Page 9 of What Cannot Be Said

“Dear God,” whispered Hero. “Were they—”

She broke off as the boys’ nurse, a Frenchwoman named Claire, appeared in the doorway, and Simon set up a howl.

“Hush, mon petit,” said Claire, scooping the little boy up into her arms and holding out a hand to Patrick. “You’re tired. Come now, say good night to Maman and Papa.”

After the children and their nurse had gone, Hero said quietly, “Were they both shot?”

“Yes,” said Sebastian, going to pour himself a brandy. “How well did you know Laura McInnis?”

“I’ve known her for years. I admired her immensely, but I also liked her. She was an extraordinary person, so giving and caring, so passionate about helping others, so determined to make the world a better place for those in need.”

Sebastian paused, the carafe in hand, to look over at her. “You said she was involved with the Foundling Hospital?”

Hero nodded. “She’s the one who suggested I write the article I’m doing on the mistreatment of apprentices.” For several years now Hero had been writing a series of articles for the Morning Chronicle on London’s working poor. The endeavor was an endless source of rage for her father, Lord Jarvis. But she simply smiled and kept writing.

“What can you tell me about her marriage?”

Hero looked thoughtful. “Very little, actually. I could be wrong, but I wouldn’t say she and Sir Ivo were what you might call ‘close.’ I had the impression he disapproved of her work with poor children, with the result that she kept much of what she did as quiet as possible. Probably the only exception to that is the work she did for the Foundling Hospital. But then, that’s something that’s seen as socially acceptable, even laudatory, isn’t it?”

“Are there other children besides Emma?”

Hero nodded. “Yes, there’s McInnis’s heir, Malcolm—he’s either seventeen or eighteen—and a younger girl, Thisbe. She’s eleven or twelve.”

“I wonder why she wasn’t at the picnic.”

“Thank goodness she was not.” Rising to her feet, Hero went to stand at the window, one hand resting curled on the sill, her gaze on the darkening street below. After a moment, she said, “There’s no chance it could have been an accident?”

“No. Whoever killed them then deliberately posed the bodies—moved them so that their hands were together at their chests as if in prayer, with the soles of the mother’s shoes touching Emma’s.”

Hero’s lips parted, a frown drawing two thoughtful lines between her eyebrows. “I remember hearing about something similar that happened out at Richmond Park once before, although it’s been many years. I think I was still a child.”

Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his brandy and nodded. “Fourteen years ago a woman and her daughter were shot while picnicking in Richmond Park, their bodies posed in the exact same way.”

“The killer was never captured?”

“Oh, someone was hanged for it, all right. But you and I both know how fallible our justice system is.” He took another deep drink. “What I didn’t know until today was the identity of the earlier victims: Madeline and Julia Lovejoy.”

Hero stared at him. “Not...”

He nodded. “Sir Henry’s wife and daughter.”

“Oh, no. The poor man. How is he taking this?”

“About as well as one might expect—which is to say, not well at all. Although he’s trying his damnedest not to show it.”

“Where does one even begin with a killing like this?”

Sebastian brought up a hand to rub the back of his neck. “God knows. As far as we can tell, there were no witnesses beyond the two young men who found them, and they didn’t really see anything. Gibson might be able to tell us something after the postmortems, but I’ll be surprised.”

Hero said, “I have an interview scheduled with the director of the Foundling Hospital tomorrow morning to talk to him about their apprenticeships. I can see if he knows anything useful.”

“That might help. Thank you.”

Setting aside his glass, he went to stand behind her, his arms around her waist to draw her body back against his, his head resting against hers. For a long moment, he held her. Then he said quietly, “Why would someone do something like that? Pose their bodies like effigies atop medieval tombs?”

“The man they executed for the murder of Lovejoy’s family—did he ever explain it?”

“No. According to Lovejoy, the man maintained his innocence until the very end.”

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