Page 1 of What Cannot Be Said

Chapter 1

Richmond Park: Sunday, 23 July 1815

I’ve figured out what’s wrong with women,” declared Ben. He lay on his back on the grassy hillside, his face lifted to the wide blue sky, his cheeks ruddy from a heady combination of sunshine, fresh air, and a bota of cheap red wine.

Harry swiveled his head to look at his brother. “So what is it?”

“They’re women!”

The observation struck both young gentlemen as uproariously funny, and they rolled about in the sun-warmed grass, eyes squeezing shut, bodies convulsing with laughter. Separated in age by only two years, the sons of Thomas Barrows, Esquire, had retreated to Richmond Park on this glorious July afternoon to escape the hubbub surrounding their elder sister’s wedding, which was scheduled to take place in three days’ time.

“I think,” said Ben, “that—” He broke off, his jaw going slack as a loud cr-rack echoed across the park.

“What was that?” said Harry, jerking upright.

Ben sat up beside him. “Sounded like a pistol shot.”

Cr-rack.

At the second shot, the brothers looked at each other. “Reckon it’s a duel?”

Harry pushed to his feet. “Let’s go see!”

Snagging the straps of their leather wineskins, the brothers sprinted up the hill. From the top they could look out over the vast royal park’s rolling vista of lush green grass and leafy woodland; London was a dirty smudge in the distance.

“Don’t see anyone,” said Ben.

Harry nodded to the stretch of oak mingled with chestnut near the base of the hill. “Bet it came from there.”

They ran down the daisy-strewn grassy slope, laughing as they gained momentum, arms flung wide for balance, botas bouncing against hips. Then they slowed, breath catching as they stumbled to a halt. Harry felt the sun hot on his back, felt his stomach clench and his mouth go dry.

A woman and a girl lay on their backs in the grass beside a picnic rug scattered with sturdy white ironstone plates and the remnants of a genteel nuncheon. Dressed in fine gowns of delicate white muslin, they lay not side by side but in a line, so that the soles of the woman’s shoes almost touched the girl’s. Their hands were brought together at their chests as if in prayer, their silent faces turned to the sky, the bodices of their gowns shiny red. The stench of freshly spilled blood hung thick in the air, along with the lingering sulfuric stench of burnt gunpowder.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Ben.

His breath now coming in gasping pants, the blood rushing in his ears, Harry heard a child’s lighthearted trill of laughter.

He wrenched his gaze away from that bloody horror to see a young girl and boy coming up the path that wound along a small stream, the girl golden haired and rosy cheeked, the boy younger and even fairer. Her arms were filled with a cheerful rainbow of flowers—cornflowers and lilies, daisies and sunflowers, tansy and field poppies—that tumbled to the ground as she drew up, her eyes going wide.

For a long moment she stood rigid, her throat working soundlessly. Then she opened her mouth and Harry tensed, waiting for her scream.

But she simply stood there, her chest shuddering with her ragged breaths, her nostrils flaring and the color draining from her face.

Chapter 2

Sir Henry Lovejoy, one of Bow Street Public Office’s three stipendiary magistrates, stood at the base of the grassy hill, his hands tucked up under his armpits, his chin resting against his chest as he gazed at the scene before him. He was a slight, thin man in his late fifties, barely five feet tall and quite bald. After fourteen years as a magistrate, he should have become inured to the sight of violent death. But these deaths...

God help him, these deaths.

Swallowing hard, he turned to the full-faced, corpulent squire who stood to one side, the wind ruffling his unruly head of thick ginger hair. “No one’s touched anything?”

Squire Adams, the local magistrate, shook his head. When called to the scene by the park’s keepers, he’d taken one look at the murdered woman and girl and sent word straightaway to Bow Street. “No, sir. Made sure of that, I did.”

“And we’re certain of the victims’ identities?”

“Aye, no doubt about that. It’s Lady McInnis, all right—wife of Sir Ivo himself. And Miss Emma, one of his daughters.”

“How old is she?” Was she, thought Lovejoy, mentally correcting himself.

---