Page 41 of What Cannot Be Said

Sir Ivo McInnis was in the mews behind his house, hunched over with the hoof of one of his carriage horses between his knees, when Sebastian walked up to him.

“Someone attacked Percy and Arabella Priestly in Hyde Park this morning,” Sebastian said quietly and without preamble. “Did you know that?”

Sir Ivo straightened abruptly, the horse’s hoof settling back on the cobbles with a clatter. An expression Sebastian couldn’t quite read flickered across the man’s face, then was gone. “No. Good God. Why?”

“Presumably because whoever killed your wife and daughter is afraid the children might have seen or heard something that afternoon that could help identify him. Do you know if there were any threats against Emma? Was there someone she quarreled with, perhaps?”

“Emma? No, of course not.” McInnis nodded to the groom silently standing nearby, then waited while the man reached out to take the horse’s halter and led it back to its stall. “I went through all this with that magistrate from Bow Street. The girl only turned sixteen this past May; she was still in the schoolroom. What makes you even ask such a thing?”

“Two nights ago, a chocolatier’s apprentice named Gilly Harper was murdered in Piccadilly and her body posed in a way that suggests her death might have been the work of the same killer. The girl was about the same age as Emma.”

“A chocolatier’s apprentice? You can’t be serious. What could such a person possibly have to do with us?”

“Lady McInnis rescued Gilly from an abusive mistress some months ago and then met with the girl last week to ask if she was willing to be interviewed about the experience. Your wife didn’t mention any of this to you?”

Sir Ivo snorted. “No. My wife knew exactly what I thought of her ridiculous obsession with foundlings and poorhouse children.”

“You thought the work she did ridiculous?”

“Of course it was ridiculous. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner the wretched little brats all die, the better. They’re nothing but a useless, costly burden on society, and most of them only grow up to be murderers and thieves anyway.”

“Yes, I can see why your wife would refrain from discussing her work with you,” Sebastian said dryly. “So tell me this: Do you know anything about her quarrel with Basil Rhodes?”

McInnis had walked to the open doors of the stables, but at that he drew up and whirled around. “Basil Rhodes? Are you telling me Laura quarreled with him? Of all the stupid, bloody-minded things to do! Quarrel with the Prince Regent’s favorite bastard? God help us.” His jaw tightened. “She’s damned lucky I didn’t know about it.”

“Is Rhodes a close friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t call him a ‘close’ friend, no. But I’m friendly with him, of course. Who is not?”

Sebastian studied the man’s tight, angry face. “According to the autopsy, your wife had days-old bruises on her shoulders and an even older bruise on her side. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“No, I would not.” Sir Ivo stared back at him, as if daring Sebastian to contradict him. “I suppose she might have taken a fall, but if so, she never said anything to me about it. Laura had a tendency to be clumsy, and she bruised easily.”

“Of course.”

His brow darkened. “What does that mean?”

“Well, that is one explanation.”

Sir Ivo grunted and turned back toward the door. “And now you really must excuse me.”

“Just a few more things. I’m wondering, have you spoken to your younger daughter, Thisbe, about what happened to her mother and sister?”

“She’s been told about it, obviously, although not in any detail. No point in that, is there? The girl is upset enough as it is.”

“She didn’t say anything that might explain what happened Sunday?”

“What could Thisbe possibly know about it? She wasn’t there.”

“Was she ill?”

“Ill? No. Not that I heard, anyway.”

“I’ve been wondering why wasn’t she on the picnic.”

“Damned if I know. I left that sort of thing to my wife.”

“Would it be possible for me to speak to her?”

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