Page 89 of What Cannot Be Said

“And you keep saying you’re going to do something about it but don’t.”

Gibson shifted the position of his truncated leg and glanced over at him. “If you’re here lookin’ for the results of the postmortem on some new murder victim, Bow Street hasn’t even sent over the body yet. I’ve been blessedly free of mangled corpses since I finished up with yon thatcher from Richmond.”

“No one new—thank God. It’s Coldfield I’m here about. What can you tell me about the angle of the bullet that hit him?”

“Ah, that.” Gibson jerked his head toward the old stone outbuilding at the base of Alexi’s garden. “The thatcher was a big man, and whoever shot him was pretty close, so you need to figure that most anyone shooting at him would’ve had to angle the barrel of his gun up a wee bit. Or the shooter could have been sitting down, of course.”

That was a complicating possibility Sebastian hadn’t considered. “So you’re saying the bullet did travel upward on entering his body?”

“That it did. It’s an estimate, of course, but—depending on how close they were standing—I’d say your shooter is probably around five feet tall, maybe less. Or he or she could have been sitting down, which as I said would alter everything. The impact of the bullet probably knocked Coldfield over, because the knife wounds that followed go straight down. Now, normally, they probably wouldn’t tell us much, except in this instance they’re of a nature that suggests your killer either isn’t particularly strong, or else he wasn’t trying too hard. But given that even a wounded man can be dangerous—especially when he’s Cato’s size—I suspect anyone trying to kill him would be more than desperate to get the job done. So I think I’d go with the idea that you’re looking for someone who’s short and relatively weak.”

“What about the abigail, Cassy Jones? Were her stab wounds the same?”

“They were.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. Although everything was a wee bit different since she wasn’t down on the ground.”

“And Gilly Harper?”

Gibson scrubbed a hand down over his bruised, beard-stubbled chin and neck. “Alexi did that postmortem.”

“Can you ask her about it?”

“I can. But why? What are you thinking? That an old man is doing this? Or a small woman?”

“Or a child,” said Sebastian quietly.

Gibson slewed around to stare at him. “A child? You can’t be serious.”

“I wish I weren’t,” said Sebastian, looking up as the weathered wooden gate set into the nearby old stone wall flew open and Tom came in at a run.

“Gov’nor! Been looking fer ye everywhere, I ’ave. I been askin’ ’round at both Grosvenor Square and Down Street, and I think I done found out what ye was wantin’ to know. That chimney sweep ye been looking into? Seems ’e did come at Lady McInnis when she was gettin’ into her carriage, only it weren’t when they was on their way to Richmond Park that Sunday. According to Jem—’e’s the footman I was talkin’ to before, remember?—it was a couple of days before that.”

“He’s quite certain?”

“Aye. Jem says it was when ’er ladyship was gettin’ ready t’ take Miss Emma and Miss Arabella shoppin’ on Bond Street. And as fer Master Percy, why, ’e weren’t even there!”

Casual lies, Finch had called them. Except this was a casual lie with a vicious, deadly purpose, told with the ease of a habitual liar.

“Does anyone at Down Street know where Percy was last Thursday?”

“Sorta. Graham—’e’s one o’ Salinger’s grooms—’e says ’e ain’t sure, but ’e thinks that’s the day Percy was shut up in ’is room on account of somethin’ er another ’e’d done. And get this: Graham says the lad ’as ways o’ gettin’ out of ’is room with no one being the wiser—says ’e’s done it before. Graham says Percy’s groom—a lad by the name o’ Jacob—’as been known to ’elp ’im do all sorts o’ things. I was gonna try t’ talk t’ him, only, get this: ’E’s done loped off! Ain’t nobody seen ’im since Saturday. And listen t’ this: There’s two knives missin’ from Salinger’s kitchen! The first one disappeared a week or more ago, but the second didn’t go missing till Thursday. That’s the day before the abigail was murdered in Hyde Park, ain’t it? Graham, ’e says they’re all lookin’ sideways at each other, thinkin’ there must be a thief on the staff, because other things’ve gone missin’ around the house lately.”

Tom paused, his face alight with excitement, but Sebastian knew such a deep sense of foreboding that he had to force himself to say, “What else is missing?”

“One of ’is lordship’s flintlock pistols! It’s an old double-barreled Jover ’is uncle carried in the American War, which they reckon is why ’e’s in such a takin’ over it being stolen.”

“When did it disappear?”

“They don’t rightly know since ’is lordship keeps it put away. ’E only noticed it was missin’ yesterday because ’e went lookin’ fer it.”

“Damn,” said Sebastian softly. He’d been thinking that if Finch’s gun had been used to kill Laura and Emma, then the killer—or killers—would have needed a second gun. But with Salinger’s old double-barreled flintlock...

“Damn,” he said again.

Damn, damn, damn.

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