Page 27 of What Cannot Be Said

“I fear it was a waste of your time, my lord,” said Lovejoy. “Driving all the way out here for this.”

“I was interested to hear what Percy had to say. Salinger has been unwilling to let him talk to me.”

“But neither child added anything to what was already known.”

“No. And while that’s unfortunate in some respects, it will hopefully help keep them safe.”

Lovejoy glanced over at him. “You think the killer could have been amongst today’s spectators?”

“It’s possible. Although I’ll admit most of those who’ve attracted my attention weren’t there. Have you by chance come across a chimney sweep by the name of Hiram Dobbs in the course of your investigations?”

Lovejoy frowned. “I don’t believe so, no. Dobbs, you say?”

Devlin nodded. “Lives in a mean court off St. Martin’s Lane. I’m told Lady McInnis was trying to convince the authorities to take the man’s apprentices away from him after she observed him mistreating a little boy who later died. Dobbs was heard on more than one occasion threatening her over it. He claims he observes the Lord’s Day, so has no real alibi for that afternoon, but his neighbors might be able to tell us something about his movements.”

“I’ll set one of the lads to looking into it.”

They paused at the kerb as a dray loaded with roughly hewn building stones lumbered past. “I’ve also been wondering if it’s possible Lady McInnis was not the main target of the shootings,” said Devlin. “What do we know about Emma McInnis?”

Lovejoy thought about it a moment. “Not a great deal. The girl wasn’t out yet.”

“No. But it might be worth interviewing her governess and abigail.”

“Yes, I can see that—especially now, with the death of young Gilly Harper. The girls might have come from radically different backgrounds, but they were of much the same age—something I hadn’t considered before. I’ve also set one of the lads to looking for the cheesemonger to whom Gilly was once apprenticed. One never knows.” He was silent for a moment, his gaze on the sun-sparkled river now visible at the base of the hill. “It’s peculiar, isn’t it, how one’s understanding of a murder can alter with a slight shift in perspective?”

“I suspect the same could be said of much of life.”

Lovejoy let out a long, slow breath, his voice suddenly unsteady as he said, “How very true.”

?After that, Lovejoy took a hackney out to the dilapidated cottage of Cato Coldfield, near the Petersham Gate of Richmond Park.

He found the thatcher stripped down to his shirt and rough breeches and chopping kindling in the dappled shade of a big, half-dead elm that grew to one side of the house. Coldfield watched Lovejoy approach, then turned away to set a length of wood up on his block and let fly with his ax. “Wot ye want with me?” he demanded without looking around.

“You know who I am?” said Lovejoy, drawing up a healthy distance away from the man.

Coldfield snorted and reached for another piece of wood. “What ye think?”

Lovejoy watched the man position the wood on his block. “You lied to my constables.”

Coldfield glanced at him sideways. “Don’t know wot yer talkin’ about.”

“You told us you were ill on Sunday; that you didn’t leave your cottage until late that afternoon. Except we’ve since discovered you were seen in Richmond High Street that morning.”

“So? Ducked out to buy me a loaf of bread, I did. Didn’t have nothin’ in the house to eat. A man needs to eat even when he’s sick, ye know.”

“So why lie about it?”

“Why? Ye think I don’t know what folks was sayin’ about me fourteen years ago? Ye think I want t’ help you lot hang these new murders around me neck? Of course I lied. Anybody with any sense would lie. But I only went to the baker’s, ye hear? I got me bread, then I come right back home. Ye won’t find nobody who’ll tell ye different.”

A black-and-white dog that had been sleeping nearby pushed up, shook himself, then turned around three times and lay back down again. Lovejoy watched the mutt stretch his head out on his paws and sigh. “Lady McInnis’s coachman and footman reported seeing an older man with a dog in the park earlier that day. That wasn’t you, was it?”

Coldfield reached for another block of wood. “Nope.”

Lovejoy watched the man’s massive shoulders flex as he drew back his ax. “When was the last time you were in London?”

Whack. The pieces of kindling went flying, and Coldfield turned to stare at Lovejoy through narrowed eyes. “London? I dunno. Been years, I s’pose. Why ye askin’?”

“Do you know a young girl named Gilly Harper?”

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