When Maidens Mourn (6 page)

“Can you tell me anything yet?” asked Sebastian, looking pointedly away from what Gibson had been doing to the cadaver. Like Gibson, Sebastian had worn the King’s colors, fighting for God and country from Italy to the West Indies to the Peninsula. But he had never become inured to the sight or smell of death.

“Not much, I’m afraid, although I’m only just getting started. I might have more for you in a wee bit.” Gibson limped from behind the table, his peg leg tap-tapping on the uneven flagged flooring. He pointed to a jagged purple slit that marred the milky flesh of the body’s left breast. “You can see where she was stabbed. The blade was perhaps eight or ten inches long and an inch wide. Either her killer knew what he was doing or he got lucky. He hit her heart with just one thrust.”

“She died right away?”

“Almost instantly.”

Sebastian dropped his gaze to the long, tapered fingers that lay curled beside the body’s hips. The nails were carefully manicured and unbroken.

“No sign of a struggle?”

“None that I’ve found.”

“So she may have known her attacker?”

“Perhaps.” Gibson tossed the rag aside. “Lovejoy’s constable said she was found drifting in a dinghy outside London?”

Sebastian nodded. “On an old moat near Enfield. Any idea how long she’s been dead?”

“Roughly twenty-four hours, I’d say, perhaps a few hours more or a little less. But beyond that it’s difficult to determine.”

Sebastian studied the reddish purple discoloration along the visible portions of the body’s flanks and back. He knew from his own experience on the battlefield that blood tended to pool in the lower portions of a cadaver. “Any chance she could have been killed someplace else and then put in that boat?”

“I haven’t found anything to suggest it, no. The
livor mortis
is consistent with the position in which I’m told she was found.”

Sebastian’s gaze shifted to the half boots of peach-colored suede, the delicate stockings, the froth of white muslin neatly folded on a nearby shelf. “These are hers?”

“Yes.”

He reached out to finger the dark reddish brown stain that stiffened the delicate lace edging of the bodice. Suddenly the dank, death-tinged air of the place seemed to reach out and wrap itself around him, smothering him. He dropped his hand to his side and went to stand outside in the yard, the buzz of insects loud in the rank grass of the neglected garden as he drew in a deep breath of fresh air.

He was aware of his friend coming to stand beside him. Gibson
said, “Lovejoy tells me Miss Jar—I mean, Lady Devlin was acquainted with the victim.”

“They were quite close, yes.”

Sebastian stared up at the hot, brittle blue sky overhead. When the messenger from Bow Street arrived in Brook Street that morning, Sebastian thought he had never seen Hero more devastated. Yet she hadn’t wept, and she had turned down his suggestion that she drive up to Camlet Moat with him. He did not understand why. But then, how much did he really know about the woman he had married?

Hero and this dead woman had shared so much in common—an enthusiasm for scholarship and research, a willingness to challenge societal expectations and prejudices, and a rejection of marriage and motherhood as the only acceptable choice for a woman. He could understand Hero’s grief and anger at the loss of her friend. But he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable sense that something else was going on with her, something he couldn’t even begin to guess at.

Gibson said, “This must be difficult for her. Any leads yet on the two lads?”

Sebastian glanced over at him, not understanding. “What lads?”

“The two boys Miss Tennyson had spending the summer with her.” Gibson must have read the confusion in Sebastian’s face, because he added, “You mean to say you haven’t heard?”

Sebastian could feel his heart beating in his ears like a thrumming of dread. “Heard what?”

“The news has been all over town this past hour or more. The children have vanished. No one’s seen them since yesterday morning.”

T
he Adelphi Terrace—or Royal Terrace, as it was sometimes called—stretched along the bank of the Thames overlooking the vast Adelphi Wharves. A long block of elegant neoclassical town houses built by the Adams brothers late in the previous century, the address was popular with the city’s rising gentry class, particularly with Harley Street physicians and successful barristers such as Gabrielle Tennyson’s brother. As Sebastian rounded the corner from Adams Street, he found Sir Henry Lovejoy exiting the Tennysons’ front door.

“You’ve heard about the missing children?” asked Sir Henry, his homely face troubled as he waited for Sebastian to come up to him.

“Just now, from Gibson.”

Sir Henry blew out a long, painful breath. “I needn’t scruple to tell you this adds a very troubling dimension to the case. A very troubling dimension indeed.”

“You’ve found no trace of them?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Right now, we’re hoping the children witnessed the murder and ran away to hide in the woods in fright.
The alternative is…Well, it’s not something I’m looking forward to dealing with.”

They turned to walk along the terrace fronting onto the wharves below. The fierce midday sun glinted off the broad surface of the river beside them and the air filled with the rough shouts of bargemen working the river and the rattle of carts on the coal wharf.

“We’ve had constables knocking on doors up and down the street,” said Sir Henry, “in the hopes someone might be able to tell us what time Miss Tennyson and the children left the house, or perhaps even with whom. Unfortunately, the heat has driven most of the residents into the country, and of those who remain, no one recalls having seen anything.”

“Any chance the children could have been snatched for ransom?”

“It’s a possibility, I suppose, although I must confess I find it unlikely. I’m told the children’s father is a simple, impoverished clergyman up in the wilds of Lincolnshire. And while the victim’s brother, Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson, is a moderately successful barrister, he is not excessively wealthy.” Sir Henry rubbed the bridge of his nose between one thumb and finger. “The elder boy, George, is just nine years old, while the younger, Alfred, is turning three. They were here with Miss Tennyson when the servants left yesterday morning, but as far as we’ve been able to tell, that’s the last time any of them were seen.” He hesitated, then added reluctantly, “Alive.”

“And the servants never thought to raise the alarm when neither Miss Tennyson nor the children returned home last night?”

“They thought it not their place to presume to know their mistress’s intentions.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Sebastian. “And now they’re so frightened of being blamed for the delay in launching a search that it’s difficult to get much of anything out of them?”

“Exactly.” Lovejoy sighed. “Although they may prove more willing to open up to you than to Bow Street.” The warm breeze blowing off the water brought them the smell of brine and
spawning fish and the freshness of the wide-open seas. His features pinched, Lovejoy paused to stare out across the barges and wherries filling the river. “I’m heading back up to Enfield now, to organize some men to drag the moat.”

Sebastian said, “Any possibility the children could have been the killer’s intended targets and Miss Tennyson simply got in the way?”

“Merciful heavens. Why would anyone want to kill two innocent children?” Lovejoy was silent a moment, his gaze still on the sun-spangled water, a bead of sweat rolling down one cheek. “But you’re right; it is obviously a possibility. Dear God, what is the world coming to?” He narrowed his eyes against the glare coming off the water and said it again. “What is the world coming to?”

The Tennysons’ housekeeper was a small, plump woman named Mrs. O’Donnell. She had full cheeks and graying hair worn tucked neatly beneath a starched white cap, and she struck Sebastian as the type of woman who in happier times sported rosy cheeks and bustled about with brisk good cheer and a ready laugh. Now she sat crumpled beside the empty hearth in the servants’ hall, a damp handkerchief clutched forlornly in one fist, her eyes red and swollen with tears, her cheeks ashen.

“If only the master had been home,” she kept saying over and over again. “None of this would have happened.”

“How long has Mr. Tennyson been gone?” asked Sebastian, settling onto a hard wooden bench opposite her.

“A fortnight, come Tuesday. He wanted Miss Tennyson and the lads to go into the country with him—get away from all the heat and dirt of the city. But she wouldn’t leave that project of hers.” Mrs. O’Donnell’s nose wrinkled when she uttered the word “project,” as if she spoke of something nasty and improper. It was obvious that for all her geniality, the housekeeper did not approve of Miss Tennyson’s unorthodox interests.

Sebastian said, “I take it you’re referring to the excavations up at Camlet Moat?”

Mrs. O’Donnell nodded and touched her handkerchief to the corner of one eye. “I know it’s not my place to say such things, but, well…It’s not
right
, if you ask me. Women belong in the home. And now look what’s come of it! Her dead, and those poor lads gone missing. Such bright little fellows, they were. Quick-tempered and full of mischief, to be sure, but charming and winsome for all of that. Why, just yesterday morning before they left for church, Master George gave me a little poem he wrote all by himself.” She pushed up from her seat and went to rummage amongst the litter of recipes and invoices, letters and broadsheets, that covered a nearby table. “It’s here somewhere.…”

“That’s the last time you saw them?” asked Sebastian. “Yesterday morning, when they were on their way to church?”

“It was, yes,” she said, distracted by her search.

“Which church do they normally attend?”

“St. Martin’s, usually.”

“You think that’s where they went yesterday?”

“I don’t see why not, my lord.”

“I’m told Miss Tennyson liked to take the boys on various outings several times a week, particularly on Sunday afternoons.”

“Oh, yes. She was enjoying their visit ever so much. It was lovely to see her with them. Her face would light up and she’d laugh like she was a carefree girl again herself.” A ghost of a smile animated the housekeeper’s features, only to fade away into pinched sorrow. “Course, then there were the times I’d catch her watching them, and she’d go all still and quiet-like, and this look would come over her that was something painful to see.”

“What sort of a look?”

“It was like a…like a
yearning
, if you know what I mean?”

“You think she regretted not having children of her own?”

“If she did, it was her choice, wasn’t it? I mean, it’s not like she
didn’t have plenty of offers. Turned them all down, she did.” The housekeeper straightened, a tattered paper clenched in one hand. “Ah, here it is!” She thrust the page toward him.

Sebastian found himself staring at a single stanza of poetry written in a schoolboy’s best copperplate. He read aloud:

He looked up. “George Tennyson wrote this?”

“He did. Oh, it’s all great nonsense, to be sure. But it’s still fine, wouldn’t you say? And he but a boy of nine!”

“Do you mind if I keep it for a day or so? I’ll see it’s returned to you,” he added when she looked hesitant.

“To be sure you may keep it, my lord. Only, I won’t deny I would like to have it back.”

“I understand.” Sebastian tucked the boy’s poem into his pocket. “Do you have any idea how Miss Tennyson and the children planned to spend yesterday afternoon?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook her head. “No, my lord; I don’t know as I ever heard her mention it. We always lay out a cold collation for the family in the dining room, you see, before we leave for our half day. They eat when they come home from church, before they go out again. We left a lovely spread, with a side of beef and salmon in aspic and a chilled asparagus soup.”

“And did Miss Tennyson and the children eat the meal you left for them on Sunday?”

“Oh, yes, my lord. In fact, the plate with Mrs. Reagan’s oatmeal cookies was completely empty except for a few crumbs.” She plopped back down in her chair, her hands wringing together so hard the fingers turned white. “Oh, if only Mr. Tennyson had been
here!” she cried. “Then we’d have known for certain something was amiss when they didn’t come home last night.”

“What time did the servants return to the house?”

“The others were back by seven, although I’m afraid I myself wasn’t in until nearly eight. I spent the day with my sister in Kent Town, you see; her husband’s ever so sick, and Miss Tennyson told me not to worry if I was a bit late. She was that way, you know—so kind and generous. And now—” Her voice cracked and she turned her face away, her throat working silently.