Page 5 of What Angels Fear

“It was this what told us where to look.” Maitland took a small flintlock pistol from his pocket and held it out. “There’s no doubt it was dropped by our murderer. One of the lads found it mixed up in the folds of her cloak.”

Lovejoy took the weapon and balanced it thoughtfully in his hand. It was an exquisite piece, of high-grade steel, with a polished mahogany grip and a brass trigger guard intricately worked with the design of a serpent wrapped around a sword. Forty-four caliber, he decided, from the looks of it, with a rifled bore and a plate that read W. REDDELL, LONDON. There was still enough blood on the barrel to leave a dark smudge across the palm of his kid glove.

“You’ll notice the trigger guard, sir. The serpent and the sword?”

Lovejoy ran the thumb of his left hand across the stain. “Yes, I did notice it, Constable.”

“It’s the device of Viscount Devlin, sir.”

Lovejoy’s grip tightened on the pistol in an involuntary, convulsive movement. There were few in London who hadn’t heard of Sebastian, Viscount Devlin. Or of his father Lord Hendon, chancellor of the exchequer and trusted confidant of the poor old mad King’s Tory prime minister, Spencer Perceval.

Lovejoy flipped the pistol around to hold it out, butt first, to his constable. “Careful, Constable. We’re treading on dangerous ground here. It won’t do to go leaping to any hasty conclusions.”

Maitland met his gaze steadily. He made no move to take the pistol from Lovejoy’s grasp. “There’s more, sir.”

Lovejoy dropped the pistol into his own greatcoat pocket. “Let me hear it.”

“We’ve spoken to Rachel York’s maid, a woman by the name of Mary Grant.” This time Maitland made no pretense of needing to consult his notes. “According to Mary, her mistress went out late yesterday to meet St. Cyr. She told the maid, and I quote, ‘His lordship’ll pay handsomely, never you fear.’” The constable paused as if to allow sufficient time for the effect of his words to penetrate, then added, “It was the last anyone saw of her.”

Lovejoy held his constable’s light blue eyes in a steady stare. “What are you suggesting? That she was blackmailing the Viscount?”

“Or threatening him in some way. Yes, sir.”

“I take it you’ve checked into Viscount Devlin’s whereabouts last night?”

“Yes, sir. His servants say he left the house at about five. Claimed he was on his way to his club. But according to his friends, Devlin didn’t arrive at Watier’s until just after nine.”

“And where does the Viscount say he was?”

“We haven’t been able to locate the Viscount himself, sir. His bed was never slept in last night. Word about town is that he was set to fight a duel this morning.”

Lovejoy brought one cupped hand to his mouth and blew thoughtfully against his palm and fingers before letting the hand fall again. “Whoever did this must have been drenched in blood. If Devlin is our man, he would have needed to return home for a change of clothes and a wash before going on to his club.”

“It had occurred to me, sir.”

“So? What do Devlin’s servants have to say about that?”

“Unfortunately, before he went out, Devlin gave his entire staff the night off. His lordship seems to be a most generous employer.” There was something about the way it was said—a clipping of the vowels, a tightening of the lips—that betrayed a hint of an emotion Maitland generally kept discreetly hidden. He was no radical, Maitland. He believed in the social order, in the Great Chain of Being and the hierarchy of man. But that didn’t stop him from craving wealth and position, and envying those, such as Devlin, who’d been born to what Maitland himself couldn’t even aspire.

Lovejoy turned away to wander about the small Lady Chapel. “His valet would know if a set of evening clothes had disappeared from his lordship’s wardrobe.”

“His lordship’s man claims to have found nothing missing. But you know what these manservants can be like. Loyal to a fault.”

Lovejoy nodded absently, his attention caught by an enormous painting of the Virgin ascending into heaven that hung high above the altar. He himself had evangelical, Reformist tendencies—a dangerous inclination he was careful to keep private, of course. He didn’t hold with stained glass and incense and smoke-darkened Renaissance canvases in heavy gilded frames; considered them sinful popish remnants that had nothing to do with the austere God Lovejoy worshiped. But he noticed that blood from Rachel York’s repeatedly slashed throat had sprayed across the painted Virgin’s bare foot in such a way that it echoed, hauntingly, other images he had seen, of Christ on His cross, blood trickling from the wounds in His impaled insteps. And he wondered again, what the woman had been doing here, in this half-forgotten, inconsequential old church. It seemed a strange site for a beautiful young actress to select for an assignation. Or for blackmail.

Maitland cleared his throat. “I’m to tell you that Lord Jarvis is wishful of seeing you, sir. At Carlton House. As soon as you’ve finished here.”

The phrasing was deliberately delicate and Lovejoy knew it, for this was a summons no magistrate could refuse. All the Public Offices, whether at Bow Street or Queen Square, Lambeth Street or Hatten Garden, had standing orders to report to Lord Jarvis immediately if it appeared a crime might involve some sensitive person, such as the mistress of a royal duke or the brother of a peer of the realm. Or the only son and heir of a powerful cabinet minister.

Lovejoy sighed. He had never exactly understood the precise nature of Lord Jarvis’s influence. In addition to a mammoth townhouse on Berkeley Square, the man kept offices in both St. James’s Palace and Carlton House, although he held no government portfolio. And while it was true that he was tied by blood to the royal family, the relationship was that of cousin only. It had often seemed to Lovejoy that Jarvis’s position could best be described by that vague, medieval phrase, the power behind the throne, although how Jarvis had acquired that power and how he had maintained it through the course of King George’s long descent into madness, Lovejoy could never understand. He only knew that the Prince of Wales now depended on the man as much as the King ever had. And that when Jarvis summoned a magistrate, the magistrate went.

Lovejoy swung back to his constable. “You’ve already sent him word of this?”

“I thought he’d want to know right away. Devlin’s father being so close to the Prime Minister and all.”

Lovejoy blew out a long, tense breath that turned into a frosty mist in the cold air. “You do realize the delicacy of the situation?”

“Yes, sir.”

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