Page 26 of What Cannot Be Said

“Or something like that,” said Sebastian.

Hiram Dobbs glowered at him. “I’m a good, God-fearin’ man; you hear me? I work hard and pray hard, and I keep these here children on the path of the straight and narrow. That woman—that lady—she messed with the wrong man. I jist wanted to make sure she knew that.”

“The climbing boy who died—the one Lady McInnis tried to have taken away from you; what was his name?”

For a moment Sebastian didn’t think the man would answer. Then he sniffed and said, “Robby.”

“Robby what?”

“He didn’t have no other name that I ever heard of. He was jist Robby.”

“How old was he?”

“Danged if I know. He was always a sore trial to me, that one. Forever cryin’ for his mama, gettin’ stuck in the flues, afraid of everything from rats and fires to the fallin’ soot.”

My God, thought Sebastian. That poor child. Aloud he said, “Where were you last Sunday, Mr.Dobbs?”

The sweep sniffed again, then wiped the back of one hand across his crooked nose, smearing away some of the soot. “Keep the Lord’s Day, I do.”

“You do?” Most sweeps and their climbing boys worked seven days a week, with only one day a year—May Day—off. Sebastian glanced again at the silently waiting boys, but all three were now staring at their feet. “Commendable, I’m sure.”

Hiram Dobbs gave a snort and slung his broom up to his shoulder. “You might not understand it, you being a fine lord an’ all, but you’re stoppin’ us from gettin’ to work, keepin’ us standin’ around jawin’ like this.”

“Oh? And how do you happen to know I’m a lord?”

“Heard Bow Street had asked some viscount to help ’em look into them murders out at Richmond Park. Must be nice t’ have nothin’ t’ do all day but stick your nose where it don’t belong.”

“ ‘And what doth the Lord require of thee but to do justice?’ ” quoted Sebastian.

The sweep’s eyes narrowed. “Who said that?”

“Obviously not anyone you know,” said Sebastian, nodding to the three watching boys. “We can talk more later.”

“We ain’t got nothin’ t’ talk about,” shouted the sweep as Sebastian walked away. “Ye hear me? Nothin’.”

But Sebastian just kept walking.

Chapter 17

Shortly before nine o’clock that morning, Sir Henry Lovejoy was preparing to leave for the inquest into the deaths of Laura and Emma McInnis when he received a report from the constable he’d assigned to make certain inquiries into Cato Coldfield.

After the man left, Lovejoy sat at his desk for some minutes, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the far wall. Then he drew a deep, steadying breath, pushed to his feet, and reached for his hat.

?He rode out to Richmond in a hired hackney. Lord Devlin had offered to take the magistrate up in his carriage, but Lovejoy had declined, partially because he had several other matters to attend to while in the area and partially because he knew his lordship would much prefer to drive himself in his curricle. The surgeon Paul Gibson had also declined his lordship’s offer, for reasons Lovejoy found less clear.

The inquest was being held in the Bedford Arms, the same sprawling eighteenth-century inn that had housed the inquest into the deaths of Julia and Madeline Lovejoy fourteen years before. Even the coroner—a frock-coated relic named Horace Niblett—was the same. The man’s once-smart new gray wig was now moth-eaten and dusty, the creases in his parchment-like pale face dug ever deeper, the rasp in his voice more pronounced. But if Lovejoy allowed his eyes to go slightly out of focus, he might easily have imagined himself hurtled back in time to an occasion he could only remember with a pain so intense it threatened to steal his breath and double him over in agony.

He was careful not to allow his attention to drift.

Sir Ivo was there, a black mourning riband tied around one arm, his manner rigid with a self-control that could have concealed anything.

Lord Salinger was also in attendance, his face haggard with grief for his dead sister and niece, and pinched with concern for his two children, who were required to testify. Although only fifteen, Miss Arabella answered the questions addressed to her with sad, quiet poise, while young Master Percy’s hushed, halting responses moved more than one member of the assembled spectators to sympathetic tears.

Their testimony was followed by that of Paul Gibson. The surgeon’s appearance was a shock, his face gaunt and ashen, his eyes bloodshot, his disheveled clothes hanging on his underweight frame. But his voice was firm and authoritative, his evidence succinctly delivered. After giving his testimony, he walked over to lean down and whisper something in Devlin’s ear, then left.

Lovejoy hadn’t expected to learn anything new from the inquest, and he did not. The inevitable verdict of homicide by shooting by party or parties unknown was returned by the coroner’s jury within minutes.

Afterward, Lovejoy walked with Devlin along the side of Richmond’s sunny, expansive green, where some half-grown lads were playing cricket, their voices and joyous, carefree laughter carrying softly on the warm summer breeze.

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