pray to God that you are right.”