Sebastian felt the wind cold against his cheek. “Are you saying that your sister and Maxwell were lovers? Because just a few days ago you insisted Jane would never be unfaithful to her husband.”
Somerset looked troubled, as if he regretted what he’d said. “No; I didn’t mean to imply that at all. Jane would never have been unfaithful to Ambrose; I’m certain of that. But there’s no denying that Maxwell has been in love with her for years. And while she never admitted as much to me, I’ve often thought Jane felt the same.”
“Did Ambrose know?”
“I suppose he might have suspected it, but I couldn’t say for certain. He’s so wrapped up in himself, it’s possible he never noticed. Although if he did—” Somerset broke off.
“If he did?” prompted Sebastian.
Somerset thrust his hands deep into his pockets and shivered, as if suddenly feeling the cold. “A man like Ambrose, I don’t imagine he’d take it well, knowing his wife was in love with another man. Even if he didn’t believe they were lovers.”
Sebastian kept turning Somerset’s words over and over in his mind as he worked his way through the Frost Fair’s surging crowds. It certainly provided an easy explanation for what had happened. It was an old, familiar tragedy: A woman discovers her husband is unfaithful; they argue; the husband, himself already suspicious of her infidelity, strikes her in anger and accidently kills her.
Could it really be that simple? Could all the dangerous undercurrents in Jane Ambrose’s life—her discovery of the financial maneuverings of the Rothschilds and the political machinations surrounding Princess Charlotte—simply be a distraction?
It was possible. It might even seem the inevitable solution if it weren’t for the questions raised by the murder of Valentino Vescovi. But if it was true, then why the devil had Liam Maxwell—a man who claimed he wanted to catch Jane’s killer—deliberately kept hidden from Sebastian such an important aspect of her life?
By the time Sebastian arrived at the upper end of the Frost Fair’s grand promenade, his feet were cold and he was in no mood to tolerate any more of the printer’s evasive games. But Maxwell’s booth was being manned by three apprentices; Maxwell himself was nowhere in sight.
“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
