I ran my fingers over the fine silk of the shirt. There was no stain, however, it did appear that something sharp had snagged the silk fabric and left broken threads across the front.
Possibly from a sharp object?
Was it possible someone—perhaps the man who was seen with her son after the accident, had made that mark and had then left as a crowd gathered?
“What is it?” she asked.
“I know this may be very difficult to answer,” I replied. “Did Sir Walsingham mention any marks that might have been made?”
Lady Althea looked down at her clenched hands. “My husband saw Jack afterward. He spoke of marks on his chest, though there was no blood from a wound.”
“Did he describe what the marks looked like?”
“There were two marks, as I remember what he said at the time. Possibly made by a tree branch during the fall.”
Or made after the fall, I thought.
“Was anything found in your son’s possession? An envelope or note?”
She shook her head. “As I said, his father saw to everything.”
The expression on her face revealed a great deal. Grief that was still raw, but something else. Strength, that slipped past the sadness and grief.
“Why do you ask?”
Again, I chose my words with great care.
“It is possible your son’s death was not an accident and may, in fact, be related to the incident at Marlborough House.”
I watched her for any sign that what I had just shared with her might be overwhelming, as it would be for most anyone.
I laid my hand over hers once more. “I apologize for any pain our visit has caused. Thank you for meeting with us.”
She followed us to the door. “They were known as the Four Horsemen while at University,” she said.
I had not expected that she would know about that—the follies of young men—gambling, women for the night, a brotherhood sworn to secrecy.
“Yes, Lady Montgomery spoke of it,” she added.
“A dreadful title of their club that included Lord Salisbery and Sir Huntingdon.”
I thanked her again for meeting with us.
“You must let me know what you learn,” she said in parting.
I promised that I would. It was the least we could do.
“There was something about that young man’s riding costume,” Lily said as we returned across London. “I saw it on your face.”
“There were broken threads on the front of his shirt.” And the rest of it?
I thought how best to describe something I wasn’t even certain of.
“That mark could have been made by a branch from a nearby tree as the young man fell,” she replied.
“Perhaps.”
Seventeen
