Boleyn in the Covent Garden Theater’s production of
He jerked the cloth back over those still, bloodstained features and turned away, his gaze narrowing as he took in the layout of the old church, the aisled nave and wide transepts, the choir and broad apse. “This Mr. Cummings . . . does he say he came back here, to the Lady Chapel, before locking up last night?”
Maitland shook his head. “The sexton says he glanced back here from the retrochoir and gave a loud halloo, warning that he was about to lock up. But he didn’t actually venture into the chapel itself, sir. And he wouldn’t have seen her from the retrochoir. I checked myself.”
Lovejoy nodded. In the damp coolness of the church, some of the pools of blood had yet to dry. Glossy and thick, they shimmered darkly in the lamplight, and he took care to avoid stepping in them as he walked slowly about the chapel. There’d been so many big, careless feet tramping in and out of the chapel in the past six hours that it would be impossible to accurately reconstruct what the floor had looked like, before the sexton’s arrival. But it seemed somehow disrespectful, a violation of that poor girl lying there against the wall, to be tromping heedlessly through what had once been her life’s blood. So Lovejoy tried to avoid it.
He stopped in front of the small altar’s white marble steps. The blood was thickest here, where she’d been found. A lantern lay on its side, its glass shattered. He twisted around to glance back at his constable. “Any idea who was the last person to use the Lady Chapel?”
Once again, Maitland thumbed through his notebook. It was all for effect, Lovejoy knew. Edward Maitland could recite the entire contents of his notebook from memory. But he thought it gave weight to his pronouncements, to be seen looking up each fact or figure. “We’re still checking,” he said with a slowness that was again for effect, “but it was probably a Mrs. William Nackery. She’s a haberdasher’s widow. Comes to the Lady Chapel here every evening at about half past four and prays for some twenty to thirty minutes. She says the church was empty when she left, just afore five.”
Lovejoy lifted his gaze to the blood-spattered walls, his lips tightening into a smile that had nothing to do with humor. “It appears to be a fairly safe assumption to say she was killed here.”
Warily, Maitland cleared his throat. He always grew uncomfortable when Lovejoy began stating the obvious. “I should think so, sir.”
“Which seems to place our murder between the hours of five and eight last night.”
“That’s the way we figured it, sir.” The constable cleared his throat again. “We found her reticule some two or three feet from the body. It was open, so most of the contents had spilled out. But her pocketbook was still there, undisturbed. And that’s a fine gold necklace and earrings she’s wearing.”
“In other words, no robbery.”
“No, sir.”
“But you say the reticule was open? I wonder if it simply fell open when she dropped it, or if our killer was searching for something?” Lovejoy glanced again around the cold chapel, felt the damp chill of the stones seeping up through the soles of his boots. He shoved his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, and wished he hadn’t forgotten his scarf. “I’m waiting, Constable.”
The planes of Edward Maitland’s broad, handsome face pinched with puzzlement. “Sir?”
“For you to tell me why you felt it necessary that I come here myself.”
The frown eased into a self-satisfied smile. “Because we’ve figured out who did it, sir.”
“Really?”
“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
