Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(24)
“Frightfully cold morning,” said Wallace with a grimace when he received Sebastian in the simply furnished drawing room of his Mount Street home. “May I offer you some wine?”
“Please,” said Sebastian, going to warm himself before the fire.
“I saw Lady Devlin’s recent article on climbing boys,” said the Baron, pouring wine into two glasses. “She does excellent work. If she were a man, I’d recommend she run for Parliament.” He laughed when he said it, as if the idea of a woman in Parliament were a ridiculous notion.
“I’ve no doubt she would be extraordinarily effective there,” said Sebastian, accepting the glass held out to him. “Even as a woman.”
“Yes, well . . .” Wallace took a judicious sip of his own wine. But over the rim of his glass, his eyes were watchful and assessing. “I’m told her ladyship had the misfortune of coming upon Mrs. Ambrose’s body in the street the other day. Dreadful business, that. I trust she suffered no ill effects?”
“You knew Jane Ambrose?” said Sebastian.
“Not really, no.”
“Oh? I was under the impression she came to see you recently.”
“She did, yes. When one is the father of fifteen sons and daughters, it seems one is constantly looking for music instructors, dance instructors, tutors—it never ends.”
“She taught your children?”
“She was considering it, yes.” His lips relaxed into a self-conscious smile of paternal pride. “My wife and I like to think our Elizabeth is exceptionally talented. But nothing was ever formalized, and now the poor woman is dead.”
“Except that Jane Ambrose didn’t simply die,” said Sebastian. “She was killed. It’s unclear yet whether it was manslaughter or murder, but her death was not the innocent accident the palace would have the public believe.”
Wallace’s eyes bulged in a credible display of shock. “Good heavens. How terribly disturbing. Is that why you are here? Because you think I might shed some light on what happened to her? I wish I could be of some assistance, but the truth is, I barely knew the woman.”
“Who recommended her to you?”
“Ah,” said the Baron. “That was Princess Caroline.”
“So the Princess of Wales knew Mrs. Ambrose?”
“She did, yes. Caroline has always loved music—especially the piano.”
“How close were they?”
“That I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” He gave a faint smile that came nowhere near touching those watchful eyes. “Sorry.”
“When precisely did you say she came to see you?”
“I don’t believe I did say, actually. But it was a week ago this past Wednesday. Why?”
“Are you familiar with Christian Somerset?”
Wallace stiffened. “I know who he is, obviously. But I don’t consider him a friend, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Your father, the Earl of Hendon, may not see a difference between the Whigs and the Radicals, but there is one, believe me.”
“Is Somerset still a radical?”
“Perhaps not so much anymore. But are you familiar with his former associate Liam Maxwell?” The older man’s features twitched with revulsion.
“Just how radical is he?”
“Maxwell? Radical enough that he belongs back in prison, if you ask me.” Wallace indicated Sebastian’s glass, which was still half-full. “May I offer you more wine?”
Sebastian set the glass aside. “Thank you, but no.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance,” said Wallace, walking with him to the stairs. From the upper floors of the house came the sound of children’s laughter and running feet.
“Do you know the names of Jane Ambrose’s other pupils?” asked Sebastian, pausing.
Wallace shook his head. “No, sorry. I can’t help you there.”
And that, thought Sebastian as the stony-faced butler closed the door behind him, was Wallace’s most obvious lie. Because what man of the Baron’s standing would consider engaging a music instructor for his child without investigating her other students? Even if she were recommended by a princess.
Sebastian had no idea why Jane Ambrose had visited Princess Caroline’s close confidant a week before her death. But he was fairly certain it had nothing to do with lessons for young Miss Elizabeth Wallace.
Increasingly troubled, Sebastian decided to take his questions about the politics of Jane Ambrose’s brother and his journalist friend to the well-known political philosopher William Godwin.
He chose Godwin partially because he had a passing acquaintance with the man and he admired the writings of Godwin’s controversial first wife, Mary Wollstonecraft. But geography also played a part, for Godwin lived on the edge of Clerkenwell, not far from where Jane Ambrose’s killer had left her body.
This was a section of Clerkenwell that in times past had been dominated by the skinning trade and the great herds of livestock driven from the countryside in toward Smithfield Market. Now rows of new, small brick terrace houses stood amidst the older timber-framed dwellings dating from Tudor or even medieval times. The vast open expanse of Spa Fields lay nearby, the walkways and ruined arbors of its abandoned old gardens hidden beneath a clean white cover of fresh snow.