Chapter 55
Some three hours later, Sir Henry Lovejoy sat in the drawing room of Viscount Devlin’s house in Brook Street, a cup of tea in his hands. He had just endured a painful, exceedingly awkward exchange with Lord Salinger and his younger son, and for the first time in many years Lovejoy found himself longing for something considerably stronger than a cup of good English tea.
“I gather things didn’t go well,” said Devlin from where he stood with his back to the room’s open windows. Night had fallen warm and humid, with only a faint breeze that stirred the satin hangings and brought them the distant rumble of the crowds gathering for the grand fireworks display scheduled to be set off from the Parade in St. James’s Park.
Lovejoy took a sip of his tea. “I suppose it could have been a good deal worse. Young Master Percy does readily admit to taking the knife from the kitchen of his father’s house. Except he says he took the knife the day after his sister’s abigail was murdered in the park and threw it in the Serpentine on a lark.”
“A lark?”
Lovejoy sighed. “Yes, to see if he could confuse us. He appeared most contrite while admitting it. Said he understands now that it was not at all the thing to do and apologized most profusely for in any way misleading us or hampering our investigation.”
“Except that according to Salinger’s servants,” said Lady Devlin, “the knife disappeared before the abigail was killed.”
“Indeed.” Lovejoy cleared his throat. He still felt uncomfortable discussing such a distressing subject as murder in the presence of a gentlewoman—particularly a gentlewoman some six months heavy with child. Although he also acknowledged that several years’ acquaintance with Lady Devlin should by now have disabused him of any illusions he might once have nurtured about the nature of her sensibilities, because as far as he could tell, she had none. “A scullery maid interviewed by one of my constables told him much the same thing. Unfortunately, Lord Salinger’s cook claims it truly went missing only yesterday. She insists she was mistaken when she thought it had been taken before.”
“In other words, she doesn’t want to be turned off by her employer without a character for implicating his son in a murder investigation.”
“So one might infer.” Lovejoy took another sip of his tea.
“Were you able to speak to Percy’s groom, Jacob?”
“Unfortunately, no. No one has seen the lad since Saturday. From all appearances, he’s taken his things and run off.”
“Saturday?” said Devlin. “That’s the day Coldfield’s body was discovered.”
Lovejoy nodded. “It could be a coincidence, of course. But it’s also more than possible that the lad is bright enough to put two and two together and realized he’d inadvertently been helping his young master commit murder. Needless to say, I did not actually suggest to Lord Salinger that we suspect his children of anything. And even though he surely realized the implications of the knife’s discovery, he was never anything other than polite. Indeed, he volunteered that he’d only that day realized he’d misplaced his uncle’s old double-barreled flintlock, and went so far as to show it to me.”
“Had you mentioned the missing flintlock?” said Devlin.
“No, not at all. It’s quite a distinctive piece, by the way—manufactured in the last century by Jover, with a lovely engraving of leaves, flowers, and grapes on the wooden grip. He even showed me a portrait of his uncle holding the weapon, so I have no doubt it is indeed the same pistol. He said it hasn’t been fired in the last twenty or thirty years, although it had obviously been cleaned quite recently. When I remarked upon it, he said the first thing he’d done upon locating the pistol was clean it.”
Devlin leaned back against the window frame, his hands curling around the sill at his sides. “So where do we go from here?”
Lovejoy set aside his empty cup. “To be frank, I’d say we’re at point non plus. His lordship tells me the funeral for Lady McInnis and her daughter is scheduled for tomorrow evening and that he plans to depart for the Priory early the following morning.”
“It’s what he did before,” said Lady Devlin quietly. “When he began worrying about his wife’s behavior: He retreated to Leicestershire and stayed there as much as possible.”
Lovejoy rose to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. “It may be the best we can hope for—that their father’s loving care and the restorative wholesomeness of country life will help the children put whatever drove them to this madness behind them.”
“Perhaps,” said Devlin, meeting his worried gaze. “Unless they start feeling cocky about getting away with murder and decide they can do it again.”
After Lovejoy had gone, Sebastian went to stand once more at the open windows, his gaze now on the darkened street below. From the distance came an echoing boom and whizzing hiss, followed by the roar of the unseen crowds as the first salvos of the fireworks in the Prince Regent’s combination anniversary and victory celebration exploded over the parks in a colorful extravaganza of cascading lights.
“You think Salinger knows the truth?” said Hero, coming to stand beside him, her gaze, like his, on the shower of sparkling green lights reflected by the windows of the houses opposite. “Even if he only acknowledges it to himself?”
“He must, to have handled Lovejoy with such adroit civility. I suspect he went home after our conversation on the bridge and instituted another search for his uncle’s flintlock, only to discover that Percy had put it back. I don’t know what sort of condition the pistol was in when he found it—whether it was obviously newly cleaned or had been fired and not cleaned. But either would have told him all he needed to know.”
“The poor man.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, watching a golden starburst mirrored in the darkened windows across the street. “I can’t imagine realizing that your son and daughter had deliberately murdered your own sister and niece—along with two or three other people.”
“Two or three?” said Hero.
He nodded. “I received a message from Gibson shortly before Lovejoy arrived. He talked to Alexi, and she says the stab wounds on Gilly’s body were deep and obviously done by someone quite strong.”
“So not by whoever killed Cassy and Cato?”
“She says there’s no way to say that for certain, but the difference is real.”
Hero was silent for a moment. “What if we’re wrong about the children?” she said. “What if Percy has simply been trying to be clever, mucking around with the investigation and planting false clues to send you off after first one possible suspect, then another? It would still be a disturbing thing to do, but forgivable. Thirteen-year-old boys do have a well-earned reputation for behaving impulsively and making poor decisions.”
“Perhaps that’s what Salinger is trying to tell himself right now—unless of course his uncle’s old Jover pistol had indeed been fired and not cleaned—or not cleaned well, in which case I don’t see how he could continue to delude himself.”
She turned to face him. “What would he do then, do you think? If he knew for certain his children were killers, I mean. He confined his wife to an asylum for murdering her abigail.”
“Yes, although in that instance I doubt he was given much choice in the matter. It was either commit her or watch her stand trial for murder. And having seen what was done to his wife, I can’t imagine him subjecting his children to that. Especially since in this case—”
“What?” said Hero when he broke off.
Sebastian felt his lungs empty of air. He was remembering Salinger standing at the bridge’s balustrade, an expression Sebastian couldn’t quite read twisting his lips as he said, One puts down a mad dog, shoots a horse with a broken leg, and executes a murderer; it’s what we do, isn’t it? Our responsibility to society.
“Oh, bloody hell,” swore Sebastian as he pushed violently away from the window to turn toward the stairs. “Morey! Have Tom—no, there isn’t time; I’ll have to take a hackney. Morey, send one of the footmen to fetch a hackney—now. Where the bloody hell is my hat?”
“What? What is it?” said Hero, following him as he ran down the stairs to snatch up his hat and walking stick.
He jerked on his gloves as he turned to her. “He’s going to kill them—Salinger, I mean. If he hasn’t already, he’s going to kill them both.”
“Wait here for me!” Sebastian shouted to the jarvey as his hackney pulled in next to the kerb in Down Street. Salinger’s house was ablaze with light, and Sebastian leapt from the carriage to take the steps to the front door in two quick strides and ring a jarring peal with the bell.
Swearing, he was about to start pounding on the panels when the door was opened by a young footman whose jaw sagged as Sebastian pushed past him into the entry hall. “Where?” demanded Sebastian, turning toward him. “Where’s Salinger?”
“His lordship isn’t here, my lord. He’s taken the younger children to St. James’s Park to watch the fireworks display. Master Percy was most keen on seeing it and—”
But Sebastian was already running back down the steps to the waiting hackney. “St. James’s Park! Go, go, go!” he shouted at the jarvey, leaping into the hackney’s musty interior as another exploding skyrocket rained down a shimmering fountain of silver-and-blue fire on the city. “And there’s an extra guinea in it if you can get me there in record time.”
The jarvey did his best, but the streets leading to the park were a chaos of jammed carriages and carts with nervous, head-tossing horses and swearing, whip-cracking drivers, all bathed in an eerie pulsing glow of golden lamplight and hissing torches and an endless multihued shower of bursting fireworks. Slamming his palm against the side of the hackney in exasperation, Sebastian called out, “Never mind! I’ll get out here.”
“Sorry, my lord!” shouted the driver as Sebastian tossed him the promised guinea and took off down St. James’s Street toward the park at a run. “I did what I could.”
How much time? Sebastian wondered as he shoved his way through the raucous, thickening crowds, his gut twisting into a painful knot. How much time did he have? The grounds of the park were a seething mass of humanity, drunken young bucks in top hats and glossy top boots mingling with tradesmen and shopkeepers, servants and day laborers, hawkers with trays of meat pies and gingerbread, whining beggars, sly pickpockets, and screaming children.
As he neared the parade grounds, the crowds grew ever thicker until his quest began to seem hopeless. The air was pungent with the reek of sulfur from the fireworks’ gunpowder, the smoke drifting like a swirling haze. Where? thought Sebastian, pivoting in a frustrated circle as a skyrocket exploded overhead, lighting up the sea of sweat-sheened, laughing, uplifted faces surrounding him. Where would Salinger take his children to watch the fireworks?
And kill them.
Where, where, where?
We used to come here as children, my brothers and I.
Sebastian turned toward the Thames and started to run.