Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(7)

Sebastian met the other man’s troubled gaze. “I understand.”

From the piazza outside came a loud clatter, followed by a shout. Normally at this hour of the morning, Covent Garden Market was a cacophony of buyers and sellers, its stalls overflowing with fruit and vegetables brought in from the countryside to be sold to shopkeepers and the costermongers who fanned out across London. But so little produce was trickling into the city that many of the stalls hadn’t even bothered to open.

Sebastian said, “You spoke to Jane Ambrose’s husband?”

“Last night, yes. He appeared both shocked and devastated by the news of his wife’s death. But was either emotion genuine?” Lovejoy sighed. “I honestly couldn’t say. Something about his reaction seemed slightly off to me, although I can’t put my finger on why.”

“Did he say where his wife was yesterday?”

“No. He found it difficult even to speak of her, and finally apologized for being so distraught as to be of little assistance. I told him you were taking an interest in the case. Perhaps you’ll have more success with him today.”

“If he hasn’t dosed himself into insensibility with laudanum.”

Lovejoy nodded. “Gibson is quite certain the woman was murdered?”

“It’s either murder or manslaughter,” said Sebastian. “But someone definitely moved her body.” He saw no reason to divulge the fact that Jane Ambrose’s hurried autopsy was actually performed by an unlicensed Frenchwoman.

Lovejoy rested his shoulders against the high back of his bench and frowned. “Why leave the body in Shepherds’ Lane? I wonder.”

“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?”