Why Kill the Innocent

by C. S. Harris

  “He went off a good long while ago,” said one of the apprentices, inking the press’s text block. “Didn’t say where he was going.”

  “You’re certain? This is important.”

  The two younger apprentices shook their heads, their expressions believably blank. But the oldest lad hesitated a moment, then said, “I think he went off on account of that lady’s funeral. But I can’t tell you where he went any more than Richard and Paul here.”

  “Thank you,” said Sebastian.

  The lad simply stared back at him, his face taut and troubled.

  * * *

  Leaving the river, Sebastian climbed the hill to Maxwell’s printing shop in a cluttered ancient court off Fleet Street. It was a far different establishment from that of his former partner: cramped and dirty, with no elegant bookshop and bindery attached. But the workroom was locked up and deserted.

  After that, Sebastian tried every public room and tavern in the area, all without success.

  Liam Maxwell obviously didn’t want to be found.

  * * *

  The whistled refrain of what sounded suspiciously like “Alasdair MacColla,” an old Irish rebel song, floated across the snow-filled yard as Sebastian plowed his way to the door of the surgeon’s stone outbuilding. He banged on the old warped panels, and Gibson broke off to shout, “Go away. I’m busy.”

  Sebastian pushed open the door to find the Irishman leaning against the stone slab in the center of the room, a saw in one hand. The only thing on the table before him was a human leg neatly sliced in two just above the knee.

  “Ah, it’s you,” said Gibson, setting aside the saw with a clatter. “Thought it might be someone I didn’t want seeing this.”

  “What is that?”

  “And what does it look like, then?” said Gibson, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands. “It’s a leg. I’ve been practicing a new amputation technique.”

  “Lovely.” Sebastian closed the door against the cold. “I won’t ask where you got it.” He looked beyond the Irishman to where what was left of Valentino Vescovi rested on a low shelf. “Finished with him, have you?”

  “I have.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Nothing you didn’t know.” Gibson tossed aside the rag. “He was stabbed in the back by someone who either knew what he was doing or got lucky.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Bloody hell.” Sebastian slapped one hand against the doorframe. “How the devil am I supposed to figure out who’s doing this?”

  “His clothes are there,” said Gibson, nodding to the jumbled pile on a nearby shelf. “If you care to go through them.”

  Sebastian had checked the musician’s pockets last night while waiting for Lovejoy. But he went over everything again anyway, this time examining the seams and linings, as well.

  He found nothing.

  “His death might not be related to what happened to Jane Ambrose,” said Gibson, watching him. “People really do occasionally get killed by footpads in London.”

  Sebastian carefully folded the harpist’s red scarf and rested it atop his serviceable, slightly worn clothing. “This wasn’t footpads.”

  * * *

  On his way back to Brook Street, Sebastian decided to swing past the church of St. Anne’s, Soho.

  And it was there he finally found Liam Maxwell, sitting hunched over at the top of the steep stone steps leading down to the crypt, his hands thrust between his knees and his face wet with tears that slid unchecked down his cheeks.

  Chapter 40

  The church was bitterly cold and filled with shadows, for the morning’s weak sunshine had long since disappeared behind a thick cover of heavy white clouds.

  Sebastian went to stand with his hands braced against the crypt’s iron railing, his nostrils filling with the scent of dank stone and old death. Liam Maxwell did not look up. But after a moment he drew a shaky breath and said, “I can’t believe she’s down there. I can’t believe she’s down there, dead, and I’ll never see her again.” His voice cracked. “How can that be?”

  Sebastian shook his head, for there was no answer to give. “Why didn’t you admit you were in love with her—and she with you?”

  Maxwell squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about her—about the kind of woman she was.”

  It was possible, Sebastian thought. But he could also think of another explanation that was considerably more damning. “Were you lovers?”

  Maxwell swiped his sleeve across his wet eyes. “No. I swear to God, no.”

  “Yet you asked her to leave her husband?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  The journalist hesitated, then nodded. “She wouldn’t do it, though—for all he made her as miserable as a woman can be.”

  “How long? How long have you been in love with her?”

  A ghost of a smile touched his features. “Since the September I was fifteen. I went with Christian to watch a regatta on the Thames, and she was there. I remember she was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a white muslin dress with little puff sleeves and a blue sash, and I fell hopelessly, irretrievably in love with her—even though she was twenty years old and married and she treated me like her little brother’s awkward school friend. Which is precisely what I was.”

  “When did that change?”

  “I don’t know. It happened slowly, over time. I think if I hadn’t been so much younger than she, and her brother’s friend, it never would have come to be. As it was, it simply . . . crept up on her unawares. When Christian and I were in prison, she used to come see us, and we would talk for hours.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s when I first realized Ambrose hit her. One time she came, she had a black eye. She refused to admit he’d done it, but Jane never was very good at lying. He was furious with her for visiting her brother in prison.” Maxwell huffed a sound that was not a laugh. “What a bloody bastard.”

  “Did you know he’s had an opera dancer in keeping for the past three years?”

  Maxwell entwined his fingers together and tapped his joined hands against his mouth. “I suspected it.”

  “Did you tell Jane?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t know for certain. And because even if it were true, I knew she still wouldn’t leave him. It would only have hurt her, to realize that the man she’d given up everything for couldn’t even be faithful to her.”

  “Could she have found out?”

  “No.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. She never would have kept it from me, had she known.”

  “Yet she didn’t tell you about either Rothschild’s gold shipments or his threats, did she?”

  Maxwell held himself very still. “No. No, she didn’t.”

  “You said you last saw her the afternoon before she died; was that true?”

  Maxwell nodded.

  “What exactly did she say to you?”

  He scrubbed his hands down over his face. “I told you: She talked about Princess Charlotte’s betrothal—about what a mistake it would be for Charlotte to go through with the marriage. She said the girl didn’t realize how much she would be giving up. And then she said . . . she said our society asks women to give up too much, but nothing’s going to change as long as women keep meekly doing what is expected of them.”

  “That doesn’t sound like what I’ve come to know about Jane.”

  “No, not at all. I asked her what she meant by it, but she only gave me a strange smile, kissed my cheek, and said, ‘You’ll see.’”

  “‘You’ll see’? You’ll see—what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sebastian kept his gaze on the y
ounger man’s face. “The postmortem showed Jane had been raped a day or two before she was killed.”

  “What?” Maxwell pushed to his feet, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

  “She didn’t say anything to you about it?”

  “No!” He flung away, only to draw up short and whirl to face Sebastian again. “Who? Who did it?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Was it Ambrose?” Maxwell’s nostrils flared. “Did he force himself on her? Hurt her? Because if it was Ambrose, I swear to God I’ll—”

  “Don’t,” suggested Sebastian quietly.

  The journalist thrust a shaky hand through his disheveled hair and swallowed hard.

  Sebastian said, “Is there anyone to whom Jane might have confided something of that nature?”

  Maxwell thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone. She was fairly close to Miss Jones, but I doubt she would have revealed something like that to her. Women don’t usually talk about such things, do they? Not if they can hide it.”

  “Who is Miss Jones?”

  “Lottie Jones. She’s the Princess’s official miniature portrait painter. Jane’s known—knew—her for years. She painted the miniatures of Jane’s children in her locket.”

  “Where would I find her?”

  “She has a studio in Lower Grosvenor Street.” Maxwell slumped back against one of the side aisle’s columns, his head falling back as he stared up at the old church’s arched ceiling. “I can’t believe she kept so much from me—first Rothschild, then this. Why? Why would she do that?”

  “What would you have done if she had told you someone had forced himself upon her?”

  Maxwell’s jaw clenched. “Killed the bastard.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Then that’s why she didn’t tell you.”

  * * *

  An early dusk was falling over the city by the time Sebastian turned down Brook Street. He could hear Hero playing the pianoforte, a haunting melody that carried clearly in the cold air as he nodded to the lamplighter and his boy working to kindle the flame of the oil lamp near the corner.

  Hero had always been a technically proficient pianist. But there was a quality to her playing on this frigid February evening that he’d never heard before. And as he handed his hat, gloves, greatcoat, and walking stick to Morey and turned to climb the stairs, he finally realized what it was: emotion. Hero typically approached her playing as a skill, a task, something she mastered and yet from which she held herself aloof. But not tonight. Tonight she was pouring herself into her music, and the result was both exquisite and heartrending.

  He paused outside the drawing room door, not wanting to interrupt her. And so engrossed was she in her music that she remained unaware of him watching her until the piece ended and her fingers slipped from the keys to rest in her lap. Then, as if sensing his presence, she turned her head and saw him.

  “A beautiful piece,” he said, going to rest his hands on her shoulders.

  “It’s from Lancelot and Guinevere.” She leaned back until her head was resting against him. “I keep thinking about all the incredible music Jane gave the world. All that beauty and joy, yet no one will ever know it’s hers because she was a woman.”

  He kissed the top of her head and went to pour himself a brandy before coming to sprawl in a nearby chair. “Are you acquainted with a woman named Lottie Jones?”

  Hero swung around on her bench. “You mean the miniature painter?”

  “So you do know her?”

  “Not well, but yes, I know her.”

  “Well enough to ask if she has any idea who might have raped Jane Ambrose?”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Hero, and reached out to take a sip of his brandy.

  * * *

  Thursday, 3 February

  It was not easy, being a woman in London’s male-dominated art world. Miss Lottie Jones had succeeded on the strength of her personality as much as her prodigious talent and by wisely choosing to focus on the one niche of her profession popularly perceived as being particularly suited to women: the painting of miniature portraits on ivory.

  She was now forty-five years old, her appearance striking, her manner deftly calculated to flatter her subjects’ amour propre without being obsequious. Hero had known the artist for seven or eight years. And so Miss Jones received the Viscountess in her studio’s private parlor with a warm welcome. But her eyes were watchful and knowing, for this was a woman whose gift for capturing likenesses came as much from her ability to see behind the masks her subjects tried to present to the world as from her skill with brush and tint.

  They spoke for a time of the weather, of the progression of the war on the Continent, and of an exhibition Miss Jones had planned for the spring. And then, when Hero was still working her way around to the reason for her visit, the artist fixed Hero with a steady gaze and said, “I’ve heard the palace is suppressing the truth about Jane Ambrose’s death. Is that why you’re here, my lady? Because the rumors are true and you think I might know something of use to Lord Devlin’s investigation?”

  Hero met the older woman’s gaze and held it. “I understand you and Jane were friends.”

  Miss Jones gave a sad sigh. “We were, yes. Our backgrounds might have been dissimilar, but we nonetheless had much in common. We both knew what it was like to be female in a profession that is not friendly to our sex.”

  “Not to mention years of experience in dealing with Princess Charlotte and her father.”

  A gleam of amusement lit up the older woman’s shrewd eyes. “That, as well.” The amusement faded. “But the truth is, I don’t see how I can be of much assistance to you. It is possible to know someone quite well in some ways and yet remain ignorant of the intimate details of her life. I can tell you that the loss of Jane’s two boys last year utterly devastated her, that she loved her surviving brother dearly and still missed her dead siblings and parents dreadfully. But if you were to ask me who might have killed her . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she shook her head.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Miss Jones frowned in thought. “It must have been a week or more before she died. She came for tea one afternoon, and we spoke of the Prince’s gout and this new poem of Byron’s, but nothing of any real importance.”

  “How did she seem then?”

  Miss Jones was silent a moment before answering. “Actually, she did her best not to show it, but there’s no doubt she was preoccupied and unhappy in a way I don’t recall her being before. But I couldn’t tell you why. As she was leaving I asked if she were all right, and she simply laughed and said the wretched weather was making her blue-deviled.”

  “Did she ever say anything to you about someone forcing unwelcome advances upon her? A man, I mean.”

  The question obviously took the older woman by surprise. “Good heavens. No, never. Although . . .”

  “Yes?” prompted Hero.

  The artist folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them.

  “Miss Jones?”

  She drew a deep breath. “I don’t know if this is relevant, but I did see Jane one other time recently. I didn’t mention it before because I didn’t actually speak with her, but I was coming out of Warwick House and she was there, in the small receiving room just to the left of the entrance. I was surprised to see her because it was Tuesday—quite late—and Jane’s lessons with Charlotte were always on Monday and Thursday mornings.”

  “So why was she there?”

  “I don’t know, but she was engaged in a decidedly heated exchange with Lady Arabella.”

  “The Duchess of Leeds’s daughter?”

  “Yes. That was strange enough, given that Jane’s opinion of the vile, sneaky little girl matched my own. But what was particularly startling was Jane’s appearance. She was still wearing her pelisse, and I could
see that the back was horribly smeared with some sort of muck while one sleeve was torn at the seam. Even the flounce of her walking dress was ripped, for I could see it trailing beneath the hem of her pelisse.” She paused. “If it hadn’t been for Lady Arabella, I’d have gone to her. But given the nature of their conversation, I didn’t feel it would be right for me to interrupt.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “I didn’t hear much—I was trying not to. But I did hear Arabella say something to the effect of ‘You brought this on yourself. How dare you presume to now blame me for your mistakes?’”

  Hero leaned forward. “But you don’t know what she was talking about?”

  “No. It was all so awkward, I doubt I’d have asked her about it the next time I saw her. But as it was, I never had the opportunity. Two days later, she was dead.”

  Chapter 41

  “What the devil do you make of that?” said Devlin when Hero told him of her conversation with the miniaturist.

  “I’ve not the slightest idea. But it sounds as if we need to have an urgent—and brutally frank—conversation with young Lady Arabella.”

  Devlin frowned. “The problem is, how to do it away from Mama Duchess.”

  Hero pushed up from where she sat to go thumb through the various invitations on the mantelpiece. “I’d utterly forgotten. What’s today?”

  “Thursday. Why?”

  She swung around as she found the one she was looking for. “We have an alfresco breakfast in Kensington Gardens to attend.”

  “In the snow?”

  “In the snow.”

  * * *

  The Duchess of Leeds’s decision to give a grand wintertime alfresco breakfast had been risky but inspired. A fresh white blanket of clean snow covered the sprawling lawns and empty flower beds of the royal gardens, while long icicles hung sparkling from the bare branches of the surrounding trees. In addition to tables groaning with food and copious libations of mulled wine, coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, Her Grace had also strewn the snowy gardens with braziers for those most sensitive to the cold. But even the weather cooperated: The day had dawned crystal clear without any wind, and the golden sunlight and dry air made the afternoon surprisingly pleasant despite the actual temperature.