Page 87 of What Cannot Be Said

“How long were you at Pleasant Farm?”

“Three years, sir.”

“And how many babies died during that time?”

“Don’t think I could rightly say, sir. Seemed like they was dying all the time. Never knew one to last more’n a month, to be honest. We was always gettin’ in new ones.”

“Did you ever observe either Mrs.Blackadder or her husband throwing anything into the river?”

The girl looked puzzled. “Like what, yer honor?”

“Something such as, say, a small bundle.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, yer honor.” The girl might be slow-witted, but she was no fool. She knew exactly what Lovejoy was implying, just as she knew that she, too, would be held accountable if the babies’ deaths were proven to be anything other than natural. “Never.”

Lovejoy knew they could keep looking for a previous employee willing to tell them the truth; they could even order an extensive—and expensive—search of the farm’s fields. But he doubted they’d find anything. Not with the Thames so close and handy.

Now, standing on that windblown hillside, surrounded by the timeworn stones of centuries of the dead, Lovejoy found himself at a loss. He could speak to the Home Secretary; force the parishes to remove their infants from Prudence Blackadder’s care and quit sending her any more. But how could they ever hope to hold her accountable for an untold number of murders when they couldn’t prove that even one had occurred?

The simple, inescapable truth was that they could not.

“Was there anything else, Sir Henry?” asked the vicar, casting a furtive glance back at his church.

“I don’t think so, no. Thank you for your time, Father.”

“My pleasure,” said the vicar.

Still holding on to his hat, Lovejoy turned to walk down the hill to his waiting hackney. He walked slowly, buffeted by the wind and weighed down by an inescapable burden of anger and frustration and a deep, abiding sense of failure.

Chapter 52

Just because a solution seems to fit doesn’t mean it’s right.

Sebastian kept telling himself that as he walked the raucous, crowded streets of London, past Red Lion Square and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, heading vaguely toward the river. Never had he been more desperate to be wrong about something. He kept running through his list of suspects, trying to find another explanation—any other explanation—that fit everything he knew.

He couldn’t.

In the end he retreated to an ancient, low-ceilinged tavern on the Strand. He was nursing a pint of ale at an old, worn table in a dark corner, lost in thought, when someone said, “I’m told you’ve been looking for me.”

Sebastian glanced up to find Zacchary Finch watching him. The Major had two foaming tankards in his hands and a quizzical expression on his face. “Here,” said Finch, shoving one of the tankards across the scarred tabletop toward him. “I thought you looked like you could use a refresh.”

“Thank you,” said Sebastian, leaning back. “Have a seat.”

Finch settled on the opposite bench. “So why were you looking for me?”

Sebastian took a slow sip of the ale, choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to ask if Laura McInnis had ever spoken to you about her younger nephew or his sister.”

Finch’s eyes widened. Whatever he’d been expecting, it obviously wasn’t that. “Percy and Arabella? What about them?”

“I’m told she was worried about them. Was she?” When Finch stared down at his ale as if not quite certain how to answer, Sebastian said quietly, “I know the truth about Lady Salinger, if that helps.”

“Ah.” Finch looked up to meet his gaze. “It’s a tragic story, isn’t it? A woman so young, so gifted with what most would consider all the blessings of life—beauty, fortune, a title, a lovely home, children. And yet she was still hopelessly...” He paused as if searching for the right word, then finally settled on “disturbed.” He wrapped both hands around his tankard. “Laura’s own mother died when she was in leading strings, so she understood only too well what it’s like to grow up surrounded by servants but without a mother’s love. So when Salinger had to have his wife committed, Laura promised she’d do everything she could to help with the children, and she did. But lately—even as early as last spring, when I was in London before Boney busted loose and I left to rejoin my regiment—she’d been becoming increasingly worried about the two younger children. Particularly Percy.”

“Why?”

Finch propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, dropping his voice. “You’ve met the lad?”

“I have. He’s quite captivating.”

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