Page 3 of What Cannot Be Said

Lovejoy considered this. “I suppose. But... why would he?”

It was a question for which Sebastian had no answer.

He hunkered down beside the still, lifeless husk of what was once Laura McInnis. She’d been an attractive woman, probably somewhere in her late thirties, still youthful and slim, with honey-colored hair and delicate features. In death she looked peaceful, serene.

He hoped she was.

“What time did this happen?” he asked. Flies were buzzing around her open mouth and blood-soaked chest, and he batted them away in a spurt of useless rage.

“Half past one or thereabouts, we believe.”

It had taken time for the brothers to summon one of the park’s keepers, more time for the keepers to call in the local magistrate, and more time still for word to be sent to London some eight miles away. By now, Lady McInnis and her daughter had been dead at least four or five hours.

Sebastian picked up one of her ladyship’s limp, still vaguely warm hands and turned it over. The edge of her fine kid glove was stained bright red from where it had rested against the blood-drenched cloth of her bodice. He could see no sign that she had attempted to fight off their attacker. But then, how could a couple of gentlewomen grapple with an armed man?

He shifted to where her daughter lay in a similar pose. Unlike her mother, Emma McInnis’s soft brown eyes were open and staring, and she looked so young and innocent that it tore at his heart. He said, “Christ,” again and pushed to his feet.

He was intensely aware of a woodlark singing sweetly from the top of a nearby oak, of the restless sighing of the breeze through the leafy branches of the adjacent wood and the late-afternoon sun drenching the long summer grass with a deep golden light. Turning, he let his gaze drift over the nearby picnic rug and hamper. The cheese, bread, and chicken that remained from the women’s nuncheon were now dried and crawling with ants.

He said, “Has anyone told Sir Ivo?”

“One of my colleagues has undertaken the task of breaking the news to him, as well as carrying word of the situation to the surviving children’s father. But it’s difficult to say if he’s managed to do so yet.”

Sebastian’s gaze shifted to where the brothers still sat. “What do we know about those two?”

“Their father is a prosperous barrister—has a small estate not far from Richmond. They say they came here today to escape a house filled with relatives for their sister’s wedding.”

“And they neither saw nor heard anything?”

“Nothing beyond the pistol shots,” said Lovejoy, just as the younger brother pushed to his feet, whirled, and was sick again.

?Harry Barrows was twenty years old, with lanky brown hair, a thin face, and a long, narrow nose. He sat now with his arms wrapped around his bent knees, his hands locked together so tightly his knuckles were turning white. His face was pale, and a muscle kept twitching beneath his right eye, but Sebastian could tell the young man was gamely fighting to maintain his composure.

“I hear you’re down from Cambridge for the summer,” said Sebastian, settling in the grass beside him.

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir. Magdalene College.”

“I’m an Oxford man, myself.”

A faint smile touched Harry’s face, then was gone. “Sir Henry said you’d be wanting to talk to us, but I don’t know how much we can tell you.”

“Where were you when you heard the first shot?”

Harry nodded toward the top of the nearby hill. “Just over there, sir.”

“How many shots did you hear?”

“Only two, sir.”

“Sir Henry says you think it was a pistol?”

“Yes, sir. No doubt about that. Ben and I’ve been going shooting with our father since we were breeched.”

“Do you remember how much time there was between the first and second shot?”

Harry was silent, as if mentally reconstructing the moment. “Only seconds, sir. I figure it had to have been a double-barreled pistol—there wasn’t enough time in between for anyone to reload. Ben thinks so, too.” He turned his head to look at his brother, who was now lying on his back in the grass with his eyes closed. “Is he going to be all right? He’s been awfully unwell.”

“It will pass. How long was it between the last shot and the time you and your brother arrived here?”

---