Page 32 of What Cannot Be Said

“It’s the fresh air, my lady. Nothing like fresh country air and food to keep the little ones healthy.”

“And yet so many of them still die. How... tragic.” Hero took another sip of her tea. “There is one other thing I’m curious about.”

“Yes?”

“The ones that die. What do you do with them?”

“Oh, they’re given a good Christian burial, my lady. No need to worry about that.”

“You relieve my mind, Mrs.Blackadder.”

The woman smiled. “Now, when did you say we could be expecting our new wee one?”

Hero set aside her teacup. “I fear you’ve been laboring under something of a misapprehension, Mrs.Blackadder. I’m not here to make arrangements to abandon some poor child to your care. You see, your name came up in connection with the recent deaths of Laura and Emma McInnis.”

For a long moment, the woman stared at her, her face going blank with confusion. “You’re not here to make arrangements for a child?”

“No. But I would like to hear more about your visit from Laura McInnis. You never did say what had made her suspect that you were basically killing the children left in your care.”

A deep crimson color rushed into the woman’s face. “I think you should leave,” she said, pushing back her chair.

“Do I take it you find the subject uncomfortable?” said Hero, reaching for her gloves as she rose to her feet. “Why is that, I wonder?”

Prudence’s mouth tightened into a thin line that swallowed her lips. “I tell you, the woman was mad. I take good care of my babies. All of them. Always have, always will. Anybody who says otherwise either doesn’t know what they’re talking about or is mad.”

“That is certainly one explanation,” said Hero, walking toward the front door.

She was pausing at the base of the front steps to jerk on her gloves when a man came at a trot from around the corner of one of the stone-walled sheds. He looked to be somewhere in his fifties, with thick graying hair and a jowly face darkened by his years in the sun. His clothes were those of someone who was not afraid of working, but his air was that of a man accustomed to being in control of those around him, and Hero didn’t need to see the look that passed between him and Prudence to know that this was the owner of Pleasant Farm.

“Lucy come t’ tell me we had a fine lady here,” said Joseph Blackadder, his eyes lighting up as he took in the glories of Hero’s yellow-bodied barouche and team of well-bred horses.

“The lady was just leaving,” snapped his wife. “She only came to ask some downright nasty questions about Lady McInnis’s visit.”

The avaricious gleam died. “Oh?”

His wife drew a deep, angry breath that swelled her shelflike bosom. “Why, she all but came out and accused me of killing my babies!”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed. Joseph Blackadder might be less educated than his wife, but he was obviously considerably shrewder. For while Prudence’s reaction to Hero’s questions had focused entirely on the woman’s reputation as a foster mother, her husband was smart enough to see the danger of having it known that they’d quarreled with a murder victim days before her killing.

“We read about what happened out at Richmond Park,” he said, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Told Prue here I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Bow Street is lookin’ into Basil Rhodes himself for it. Didn’t I tell you, Prue?”

“Basil Rhodes?” said Hero. “You can’t be serious.” Basil Rhodes was a flamboyant, well-known personality. Boisterous and loud, with a reputation as a wit and bonhomme, he was a popular figure in the ballrooms and gentlemen’s clubs of Mayfair. Ostensibly the son of the late Peter K. Rhodes, a onetime boon companion of the Prince of Wales, Basil was actually one of the Prince’s favorite by-blows. Anyone who doubted the relationship had only to see Rhodes’s curly auburn hair, full face, feminine lips, and stocky Hanoverian build to know the truth.

“Saw him arguing with her just last Saturday, I did,” Joseph Blackadder was saying. “Right in the middle of Bond Street. Everyone could see he was mad as fire at the woman, shakin’ his fist at her and yellin’ till he was as red in the face as a man can be.”

“Yelling about what?”

“Couldn’t hear it all. Somethin’ about her needin’ to mind her own business, and how if she didn’t shut her mouth, he was gonna shut it for her.”

“Indeed,” said Hero. “And how do you happen to know Mr.Basil Rhodes?”

“Brung us one o’ his by-blows, he did. A few months back.”

So much for the couple’s famous discretion, thought Hero with a wry glance at Prudence Blackadder’s closed, angry face. Aloud, she said, “You have his child here now?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Prudence with a warning glance at her husband. “The poor wee thing was never well.”

“Ah. Mr.Rhodes paid an up-front sum, did he?”

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