“To implicate someone else in her death, perhaps? Someone who lives in the area.”
Lovejoy considered this. “Yes, that’s certainly a possibility.”
“How much do you know about Edward Ambrose?”
“Not much, actually. But I’ve set one of the lads to looking into him. The palace shouldn’t object to that.”
“Especially if they don’t hear of it,” said Sebastian.
Lovejoy rarely smiled. But Sebastian thought he caught a gleam of amusement in the dour little magistrate’s eyes before he looked away. “My lads can be very discreet.”
The snow was starting up again by the time Sebastian cut across the drift-filled, half-deserted market toward Edward and Jane Ambrose’s house in Soho Square.
Dating to the time of Charles II, the square had once been popular with dukes and earls and even George II in his days as Prince of Wales. With the construction of new areas such as Grosvenor and Cavendish Squares, most of Soho’s fashionable residents had drifted westward. But it was still home to a number of notables besides Ambrose, including Sir Joseph Banks and Franz Schmidt.
The Ambroses’ narrow, well-tended house stood on the side of the square once occupied by the elegant residence of that ill-fated royal bastard the Duke of Monmouth. Sebastian’s knock was answered by a young housemaid with a pale face and big brown eyes swollen with tears. When Sebastian handed over his card, she sniffed, said, “Oh, my lord, Mr. Ambrose said we was to show you right up,” and led the way to a gracious drawing room, where Edward Ambrose stood before a cold hearth.
He looked drawn and haggard, as if he hadn’t slept much the night before. He was a tall man, perhaps five or six years older than his dead wife, and of a surprisingly muscular build. His features were even and attractive, his golden hair just beginning to recede from his high forehead. The son of an impoverished Middlesex vicar, he had enjoyed only modest success as a playwright until around the turn of the century, when his opera Lancelot and Guinevere took the town by storm. He still wrote the occasional play, but none was as popular as his operas, which were always enthusiastically received.
He stood now staring up at a large canvas that hung above the mantel. Following his gaze, Sebastian realized it was a portrait of Jane Ambrose and what looked like the two children from her locket.
“Thank you for seeing me,” said Sebastian as Ambrose turned, his features ravaged by grief. “My sincere condolences for your loss.”
Ambrose nodded and swallowed hard, as if momentarily too overcome by sorrow to answer. “Please, sit down,” he said, indicating a nearby seat. “I’m told it was Lady Devlin and a friend who discovered Jane’s body. How perfectly ghastly for them. I hope the ladies are all right.”
“They are. Thank you,” said Sebastian, taking one of the delicate Adams-style chairs. “I’d like to ask you some questions, if I may?”
Ambrose stayed where he was. “Yes, of course. I’ll help in any way I can.”
“Can you tell me when was the last time you saw your wife?”
“Yesterday morning.” Ambrose brought up one hand to rub his forehead in a distracted gesture. “At breakfast.”
“Do you know how she planned to spend the day? Did she say?”
He nodded briskly. “Her Monday and Thursday mornings were always devoted to the Princess.”
“Did she actually attend Princess Charlotte yesterday?”
Ambrose looked vaguely confused, as if the question surprised him. “I suppose. I mean, I don’t know for certain, but . . . why wouldn’t she? The snow didn’t become worrisome until midafternoon.”
“Where would she have gone after her lesson with the Princess?”
“I expected her to come home.”
“She didn’t?”
“I don’t believe so, no. None of the servants saw her.”
“You weren’t here?”
“I was, yes. But I’m working on the libretto for a new opera. It’s giving me fits at the moment—as they usually do at this stage.” His lips twitched as if he almost smiled. Then the smile tightened with what looked like pain. “Jane knows—knew—to leave me alone when I’m like that. I shut myself up in the library.”
“You weren’t concerned when she wasn’t home by evening?”
“Not overly much, no. Jane had her own life. I don’t—didn’t—keep a tight rein on her activities. It wasn’t until I realized just how late it was getting that I even gave it a thought. And then I assumed she must have decided to stay someplace until the storm passed. God help me, I was even mildly annoyed with her for not bothering to send a message telling me she’d been delayed.”
“Do you have any idea what your wife might have been doing in Clerkenwell yesterday?”
“No. I understand that’s where she was found, but I can’t imagine why she would go there.”
“Who do you think killed her?”
A spasm passed over the playwright’s features and he gave a half shake of his head in denial. “The magistrate who was here last night—Sir Henry—suggested she’d been murdered. But this morning the papers are all saying she simply fell and hit her head.”
“Given her connection to Princess Charlotte,” said Sebastian, “you do understand why, don’t you?”
Ambrose’s gaze met his. Then he looked away and nodded silently.
Sebastian said, “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted your wife dead?”
“Jane? Good heavens, no.”
“No one?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me more about her?”
“What is there to tell? She was a brilliant, beautiful, talented woman. Why would anyone want to kill someone like that?”
Sebastian glanced again at the portrait of Jane Ambrose above the fireplace. She held the younger boy—in this painting a laughing babe of perhaps eighteen months—on her lap, while the more pensive older child leaned against his mother’s knee. Rather than looking outward at the viewer, Jane had her head turned, her attention all for her children. A gentle, loving smile softened her features. Sebastian found it profoundly disturbing to be given this glimpse of her as she’d once been—so warm and glowing with life
