Page 29 of What Cannot Be Said

Lovejoy kept his gaze on the woman’s wrinkled, broad-nosed face. “Fourteen years ago, at the time of the first killings in Richmond Park, who did you think was responsible?”

“Me? I’d no idea. How could I? Never met your wife and girl; never even been in Richmond Park, meself. Only thing I know is, my boy Danny didn’t do it. Oh, I’m no’ denying he weren’t right in the head after what happened to him in Ireland in the ’Ninety-Eight. But he would never have hurt nobody, man nor beast. He was a gentle soul and he hated the things he saw done in Ireland. Hated doin’ what he was ordered to do—herding innocent women and children into churches and barns and setting fire to them, then listenin’ to ’em scream and watchin’ till every last one of ’em was burned alive. What kind of officer orders his soldiers to do something like that? Them’s monsters, anyone who orders that. But ain’t nobody hanged those officers for murder. Oh, no; their kind get promotions and is called heroes.”

She turned her head and spat, then brought her hard gaze back to Lovejoy’s face. She was silent for so long that he wondered what she saw there.

He said, “You didn’t know either Lady McInnis or her daughter?”

“Me? How could a simple woman such as myself ever meet such a grand lady? Reckon you’re gonna have to look elsewhere to find somebody to blame for the killings this time.” She paused a moment, then said, “And if you discover you were wrong about my Danny, will you admit it, I wonder? Even to yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. I’ll believe it when I see it. Come on, Toby.”

As she turned away, the gray cat stood up, arched his back in a stretch, then leapt down off the windowsill to follow the old woman into the cottage. Without looking back, she shut the door behind them with a snap. But for a long time Lovejoy stayed where he was, standing on the flagged path of her garden, surrounded by a jumble of sun-dappled roses and tansy and comfrey, and prey to an unsettling combination of sadness and uncertainty tinged, undeniably, with shame.

Chapter 18

The director of the St. Martin’s workhouse was an officious little man named Felix Fry. Short-legged and pudgy, he had slicked-back black hair and a small, pointed nose and soft white hands he fluttered through the air when he spoke. Confronted with Lady Devlin, daughter of the King’s powerful cousin Lord Jarvis and daughter-in-law to the Earl of Hendon, Fry was all bowing civility and obsequious smiles as he ushered Hero into his comfortable office near the grim brick building’s front entrance.

But his smile froze when Hero settled in the seat indicated by him and brought his pleasantries to an end by saying briskly, “Thank you, Mr.Fry. I’m here because I’m interested in hearing about your recent interactions with Lady McInnis.”

“Ah. Um, yes; Lady McInnis.” He sank into the wooden chair behind his broad, lovingly polished desk. “It’s beyond shocking, what happened. I fear the crime in our streets grows worse every day. The end of the war has emboldened the criminal classes, wouldn’t you say? All this—”

“The murders are indeed shocking,” said Hero, cutting him off. “So do tell me, please, precisely when was the last time you saw Lady McInnis?”

“Me?” Fry’s eyes widened, then darted away. “Oh, it’s been weeks now. Weeks.”

“Sometime in early July, would you say?”

He swallowed. “Something like that, yes.”

“She came here?”

Fry straightened the already neat pile of papers at the corner of his desk. “She did, yes.”

“And why was that?”

The treacly smile was back in place. “Lady McInnis’s interest in the children of the poor was... intense.”

“It was, indeed. I’m told she was concerned about the manner in which the workhouse handles its apprenticeships, particularly your practice of selling very young orphans to chimney sweeps. Is that why she came?”

Mr.Fry gave a faint titter. “I wouldn’t say we sell them, precisely. This isn’t America, you know.”

“No? I’ve heard the going rate is four shillings.”

He was no longer smiling. “As your ladyship is doubtless aware, it is the duty of every Poor Law guardian to keep the parish rates as low as possible. Obviously, one way to do so is by apprenticing out as many of the workhouse children as we can.”

“Tell me about the little boy named Robby.”

“Robby?”

“The orphan who was apprenticed as a climbing boy to a chimney sweep named Hiram Dobbs. The little boy died, so you gave Dobbs another.”

“Ah, yes; Robby Coker, or Cooper, or some such thing. His mother came to us last year. I believe the father was killed fighting the French.”

“Is she still with you?”

“Oh, no. She died not long after they arrived.”

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