Why Kill the Innocent

by C. S. Harris

  A weak sun peeked out through a break in the clouds, and van der Pals’s eyes narrowed against the glare off the ice. “No one murdered Jane Ambrose. She slipped and fell.”

  “Someone certainly made a rather clumsy attempt to give that impression.”

  “So you’re suggesting—what? That I killed her out of spite? For daring to tell some dried-up old spinster on me?” The Dutchman gave a ringing laugh. “Surely you know that everyone around Charlotte spies for someone?”

  “Perhaps. Except that as a result of your rather crude overtures, Jane Ambrose learned a certain troublesome secret about the Prince of Orange. And that secret gives you a second—and considerably more powerful—motive to kill her.”

  The smirk remained on the courtier’s face. “Do you realize how many men in England—not to mention on the Continent—know this supposedly powerful and dangerous ‘secret’? Yet no one is killing them. To my knowledge, Mrs. Ambrose’s death remains a singularity.”

  “Jane Ambrose’s access to Princess Charlotte was also rather . . . singular.”

  Van der Pals twitched one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “At this point it doesn’t matter whether Charlotte learns the truth or not. It’s too late for her to back out.”

  “Perhaps. But it does rather beg the question: If your Prince is certain of his future bride’s constancy, why were you so eager to place a spy in her household?”

  “Security. There are those who would like nothing more than to see the betrothal ended before it is announced.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “Charlotte’s mother, the Princess of Wales, obviously—and those who champion her cause.”

  “Namely?”

  “Wallace. Brougham. You know as well as I with whom Caroline associates.”

  “Who else?”

  The courtier raised one haughty eyebrow. “How would I know?”

  “Because it’s your business to know.” Sebastian studied the courtier’s handsome smiling face. “The betrothal’s announcement is being delayed because Orange fears he has yet to adequately solidify his position in the Netherlands. That tells me there are forces within your own country that are as opposed to the match as Caroline and her associates. So who amongst the Dutch in London might be working to prevent the alliance?”

  “None, to my knowledge. Apart from which, why would any of them want to kill Jane Ambrose? The woman was against the betrothal herself.”

  “So she was. Although I wonder how you came to know that.”

  “She told me.”

  “Oh? When did she tell you this?”

  “The last time I saw her.”

  “Which was—when?”

  “You seriously think I recall?”

  “You claim to recall what she said.”

  Van der Pals pushed away from the balustrade to stand with his hands dangling loosely at his sides, his chiseled jaw set so hard he was practically spitting out his words. “That makes twice you have insulted my honor by calling me a liar. It is only my respect for what is owed the dignity of my Prince that prevents me from calling you out here and now. But I will not be so forbearing next time. Good day to you, my lord.” And with that he strode off, the hem of his elegant caped greatcoat flaring in the icy wind.

  After he had gone, Sebastian remained on the bridge, his gaze on the makeshift booths and tents below. Of all the Whigs gathered around the Princess of Wales, Lord Wallace was probably the most likely to stop at almost nothing if he thought he could scuttle the projected alliance between Britain and the Netherlands. But did that include murdering a talented pianist?

  Perhaps. The problem was, Why? In what way could Wallace have seen Jane as a threat to his machinations? Jane was every bit as opposed to the proposed Orange marriage as Wallace. Vescovi had hinted at something hidden, something sinister. But what?

  What?

  * * *

  Playing a hunch, Sebastian drove to Lord Wallace’s house on Mount Street. Only, instead of knocking at his door, Sebastian stayed with the horses and sent his tiger, Tom, to question his lordship’s house servants and grooms.

  Unassuming, subtle, and beguilingly cheerful, Tom was very good at eliciting information without raising a whisper of either understanding or alarm.

  * * *

  Sometime later, Phineas Wallace was crossing the snowy forecourt of the House of Lords when Sebastian fell into step beside him.

  “Now what the devil do you want?” demanded the Baron as they turned onto Margaret Street toward Whitehall.

  “I’m wondering where you were the afternoon and evening of Thursday, the twenty-seventh of January.”

  “Really? Why on earth would you want to know that?”

  “That’s the day Jane Ambrose was killed.”

  Wallace drew up abruptly and swung to face him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am.” When the Baron continued to simply stare at Sebastian, he said again, “So where were you?”

  Wallace turned and kept walking. “You think I remember? That was a week ago.”

  “Not quite. As it happens, Her Highness the Princess of Wales gave a dinner party that evening. All your friends and close associates—Brougham, Whitbread, Earl Grey—were there. But you weren’t. Why was that? I wonder. And before you claim to have been at home, I should warn you that your servants say otherwise.”

  “My God. Have you stooped to suborning a man’s own servants?”

  “Not suborning. Merely questioning.” Sebastian studied the Baron’s tightly held face. “It’s no secret that you are strongly opposed to the marriage Prinny has arranged between his daughter and the House of Orange.”

  Wallace threw a quick look around and lowered his voice. “Of course I am opposed to this ridiculous alliance. But what has that to say to anything?”

  “I don’t think Jane Ambrose came to see you about music lessons for your daughter. I think something else was involved—something linked to either Princess Charlotte or her mother. Or both.”

  Lord Wallace paused at the kerb. “Did it ever occur to you that you are wrong? That Jane Ambrose simply slipped on the ice, hit her head, and died? That her death, while tragic, is not part of some grand and nefarious international conspiracy?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Jane Ambrose didn’t die alone in the middle of Shepherds’ Lane.”

  “That doesn’t mean her death necessarily had anything to do with the Princesses.” Wallace turned his head to stare thoughtfully up the snowy street, his eyes narrowing against the glare. “I’m told Jane Ambrose was as much against this marriage scheme as anyone. If you are right and she did not simply die by accident, then I suggest you look for her killer amongst those dedicated to seeing the alliance go through. Not amongst those who are opposed to it.”

  “Perhaps. Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Jane Ambrose would never do anything that might harm Princess Charlotte. Can you say the same?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed the Baron, and walked away.

  But Sebastian noticed he didn’t deny it.

  Chapter 37

  That evening, Sebastian and his Viscountess wrapped young Master Simon in a fur-lined robe, sturdy boots, and a thick woolen cap and mittens, and set off to visit the Frost Fair.

  The fair was a magical place after dark, with torches flaring up golden bright against a clear, glittering black sky and strings of colored lanterns dangling between parallel rows of makeshift booths and stalls. They’d dubbed the main thoroughfare “the City Road,” a grand promenade that snaked down the frozen river from Blackfriars to London Bridge. Scores of tradesmen whose businesses were suffering from the cold and snow had seized the opportunity to reach new customers, with everyone from barbers to shoemakers setting up shop on the ice. There were gaming tents with EO tables,
wheels of fortune, and rouge et noir; drinking tents where gin and ale flowed freely; cook stalls selling mutton pies and baked potatoes and gingerbread; and amusements such as knock-’em-downs and merry-go-rounds for the children. Their shrieks and laughter echoed across the ice, mingling with the wail of bagpipes, the screech of fiddles from dancing tents, and the quavering voices of ragged little girls singing ballads for a penny.

  Rather than being smooth, the icy surface was rough and undulating, for the Thames had not frozen in a single sheet. And so the “streets” of the fair twisted this way and that, winding around jagged, snow-covered hillocks formed by the massive ice chunks that had floated down from upriver and collided into one another, allowing the river to freeze between them.

  Liam Maxwell’s booth was only one of half a dozen or more printing presses operating on the ice, although his appeared to be the most popular, thanks perhaps to the doggerel verse printed on his cards:

  Amidst the arts which on the Thames appear,

  To tell the wonders of this icy year,

  Printing claims a place that at one view

  Erects a monument to it and you.

  You who walk here and do deign to tell

  Your children’s children what this year befell,

  Come buy this print and it will then be seen

  That such a year as this hath ne’er been.

  Sebastian handed over his shilling for a souvenir card. “Clever.”

  “Thank you,” said Maxwell, pulling the “devil’s tail” on the press. Unlike the more sophisticated presses in Somerset’s publishing house, this one was made on a wooden frame, with a simple platen and rounce handle.

  “I need to ask you some questions. It’s important,” Sebastian added when the printer kept his attention on the press.

  Maxwell hesitated a moment, then signaled one of the apprentices to take his place.

  “You’ve discovered something?” he asked, wiping his ink-stained hands on a rag as they stepped away from the booth.

  “Nothing definite, unfortunately. But I am curious about something: When I asked you what Jane might have been doing in Clerkenwell the day she died, you said you had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me she taught piano to William Godwin’s daughter? Surely you knew.”

  Maxwell frowned as he stared at one of the booths on the far side of the row. “But Jane’s lessons with Mary Godwin were on Friday afternoons. Not Thursdays.”

  “So they were,” said Sebastian, following Maxwell’s gaze to where Hero had paused with Simon before a display of colorful whirligigs. “How much did Jane tell you about her last lesson with Anna Rothschild?”

  Maxwell turned his head to fix Sebastian with a hard, steady stare. “You asked me that before, and I told you she was upset to lose Anna as a pupil.”

  “She didn’t say anything to you about secret gold shipments?”

  “Gold? You can’t be serious.”

  “I wish I weren’t.”

  “Bloody hell.” Maxwell kicked angrily at the loose snow at his feet. “I knew she was keeping something about the incident from me—I even tried to press her on it more than once. But it upset her so much I gave up.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me Rothschild had her killed? Because she somehow found out about his bloody gold smuggling?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Oh, I know. Don’t ask me how, but I know. Only, Jane didn’t tell me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Maxwell threw another glance at Hero and lowered his voice. “He was watching her, you know—Jarvis, I mean. Had his men following her for weeks before she died. I thought it was because of Princess Charlotte. But now I wonder . . .”

  “Jarvis says he didn’t kill her.”

  Maxwell made a disbelieving noise deep in his throat. “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?”

  Sebastian kept his gaze on the younger man’s face. “Do you know why Jane went to see Princess Charlotte’s mother the week before she died?”

  Maxwell’s gaze met his for one telling moment, then slid away. “Jane has known—knew—the Princess of Wales for years. Most people think of Caroline as half-mad and half-foolish, but she’s actually a very serious, accomplished musician.”

  “That doesn’t explain why Jane went to see her.”

  “Doesn’t it? I rather thought it did.”

  “Yes and no. You told me Jane was upset over Charlotte’s betrothal to the Prince of Orange. And no one is more opposed to the Orange alliance than Caroline and the Whigs who’ve championed her cause.”

  Maxwell snorted. “You think the likes of Brougham and Wallace have championed Caroline’s cause? I’d say they simply use her to advance their own causes.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sebastian. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that both Caroline and the Whigs are united in their opposition to this marriage. So I can’t help but wonder at the timing of Jane’s visit. Did you know one of Orange’s courtiers tried to get her to spy on the Princess for him?”

  “What?” Maxwell’s mingling of shock and outrage were too visceral to be anything except genuine.

  “She didn’t tell you that, either?”

  Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “No. No, she didn’t.” He rested his hands on his hips and stared off to where a group of ragged boys was playing a game of football on the far side of the crowds of merrymakers thronging the rows of tents and booths. His features were drawn and hard with thoughts and emotions Sebastian could only guess at.

  Sebastian said, “You claim you want to help catch Jane’s killer. But there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Maxwell silently shook his head. But he didn’t deny it.

  “Has a date been set for her funeral?” Sebastian asked.

  “Tomorrow, at St. Anne’s, Soho. Ambrose didn’t tell you?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Maxwell’s lips tightened into a sneer. “He’s already let it be known that if I dare show my face there, he’ll have me thrown out.”

  “He’s aware of your friendship with Jane?”

  “How could he not be? Christian and I have been mates since we were at school together.”

  “Will Ambrose allow him to attend the funeral?”

  “Christian? I’ve no doubt Ambrose would like to keep him away. But it wouldn’t look good, would it—barring Jane’s brother from her funeral? And Ambrose is all about being seen to do the right thing.”

  “Mr. Maxwell,” called one of the apprentices. “We need more paper!”

  Maxwell cast a quick glance back at his booth. “I must go.”

  “Of course,” said Sebastian. “Thank you.”

  Sebastian was still standing there, watching the printer bustle about preparing a new ream of paper, when Hero walked up with Simon clutching a square of warm gingerbread in his mittened hands.

  “Do you believe what he told you?” she asked quietly.

  “Some of it,” said Sebastian, his gaze still on the printer. “But not all.”

  As they turned to leave, Maxwell stepped in front of his booth to clap his hands and shout, “Step right up, friends, and seize your chance to support the freedom of the press! After all, what can be a greater example of liberty than a genuine souvenir of the Frost Fair, printed right here in the middle of the Thames?”

  * * *

  They drove home through nearly deserted streets that glowed a ghostly blue-white in the waning moonlight.

  “What do you think Maxwell is hiding?” Hero asked suddenly, as if she had been quietly pondering his recent conversation.

  Sebastian shook his head. “I wish I knew. I’d also like to know how the devil he found out about Rothschild’s gold shipments—and Jarvis’s involvement in it all. He claims he didn’t learn it from Jane, and that’s one of the few things he’s said that I’m inclined to believe.”

  “Y
et he didn’t know about Jane’s problems with van der Pals?”

  “Evidently not.”

  Hero stared out at the shuttered shops of Bond Street flashing past. It was so cold the fresh layer of powder squeaked beneath the horses’ hooves. “You think Maxwell and Jane were lovers?”

  “I’m not sure. He knew her lessons with Mary Godwin were on Friday and not Thursday—which is interesting, given that her own husband claims to be ignorant of her students. Of course, if—”

  He broke off as the coachman shouted, “Whoa there!” and the carriage came to a shuddering halt, the horses snorting and plunging.

  “What the devil?” said Sebastian, leaning forward.

  A man lay crumpled at the turning into Brook Street. A lanky middle- aged man with a long red scarf that trailed behind him like a line of blood in the snow.

  Chapter 38

  By the time Sebastian reached him, Valentino Vescovi was struggling to prop himself up on his elbows, his breath coming in short, painful gasps.

  “Where are you hurt?” said Sebastian, kneeling beside him in the snow.

  The Italian’s harsh features contorted with pain. “Bastardo . . . Stuck a knife in my back.”

  “Who? Who did this?”

  “Don’t know. Couldn’t see. Most of his face was hidden.”

  Sebastian looked up to find one of his young footmen staring at them, his mouth slack with horror. “Don’t just stand there, damn it! Run to the house and get some men to help carry him inside.”

  “Y-yes, my lord,” stammered the footman, and took off running.

  Vescovi coughed, and Sebastian carefully eased one arm beneath the man’s shoulders to raise his head and support his weight. “Why would someone want to kill you?”