Page 15 of What Cannot Be Said

Sebastian hesitated. He wanted to say, Don’t put yourself through this, my friend. Let one of the other Bow Street magistrates take the lead on the case. You can’t bring to this ugly crime the kind of detached objectivity it requires, and the memories you’re forcing yourself to revisit are too painful, too raw. You’re going to destroy yourself.

Except of course he couldn’t say any of those things. And so he said instead, “This fellow you mentioned with a cottage near one of the park gates—is he still alive?”

“I’m told he is, yes. Coldfield is his name. Cato Coldfield.”

“I was thinking I might drive out to Richmond to have another look around, and I might as well talk to him while I’m at it.” Sebastian started to turn toward where he’d left Tom with the curricle, then paused. “Was there a particular reason Coldfield was eliminated as a suspect?”

“No,” said Lovejoy, looking more distraught than ever. “Only that O’Toole seemed the obvious culprit. I mean, he didn’t simply have their blood on his face; he was covered in it. What other explanation could there be?”

Sebastian thought about how a damaged young ex-soldier, traumatized by having repeatedly witnessed his government’s indiscriminate slaughter of innocent Irish women and children, might react were he to stumble upon the brutal murder of a mother and her daughter.

But he kept that theory to himself.

Chapter 11

The sky was a crystal clear blue, the air sweet and fresh, the fields of ripening grain dancing gently in a soft breeze as Sebastian left behind London’s dirty, crowded streets and turned toward Richmond. Once a royal retreat beloved of the likes of Henry VII and Queen Elizabeth, what was now Richmond Park had long ago been thrown open to the general public. On such a balmy, sunshiny summer’s day, the rolling green hills and open woods of the park would normally be filled with everything from boys playing cricket to bird-watchers and picnicking families.

Not today.

“Why we stoppin’ ’ere?” asked Tom when Sebastian drew up before the honeysuckle-draped thatched cottage of the keeper he’d met briefly the evening before.

“Reconnaissance,” said Sebastian, handing the boy the reins.

The keeper himself was off looking at a downed tree on the far side of the park, but his wife was home and more than willing to talk.

Her name was Sally Hammond, and she was a plump, good-natured, sandy-haired woman somewhere in her forties. “People are staying away from the park,” she said as they walked along the reedy banks of the pond beside her cottage. “Reckon they’re scared, and I can’t say I blame them. Anybody in their right mind would be scared.”

“Who do people suspect might be responsible for the killings?”

She gave a faint snort. “Some folks are saying it must be the ghost of the ex-soldier they hanged after the last time something like this happened around here. It’s nonsense, of course. But when did that ever stop people?”

“And the others?”

“Well, some reckon it might be a French prisoner of war, although I don’t think they’ve let them go yet, have they? Others are sayin’ it must be some ex-soldier returning home from the wars who ain’t quite right in his head, same as they said last time.”

Something about the way she phrased it caught Sebastian’s attention. “Do you think he was responsible? Daniel O’Toole, I mean.”

Sally Hammond paused beside the trunk of an old willow, her gaze on the ducks paddling lazily out on the sun-spangled pond, a frown pinching her forehead as her arms came up to cross over her apron. “No, I never did. There’s no denying he weren’t right in his head when he came home, poor Danny. But he was a gentle soul. Always had been, even as a boy. That’s why the things they made him do and the things he saw in Ireland bothered him the way they did.”

“You knew him?”

“I did, yes. His mother and mine were cousins.”

Sebastian kept his gaze on her half-averted face. “So who do you think was responsible for the killings fourteen years ago?”

She pressed her lips into a tight line. “It’s not my place to say, now, is it? Idle speculation can hurt people.”

“What about Cato Coldfield? What can you tell me about him?”

He saw something flash in her eyes, something she hid quickly by looking away as she shook her head. “Let’s just say I don’t reckon anybody would ever call Cato Coldfield a ‘gentle soul.’ ”

“I’m told he was seen arguing with Mrs.Lovejoy and her daughter earlier in the afternoon they were murdered. Is that true?”

“He was, yes. He had a dog back then—a big brown thing he called Chester. He has a different dog now—a little mutt named Bounder. Now, Bounder, he’s as sweet as he can be. But Chester? That dog was impossible. Always going after the ducks and deer in the park, he was. Brought down at least one fawn every spring. My Richard—that’s my husband, you know—he was always threatening to shoot that dog if Cato didn’t keep him out of the park. But Richard never could bring himself to do it. He’s a soft touch like that. Always said it weren’t the dog’s fault that Cato let him run like that.”

“And Coldfield accused Madeline Lovejoy of throwing rocks at his dog?”

Mrs.Hammond nodded. “Chester was going after a fawn, you see. That’s why the girl was shouting and throwing rocks—to try to get that danged dog to leave off. Put Cato in a rage, it did.”

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