Page 14 of What Cannot Be Said

“Did she say what about?”

“She said it was all nonsense—something about women and children being burned alive in churches and kings doing the devil’s work.”

“Did she hear the shots?”

“No; no one did. A couple of bricklayers who’d been working on repairs to the park’s wall came upon the scene quite by chance. O’Toole ran away when he saw them, but they chased him down and caught him. It was assumed he must have thrown away the gun while in flight—although, as I said, it was never found.”

“And O’Toole continued to insist he was innocent?”

“He did, yes. To the end. Claimed they were already dead when he’d come upon them.”

“Did he say why he’d painted his face with their blood?”

“He said—” Lovejoy’s voice broke, and he swallowed, hard. “He said he hadn’t meant to, that he must have somehow got their blood on his hands and then touched his face.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment, his gaze on the soot-streaked walls of St. Paul’s rising up before them. “There were no other suspects?”

“Not really. Just a fellow who lived in a cottage not far from one of the park gates who was seen having words with Julia earlier.”

“Words about what?”

“He claimed Madeline threw rocks at his dog—which is rank nonsense. Madeline loved dogs.”

“And that was it? No other suspects?”

“No.”

“Was your wife involved in any way with the Foundling Hospital?”

“No. Not at all.”

“What about Sir Ivo or Lady McInnis? Did she have any contact with them?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.” They’d almost reached the steps of the cathedral, and Lovejoy paused to look back down the hill toward Temple Bar. “I spoke to him again this morning—Sir Ivo, I mean. He says he still has no idea who could have killed his wife and daughter, or why. Seems his son and Salinger’s heir recently left for a fishing trip in the Highlands with friends. He’s sent after them, but he’s concerned the lads might not make it back in time for the funeral. In this heat, it can’t be put off for too long.”

“When’s the inquest?”

“Tomorrow at eleven. Gibson assures me the postmortems will be completed by this evening.”

Sebastian nodded. “He’d almost finished with Lady McInnis when I saw him earlier.”

“Anything?”

“Not really. Just some older bruises—two sets, actually. Evidently Sir Ivo was in the habit of brutalizing his wife.”

“Good heavens,” said Lovejoy, looking distressed. “Not what one would have expected, is it?”

“I doubt it means anything, although it might explain his hostility to the postmortems.”

“Yes, I can see that. If it weren’t for the death of young Miss Emma McInnis, such a history would be more than suggestive. But I can’t see Sir Ivo murdering both his wife and his daughter—quite apart from the matter of the killer’s strange positioning of the bodies.”

Sebastian studied the magistrate’s drawn features. “Have you considered that someone could have committed these murders and staged his victims’ bodies in a way that echoes the deaths of your family in order to cause you grief?”

Lovejoy’s eyes widened. “What a chilling thought.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might hate you enough to do something like that?”

The magistrate was silent for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then he let out his breath in a long sigh and shook his head. “I suppose there must be any number of people who hold me responsible for the execution or transportation of someone they loved. But to do something so diabolical, so evil, as to kill two innocent women to torment me?” He shook his head. “No, I can’t think of anyone like that. Not anyone recent, at any rate. But perhaps if I give it some thought...”

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