Page 91 of What Cannot Be Said

“You can try,” said Sebastian evenly. “But that won’t help your children. Not in the long run.”

Salinger’s chest shuddered as if with a suppressed sob. “God damn you. God damn you all to hell.”

His face frozen in a rictus of pain, the children’s father pushed away from the balustrade to brush past Sebastian and stride toward the crumbling ruins of the doomed palace on the riverbank. The wind whipped at the tails of his coat and blew hard enough that for a moment he staggered, putting up a hand to secure his hat before lowering his head and pushing on.

But Sebastian stayed where he was, his gaze on the wide sun-sparkled expanse of water and his heart so heavy within that it hurt.

Chapter 54

Sir Henry Lovejoy stood beside the placid waters of the Serpentine in Hyde Park, watching a couple of young constables wade through the shallows of the ornamental lake in what was surely a futile search for the knife that had been used to kill Arabella Priestly’s young abigail, Cassy Jones. The sun was already sinking low in the blue summer sky, for it had taken time for Lovejoy to be brought around to believing it possible that two children—two wealthy, wellborn, privileged children—could be guilty of murder, and more time still for Lord Devlin to convince him that the children were likely to have thrown their bloodstained weapon away someplace they assumed it would never be found, rather than carrying it off with them. Now, with evening rapidly approaching, Lovejoy found himself thinking it was a good thing the Regent’s celebratory fireworks were to be set off in St. James’s Park rather than here.

“My fellow magistrates at Bow Street are going to think I’ve gone mad, agreeing to this,” he said as Devlin came to stand beside him, hands on his hips, his lordship’s attention likewise fixed on the constables wading through the murky waters before them. “That we’re both mad.”

“I hope they’re right.”

Lovejoy glanced over at him. “So do I.”

The two men lapsed back into silence as the minutes ticked past and the constables, stripped down to their shirts and breeches, waded back and forth, back and forth, slowly venturing out deeper and deeper, the water rising until it lapped at their groins. Lovejoy said, “Even if we find the knife and Salinger’s cook identifies it as one missing from her kitchen, it doesn’t prove the children took the knife.”

“No.”

“We couldn’t possibly have them remanded into custody—not on such a flimsy string of happenstances that can each be easily explained away no matter how convincing they might seem when taken all together. The truth is, even if we had irrefutable evidence, no jury would ever convict a nobleman’s thirteen-year-old son and fifteen-year-old daughter of such a heinous string of murders. We hang poor children of that age—and younger—all the time. But most people accept it as a given that the children of the lower classes are predisposed to crime.”

“ ‘Tainted,’ ” said Devlin wryly. He glanced toward the sinking sun. “I suspect the most we can hope for is to somehow convince Salinger that his children need help, although—” He broke off as one of the constables let out a whoop and bent over to virtually disappear into the water.

The man came up huffing air and dripping, a broad grin spreading across his wet face as he triumphantly thrust one arm in the air, his fist gripping the handle of what looked like a large cook’s knife, its blade still rust-free and gleaming in the golden light of the setting sun.

Chapter 55

Some three hours later, Sir Henry Lovejoy sat in the drawing room of Viscount Devlin’s house in Brook Street, a cup of tea in his hands. He had just endured a painful, exceedingly awkward exchange with Lord Salinger and his younger son, and for the first time in many years Lovejoy found himself longing for something considerably stronger than a cup of good English tea.

“I gather things didn’t go well,” said Devlin from where he stood with his back to the room’s open windows. Night had fallen warm and humid, with only a faint breeze that stirred the satin hangings and brought them the distant rumble of the crowds gathering for the grand fireworks display scheduled to be set off from the Parade in St. James’s Park.

Lovejoy took a sip of his tea. “I suppose it could have been a good deal worse. Young Master Percy does readily admit to taking the knife from the kitchen of his father’s house. Except he says he took the knife the day after his sister’s abigail was murdered in the park and threw it in the Serpentine on a lark.”

“A lark?”

Lovejoy sighed. “Yes, to see if he could confuse us. He appeared most contrite while admitting it. Said he understands now that it was not at all the thing to do and apologized most profusely for in any way misleading us or hampering our investigation.”

“Except that according to Salinger’s servants,” said Lady Devlin, “the knife disappeared before the abigail was killed.”

“Indeed.” Lovejoy cleared his throat. He still felt uncomfortable discussing such a distressing subject as murder in the presence of a gentlewoman—particularly a gentlewoman some six months heavy with child. Although he also acknowledged that several years’ acquaintance with Lady Devlin should by now have disabused him of any illusions he might once have nurtured about the nature of her sensibilities, because as far as he could tell, she had none. “A scullery maid interviewed by one of my constables told him much the same thing. Unfortunately, Lord Salinger’s cook claims it truly went missing only yesterday. She insists she was mistaken when she thought it had been taken before.”

“In other words, she doesn’t want to be turned off by her employer without a character for implicating his son in a murder investigation.”

“So one might infer.” Lovejoy took another sip of his tea.

“Were you able to speak to Percy’s groom, Jacob?”

“Unfortunately, no. No one has seen the lad since Saturday. From all appearances, he’s taken his things and run off.”

“Saturday?” said Devlin. “That’s the day Coldfield’s body was discovered.”

Lovejoy nodded. “It could be a coincidence, of course. But it’s also more than possible that the lad is bright enough to put two and two together and realized he’d inadvertently been helping his young master commit murder. Needless to say, I did not actually suggest to Lord Salinger that we suspect his children of anything. And even though he surely realized the implications of the knife’s discovery, he was never anything other than polite. Indeed, he volunteered that he’d only that day realized he’d misplaced his uncle’s old double-barreled flintlock, and went so far as to show it to me.”

“Had you mentioned the missing flintlock?” said Devlin.

“No, not at all. It’s quite a distinctive piece, by the way—manufactured in the last century by Jover, with a lovely engraving of leaves, flowers, and grapes on the wooden grip. He even showed me a portrait of his uncle holding the weapon, so I have no doubt it is indeed the same pistol. He said it hasn’t been fired in the last twenty or thirty years, although it had obviously been cleaned quite recently. When I remarked upon it, he said the first thing he’d done upon locating the pistol was clean it.”

---