When Maidens Mourn by C. S. Harris Read Free Book Online Page A

homely face troubled as he waited for Sebastian to come up to him.
    “Just now, from Gibson.”
    Sir Henry blew out a long, painful breath. “I needn’t scruple to tell you this adds a very troubling dimension to the case. A very troubling dimension indeed.”
    “You’ve found no trace of them?”
    “Nothing. Nothing at all. Right now, we’re hoping the children witnessed the murder and ran away to hide in the woods in fright.The alternative is…Well, it’s not something I’m looking forward to dealing with.”
    They turned to walk along the terrace fronting onto the wharves below. The fierce midday sun glinted off the broad surface of the river beside them and the air filled with the rough shouts of bargemen working the river and the rattle of carts on the coal wharf.
    “We’ve had constables knocking on doors up and down the street,” said Sir Henry, “in the hopes someone might be able to tell us what time Miss Tennyson and the children left the house, or perhaps even with whom. Unfortunately, the heat has driven most of the residents into the country, and of those who remain, no one recalls having seen anything.”
    “Any chance the children could have been snatched for ransom?”
    “It’s a possibility, I suppose, although I must confess I find it unlikely. I’m told the children’s father is a simple, impoverished clergyman up in the wilds of Lincolnshire. And while the victim’s brother, Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson, is a moderately successful barrister, he is not excessively wealthy.” Sir Henry rubbed the bridge of his nose between one thumb and finger. “The elder boy, George, is just nine years old, while the younger, Alfred, is turning three. They were here with Miss Tennyson when the servants left yesterday morning, but as far as we’ve been able to tell, that’s the last time any of them were seen.” He hesitated, then added reluctantly, “Alive.”
    “And the servants never thought to raise the alarm when neither Miss Tennyson nor the children returned home last night?”
    “They thought it not their place to presume to know their mistress’s intentions.”
    “Yes, I can see that,” said Sebastian. “And now they’re so frightened of being blamed for the delay in launching a search that it’s difficult to get much of anything out of them?”
    “Exactly.” Lovejoy sighed. “Although they may prove more willing to open up to you than to Bow Street.” The warm breeze blowing off the water brought them the smell of brine andspawning fish and the freshness of the wide-open seas. His features pinched, Lovejoy paused to stare out across the barges and wherries filling the river. “I’m heading back up to Enfield now, to organize some men to drag the moat.”
    Sebastian said, “Any possibility the children could have been the killer’s intended targets and Miss Tennyson simply got in the way?”
    “Merciful heavens. Why would anyone want to kill two innocent children?” Lovejoy was silent a moment, his gaze still on the sun-spangled water, a bead of sweat rolling down one cheek. “But you’re right; it is obviously a possibility. Dear God, what is the world coming to?” He narrowed his eyes against the glare coming off the water and said it again. “What is the world coming to?”

    The Tennysons’ housekeeper was a small, plump woman named Mrs. O’Donnell. She had full cheeks and graying hair worn tucked neatly beneath a starched white cap, and she struck Sebastian as the type of woman who in happier times sported rosy cheeks and bustled about with brisk good cheer and a ready laugh. Now she sat crumpled beside the empty hearth in the servants’ hall, a damp handkerchief clutched forlornly in one fist, her eyes red and swollen with tears, her cheeks ashen.
    “If only the master had been home,” she kept saying over and over again. “None of this would have happened.”
    “How long has Mr. Tennyson been gone?” asked Sebastian, settling onto a hard wooden bench opposite