Page 53 of What Cannot Be Said

“Not earlier in the afternoon, no, although we can certainly look into it—quietly, of course. Except... surely his daughter’s murder must still preclude McInnis being considered a suspect?”

“Unless he had a reason to want to kill Emma, too.”

Lovejoy found himself staring down at the tomb between them, his voice a broken whisper as he said, “I can’t understand how any man could deliberately kill his own child.”

“Yet it does happen.”

He drew a deep breath and raised his head to meet the Viscount’s steady gaze. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

Chapter 32

That afternoon, Sebastian was staring thoughtfully at a map of Richmond Park and the surrounding area when he heard a door slam in the distance, followed by the pounding of running feet and Morey’s annoyed hiss.

“Gov’nor! Gov’nor!” shouted Tom, sliding to a halt as he came through the library door, one hand flying up to catch his cap. “Wait till ye ’ear what I found out about that there fencing master yer interested in!”

?Sebastian found Damion Pitcairn sitting by himself at a quiet table, drinking a tankard of porter in a public house in Soho known as the Cock.

A tidy brick inn dating to the previous century, the Cock was popular with the fading area’s population of artisans, day laborers, small shop owners, and tradesmen. The atmosphere was thick with the scents of tobacco, roasting meat, spilled beer, and hardworking men’s sweat; the clatter of tankards and heavy ironstone plates punctuated the roar of rough voices and laughter. When Sebastian walked up to him, the fencing master raised his tankard to his lips and took a deep swallow before saying, “I gather you’re here to see me?”

Someone nearby cracked a lewd joke, and the half dozen men grouped around the table with him roared with laughter. Sebastian threw a significant glance toward the door to the street. “It might be a good idea to go for a walk.”

Pitcairn stared up at him for a moment, then set aside his tankard with a dull thump and rose.

They walked down Dean Street, toward the Haymarket. This was an area of older houses and shops some two and three stories tall, interspersed with blacksmiths and stables and an extraordinary number of pubs. “You didn’t tell me you’re a Spencean,” said Sebastian, dodging a puddle in the broken pavement.

Pitcairn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deny it. “Why the bloody hell would I? What difference could it possibly make to anything?”

“Perhaps none,” said Sebastian. “Did you know Thomas Spence?”

“I did. He was an admirable man. Spent more than twenty years in and out of prison for daring to believe—and say—that all men are created equal, slavery is an abomination, all men and women should have the right to vote, and children have a right to live free from abuse and poverty.”

“Not to mention that the aristocracy should be abolished and all land held in common.”

Pitcairn looked over at him and grinned. “That, too.”

“I assume Sir Ivo was ignorant of your philosophical leanings when he hired you to improve his son’s fencing?”

The man’s smile faded and he looked away. “I don’t exactly go around advertising my beliefs, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll be the first to admit I lack Thomas Spence’s courage.”

“And yet you drink at the Cock.”

“So?”

Sebastian studied the other man’s taut profile. He was brilliant and unbelievably talented and wise beyond his years, but he was still young—so very, very young. “Ever hear of a man named John Stafford?”

Pitcairn shook his head.

“He’s a nasty, officious little clerk in Bow Street who basically functions as the domestic spymaster for the Home Office. And it just so happens that he knows all about the Spenceans’ habit of frequenting places like the Mulberry Tree in Moorfields, and the Carlisle in Shoreditch, and the Cock in Soho. Thomas Spence might have thought he could evade surveillance by decentralizing his movement, with small groups of followers who meet only at inns and taverns. But the problem with that idea is that the government has the power to yank the licenses of public houses, and they learned long ago to use that threat to pressure publicans into reporting on any radicals who meet in their establishments.”

Pitcairn walked along in silence for a moment, his jaw tight. Then he said, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Partially because I think you ought to know, but also because it might help you to understand how I came to hear that a Spencean named Watson has been worried about you. He knew you’d involved yourself with the sister of one of your students, and he told you last week over a couple of pints at the Cock that he was afraid you were making a dangerous mistake.”

The fencing master drew up abruptly and swung to face him. “Watson told you that?”

“No, not Watson. But your conversation with him was overhead and reported to Bow Street. And if I know about it, then it’s possible that Sir Ivo knows about it as well.”

Pitcairn put a hand to his head and half turned away, swearing long and crudely.

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