Page 95 of What Cannot Be Said

“What will happen to Arabella?” said Lady Devlin.

Lovejoy sighed. “I fear she may not be as innocent as she would have us believe, but one must hope she is at least telling the truth when she says her brother did the actual killings. At the moment she’s in the care of her elder brother, the new Lord Salinger. But given that his lordship is still underage himself, his uncle—the late Lord Salinger’s younger brother—will ultimately be appointed her guardian. He’s in holy orders, with a living up in Leicestershire. Perhaps with his influence she will be able to put these unfortunate tendencies behind her.”

From the frown in Lady Devlin’s eyes, Lovejoy suspected that she doubted it. But all she said was, “Does the new Lord Salinger know what really happened to his father and brother?”

“He does not. Nor does he know about the, er, previous activities of his brother and sister. If it were up to me, he would have been told, but Lord Sidmouth insists that the truth must be a closely guarded secret.” Lovejoy set aside his teacup and rose to his feet. “And now you must excuse me; I’m due in the Home Office again at eleven.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” said Devlin. They’d almost reached the entry hall below when the Viscount said, “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

Lovejoy drew up at the foot of the stairs and turned to face him. He hesitated a moment, then said, “The authorities out at Richmond were continuing their search of Coldfield’s house and outbuildings in the hopes of discovering something that might explain what happened there. I received word this morning that, late yesterday afternoon, they discovered an aged double-barreled pistol wrapped in a tattered shirt and oilcloth and hidden in the rafters of the house. The keeper’s wife, Sally Hammond, identified it as the one she remembered seeing in Coldfield’s possession fourteen years ago. I’m told the pistol was not cleaned before it was hidden, and both barrels had obviously been fired.” He found he had to blink and look away before he could continue. “When one adds that discovery to what we’ve been told by Miss Priestly, it’s difficult to conclude otherwise than that it was Cato Coldfield who murdered my wife and daughter fourteen years ago. Daniel O’Toole only came along and found them. Traumatized as he was by his experiences in the war, the sight of their...” Lovejoy’s voice trembled, but he pushed on. “Of their dead bodies must have devastated him. He was a devout man, and so he set about arranging them in what he considered a more proper Christian posture for the dead.” Lovejoy swallowed hard. “That’s how their blood came to be on his hands. And then he unwittingly smeared it all over himself when in his anguish he touched his face and tore at his hair—exactly as he said.” Lovejoy tried to swallow again, but the painful lump in his throat would not go away. “I helped hang an innocent man. And, God help me, I knew a moment of quiet satisfaction when I watched him die.”

“We can’t know for certain that’s what happened,” said Devlin.

Lovejoy shook his head. “I know.” He almost said, Julia told me, but stopped himself in time.

“At least Cato is dead now. He might have evaded the law for fourteen years, but there is a certain kind of grim justice in his now being blamed for the murders committed by someone seeking to emulate his original crime.”

“Perhaps. Except that won’t bring back Daniel O’Toole. And thanks to the Palace’s obsession with appearances, his innocence will never be known.”

“You know he was innocent. And I know it.”

“That’s not enough.”

Devlin met his friend’s anguished gaze. “No. No, it’s not. But at least it’s something.”

?That evening, Hero and Sebastian were in the drawing room after dinner when Jarvis came.

“I can’t stay long,” he said, refusing Sebastian’s offer of a glass of wine. “I assume you’ve heard that arrests have been made for this dreadful string of recent murders.”

“We heard,” said Sebastian. His gaze met Hero’s; then they both looked away.

“Just so,” said Jarvis, watching them. “I’m here because I thought you might also like to know that the Bellerophon will be leaving Plymouth on Friday to head for Start Point, where it will rendezvous with the Northumberland. If all goes well, Bonaparte will be transferred to the Northumberland next Monday, and they will set sail that evening for St. Helena.”

Hero said, “I take it wiser heads finally managed to convince the Prince that turning a former emperor over to his enemies to be hanged might not be a good idea?”

“With some difficulty, but yes. St. Helena is far enough away to discourage another escape attempt, and with only one navigable harbor it should be easy enough to guard against any rescue.”

“Napoléon knows what’s been decided?”

“He knows. I gather he did not take the news well. But then, that’s rather to be expected, isn’t it?”

“One wonders what he’ll find to do there,” she said. “For a man so accustomed to activity, the thought of confinement to a small, barren island in the middle of nowhere must seem unimaginable.”

“I’m told he has decided to write his memoirs. With any luck, they will keep him occupied until he dies. I understand he’s not well.” Jarvis reached for his hat and rose to his feet. “I’ve no doubt word of his destination will eventually leak to the papers, but I’ll ask you to keep it quiet until then.”

After he had gone, Sebastian went to where Hero still sat, her hands gripping the arms of her chair, her gaze fixed absently on nothing. “You never did talk to Jarvis about that strange visit from Cousin Victoria, did you?” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders.

She looked up at him. “No. I think I finally figured out what she was up to that day. I could be wrong, but I suspect she was deliberately trying to stir up discord between Jarvis and me.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I have no idea. But whatever her nasty little scheme is, I don’t intend to help it along.”

“You’re going to need to be very careful.”

She reached up to take one of his hands in hers and held it. “I know.”

Friday, 4 August, shortly before dawn

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