Page 18 of What Cannot Be Said

Leaving his tired horses in Brook Street in Tom’s care, Sebastian walked the short distance to the relatively modest town house of Viscount Salinger in Down Street, off Piccadilly. He wouldn’t have been surprised to be told that the dead woman’s grieving brother was not at home to visitors. But Salinger’s butler, a stately, prim man in his early sixties, bowed deeply and said, “Ah, yes; Lord Devlin. Lord Salinger warned us to expect you. If you’ll come this way?”

Escorting Sebastian upstairs to the drawing room, the butler promised to send a footman with a pitcher of ale, then went off to apprise Salinger of his lordship’s arrival.

Sebastian was standing at the front window, watching the shadows lengthen in the street below, when he became aware of the sensation of being watched. Turning, he found a fair-haired boy he recognized as Percy peeking around the doorjamb at him.

“Hullo there,” said Sebastian.

Casting a furtive glance over his shoulder toward the stairs, the boy scooted into the room. He was small for his age and slight, with thin straight hair, delicate features, and a sprinkling of faint freckles across the bridge of his short nose. “You’re Lord Devlin, aren’t you?” said Percy, his pale gray eyes wide, his face aglow with barely suppressed excitement. “I saw you yesterday at the keeper’s cottage, but we weren’t formally introduced. I’m Percy.” The boy flashed a quick, impish grin. “My brother Duncan is the heir, you know. I’m just the spare.”

Sebastian smiled. “Well, how do you do, Master Percy the Spare? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The boy’s grin widened, then collapsed. “You’re here to talk to Papa about what happened out at Richmond Park, are you? I heard Uncle Ivo telling Papa that Bow Street has asked for your help. You do this a lot, don’t you? Solve murders, I mean.”

“I help when I can,” said Sebastian, choosing his words carefully. However anxious he might be to question the boy, he had no intention of doing so without the father’s permission.

“It must be great fun,” said young Master Percy with all of a schoolboy’s enthusiasm, “chasing after murderers and such.”

“I don’t know that I’d describe it as ‘fun.’ ”

“You wouldn’t? I think it’d be grand. Do you reckon the killer might try to murder us next? Arabella and me, I mean.” Sebastian had the distinct impression the boy found the possibility far more exciting than frightening.

“I don’t see why he would,” said Sebastian, although it was a blatant lie. Because if the killer thought the children had seen or heard something that might help identify him...

“Arabella says—” Percy began, only to break off when a man’s tread sounded on the stairs.

“Oh, drat,” said the boy under his breath as Lord Salinger appeared at the entrance to the drawing room.

He was a tall man in his late forties, still strong and vigorous, although he was beginning to thicken around the middle, and his once-dark hair was now graying. His dress was neat rather than fashionable, more country gentleman than man-about-town, the points of his shirt collar and his cravat both modest, his coat cut loose enough that he would have no need of assistance easing into it. The resemblance between brother and sister was slight but there, mainly around the chin, which was square.

He drew up abruptly at the sight of his son, then came forward, saying to Sebastian, “Lord Devlin; I thought you might come.” To Percy, he said, “Off you go now, lad.”

“But, Papa—”

“No buts. Make your bow and then go.”

The boy executed a reluctant bow, then turned slowly away, dragging his feet.

Salinger watched him go, his face pinched with a father’s worry and haggard with a brother’s grief. Then he turned to Sebastian and said gruffly, “I see James has brought us a pitcher of ale. I had a barrel delivered fresh from the brewery just this morning, you know. May I pour you a tankard? It’s devilish hot out there.”

“Yes, please.”

“Is it too much to hope that you’re here because Bow Street has caught this mad killer?” said Salinger, going to the tray.

Sebastian shook his head. “If they have, I’m unaware of it.”

Salinger sighed and reached for the pitcher. “I knew it unlikely. But still...”

“It’s early days yet,” said Sebastian.

“Yes, I suppose...”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm either your sister or your niece?” asked Sebastian, accepting the tankard held out to him.

“Me?” Salinger turned back to pour himself some ale. “No; sorry. My sister and I held each other in affection, but I’m afraid we were never very close. The differences in our ages and interests were too great. Our brother Alfred is between us, you know, and we had a brother named John who died while still up at Oxford.”

“What were your sister’s interests, if you don’t mind my asking?”

A gleam of gentle amusement showed in the other man’s eyes, then faded away to something sad and hurting. “Everything I consider a dead bore: literature, art, music, good works—that sort of thing. She thought hunting cruel and boxing savage, and while she liked dogs well enough, she never had much use for my hounds since she associated them with hunting and, well, you wouldn’t have wanted to get her started on that.”

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