What Cannot Be Said (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery, Band 19) - Hardcover

Harris, C. S.

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593639189 ISBN 13: 9780593639184

Verlag: Berkley, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

A seemingly idyllic summer picnic ends in a macabre murder that echoes a pair of slayings fourteen years earlier in this riveting new historical mystery from the USA Today bestselling author of Who Cries for the Lost.

July 1815: The Prince Regent’s grandiose plans to celebrate Napoléon’s recent defeat at Waterloo are thrown into turmoil when Lady McInnis and her daughter Emma are found brutally murdered in Richmond Park, their bodies posed in a chilling imitation of the stone effigies once found atop medieval tombs. Bow Street magistrate Sir Henry Lovejoy immediately turns to his friend Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, for help with the investigation. For as Devlin discovers, Lovejoy’s own wife and daughter were also murdered in Richmond Park, their bodies posed in the same bizarre postures. A traumatized ex-soldier was hanged for their killings. So is London now confronting a malicious copyist? Or did Lovejoy help send an innocent man to the gallows?

Aided by his wife, Hero, who knew Lady McInnis from her work with poor orphans, Devlin finds himself exploring a host of unsavory characters from a vicious chimney sweep to a smiling but decidedly lethal baby farmer. Also coming under increasing scrutiny is Sir Ivo McInnis himself, along with a wounded Waterloo veteran—who may or may not have been Laura McInnis’s lover—and a charismatic young violinist who moonlights as a fencing master and may have formed a dangerous relationship with Emma. But when Sebastian’s investigation turns toward man about town Basil Rhodes, he quickly draws the fury of the Palace, for Rhodes is well known as the Regent’s favorite illegitimate son.

Then Lady McInnis’s young niece and nephew are targeted by the killer, and two more women are discovered murdered and arranged in similar postures. With his own life increasingly in danger, Sebastian finds himself drawn inexorably toward a conclusion far darker and more horrific than anything he could have imagined.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

C. S. Harris is the USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty-five novels, including the Sebastian St. Cyr Mysteries; as C. S. Graham, a thriller series coauthored by former intelligence officer Steven Harris; and seven award-winning historical romances written under the name Candice Proctor.

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Chapter 1

Richmond Park: Sunday, 23 July 1815

I
've figured out what's wrong with women," declared Ben. He lay on his back on the grassy hillside, his face lifted to the wide blue sky, his cheeks ruddy from a heady combination of sunshine, fresh air, and a bota of cheap red wine.

Harry swiveled his head to look at his brother. "So what is it?"

"They're women!"

The observation struck both young gentlemen as uproariously funny, and they rolled about in the sun-warmed grass, eyes squeezing shut, bodies convulsing with laughter. Separated in age by only two years, the sons of Thomas Barrows, Esquire, had retreated to Richmond Park on this glorious July afternoon to escape the hubbub surrounding their elder sister's wedding, which was scheduled to take place in three days' time.

"I think," said Ben, "that-" He broke off, his jaw going slack as a loud cr-rack echoed across the park.

"What was that?" said Harry, jerking upright.

Ben sat up beside him. "Sounded like a pistol shot."

Cr-rack.

At the second shot, the brothers looked at each other. "Reckon it's a duel?"

Harry pushed to his feet. "Let's go see!"

Snagging the straps of their leather wineskins, the brothers sprinted up the hill. From the top they could look out over the vast royal park's rolling vista of lush green grass and leafy woodland; London was a dirty smudge in the distance.

"Don't see anyone," said Ben.

Harry nodded to the stretch of oak mingled with chestnut near the base of the hill. "Bet it came from there."

They ran down the daisy-strewn grassy slope, laughing as they gained momentum, arms flung wide for balance, botas bouncing against hips. Then they slowed, breath catching as they stumbled to a halt. Harry felt the sun hot on his back, felt his stomach clench and his mouth go dry.

A woman and a girl lay on their backs in the grass beside a picnic rug scattered with sturdy white ironstone plates and the remnants of a genteel nuncheon. Dressed in fine gowns of delicate white muslin, they lay not side by side but in a line, so that the soles of the woman's shoes almost touched the girl's. Their hands were brought together at their chests as if in prayer, their silent faces turned to the sky, the bodices of their gowns shiny red. The stench of freshly spilled blood hung thick in the air, along with the lingering sulfuric stench of burnt gunpowder.

"Oh, my God," whispered Ben.

His breath now coming in gasping pants, the blood rushing in his ears, Harry heard a child's lighthearted trill of laughter.

He wrenched his gaze away from that bloody horror to see a young girl and boy coming up the path that wound along a small stream, the girl golden haired and rosy cheeked, the boy younger and even fairer. Her arms were filled with a cheerful rainbow of flowers-cornflowers and lilies, daisies and sunflowers, tansy and field poppies-that tumbled to the ground as she drew up, her eyes going wide.

For a long moment she stood rigid, her throat working soundlessly. Then she opened her mouth and Harry tensed, waiting for her scream.

But she simply stood there, her chest shuddering with her ragged breaths, her nostrils flaring and the color draining from her face.

Chapter 2

S
ir Henry Lovejoy, one of Bow Street Public Office's three stipendiary magistrates, stood at the base of the grassy hill, his hands tucked up under his armpits, his chin resting against his chest as he gazed at the scene before him. He was a slight, sparse man in his late fifties, barely five feet tall and quite bald. After fourteen years as a magistrate, he should have become inured to the sight of violent death. But these deaths . . .

God help him, these deaths.

Swallowing hard, he turned to the full-faced, corpulent squire who stood to one side, the wind ruffling his unruly head of thick ginger hair. "No one's touched anything?"

Squire Adams, the local magistrate, shook his head. When called to the scene by the park's keepers, he'd taken one look at the murdered woman and girl and sent word straightaway to Bow Street. "No, sir. Made sure of that, I did."

"And we're certain of the victims' identities?"

"Aye, no doubt about that. It's Lady McInnis, all right-wife of Sir Ivo himself. And Miss Emma, one of his daughters."

"How old is she?" Was she, thought Lovejoy, mentally correcting himself.

"Sixteen, according to her young cousins. The wife of one of the keepers has them at her cottage-the children, I mean. Seemed best to get them away from here."

"Quite right." Lovejoy felt his throat thicken as he stared down at the winsome young girl. Her dark hair was fashionably cropped to curl around her face, her features even, her nose small and almost childlike, her mouth wide. The shot that killed the girl had been fired so close to her chest that the cloth of her muslin gown was charred.

Lovejoy glanced over to where the two young gentlemen who'd found the bodies now sat in the grass, their forearms resting on bent knees, their heads bowed. The younger lad, Ben, had been sick several times. His older brother was thus far managing to keep down his wine, although he kept puffing up his cheeks and then blowing out his breath, hard.

"You say the brothers just happened upon this?"

"Well, they heard the shots and came to investigate."

"But saw no one?"

"Only Lady McInnis's young niece and nephew, who came along right afterward."

"Those poor children."

"Aye."

Drawing a deep breath, Lovejoy forced himself to look again at the bodies before him. The mother and her daughter hadn't died this way; they'd been posed-carefully, deliberately posed by their killer. Lovejoy had seen such a thing only once before, fourteen years ago.

Oh, Julia; Julia, Julia, he thought. How can it be? How can it possibly be?

His head jerked around at the sound of rapid hoofbeats. A gentleman's curricle was approaching at a spanking pace, drawn by a splendidly matched pair of fine chestnuts and driven by a rakish-looking man in a lightweight summer duster with shoulder capes and a stylish beaver hat set at a reckless angle. He drew up where the narrow lane began to curve away again and handed the reins to his young groom, or tiger, before hopping down to the road. He said something to the boy, then turned to walk toward them, his gait slightly marred by the leg wound from which he was still recovering.

A tall, lean man in his early thirties with dark hair, fine features, and the strangest feral-looking yellow eyes Lovejoy had ever seen, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, was the only surviving son and heir of the powerful Earl of Hendon. He'd returned to England some four or five years before, after serving as a cavalry officer in the wars. There'd been a time when his lordship had been accused of murder and Lovejoy assigned the task of bringing him to justice. But in the years since, the two men had forged a strong friendship, and as soon as Lovejoy heard the identities of today's victims, he had sent for Devlin. Murder investigations involving the aristocracy were always delicate. And this murder . . . Ah, this murder.

"Sir Henry," said Devlin, walking up to him. Then his gaze fell on the dead mother and girl and he said, "Christ."

"Did you know Lady McInnis?"

"Not well, although I have met her. She's a friend of Lady Devlin."

"Ah. I am sorry."

Devlin's brows drew together in a disturbed frown. "They were found like this?"

"They were, yes." Lovejoy cleared his throat. "You should know that two other women were killed here in the park fourteen years ago-a woman in her early forties and her young daughter, both shot in the chest and their bodies deliberately positioned exactly like this: feet to feet, hands brought together as if...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Berkley
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593639189
• ISBN 13: 9780593639184
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland