Page 74 of What Cannot Be Said

“It’s an old tradition,” said Sebastian, pausing beside one of the round church’s worn marble pillars.

Finch nodded to the rigid, mail-clad stone knights lying before them. “Look at them. Six hundred years later and we still venerate them, still use the tales of their exploits to inspire our sons. William Marshal was my hero, you know, when I was a boy. I grew up dreaming of becoming a latter-day knight, of serving my king and winning great wealth and fame.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “Funny how no one ever talks about the price we expect other people to pay for our grand and yet ultimately pitiful obsessions and ambitions. About the women we leave alone behind us to suffer... and die.” His voice cracked, and he turned his head to look at Sebastian again. “Why the devil are you here?”

Wordlessly, Sebastian drew the Stanton pistol from the pocket of his driving coat and held it out.

“Son of a bitch,” swore Finch, reaching for it. “Where did you get this?”

“Out near Richmond Park. About two hundred yards from the dead body of a thatcher named Cato Coldfield.”

The Major’s head reared back, his hand spasming around the pistol’s grip. “He’d been shot?”

“And stabbed.”

Finch hesitated, then raised the muzzle to his nostrils and sniffed.

“That’s right,” said Sebastian. “It’s been recently fired.”

“You can’t think—” Finch began, then broke off.

“If you’ve an explanation, I’m willing to listen.”

?Leaving the church, they wound their way through Pump Court to turn down Middle Temple Lane, toward the silver ribbon of the river that beckoned in the distance. For a time Finch stared unblinkingly at the ancient, soot-stained buildings that rose up around them. Then a muscle jumped along his jaw and he said, “When I first came back to London after Waterloo, I took a room at an inn near Piccadilly. I wasn’t entirely certain that Michael—that’s my brother—would be willing to have me stay with him.” He gave a hint of a crooked smile. “Well, I knew Michael would always welcome me, but I worried that his new wife might be a different matter. So I took a room at the Eagle. It was something like my second or third day there that I came back from visiting my brother to discover someone had gone through my room. There wasn’t a lot missing—the truth is, I don’t have a lot. The only important thing they took was the flintlock. It’s not worth all that much on the face of it, but my grandfather gave it to me when he bought my promotion after I escaped from that wretched French prison, so it means a lot to me.”

“Easy enough now to claim it was stolen,” said Sebastian.

Finch looked over at him, his nostrils flaring on a quick, angry breath. “Damn you, if you don’t believe me, you can ask that rascally innkeeper. I raised quite a dust over it.”

“One might argue that you deliberately concocted a false accusation of theft in order to later be able to claim that the gun had been stolen.”

“Why the devil would I do something like that? If I wanted to go around murdering people with it, why not clean the gun and keep it? Why throw it away at the scene of one of my supposed crimes?”

“No reason I can think of, but you know damned well that won’t stop people from making the argument.” Sebastian studied the Major’s tight, furious face. “When you came back to England after escaping from prison, what year was that?”

Finch’s brows drew together, as if he were puzzled by the shift in topic. “The summer of ’ninety-eight. Why do you ask?”

“And how long were you here, in London?”

“Five or six months. I had a wound that had festered badly, so it was a while before I was fit to return to duty.”

“Did you see Laura then?”

“I already told you I did.”

“And after you rejoined your regiment, how often did you see her in the years that followed?”

“I didn’t—not until last summer when I was on extended leave after Boney was sent off to Elba.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why didn’t you see her again during all those years? You were old friends. You must have been back in England at some point.”

“We decided it would be best.”

They had reached the ancient Temple Gardens, once the gardens and orchards of long-dead monks, now a vast expanse of scattered, wind-tossed trees and bright green lawns that sloped steeply down to the Thames. The sky overhead was a soft pastel blue streaked with clouds touched pink and purple by the setting sun, with the river glinting silver in the slanting light. Sebastian watched as the Major went to stand at the water’s edge.

“Do you know when Emma was born?”

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