two children on the night of March 17, 1806.
There was even a tearful description of a birthday party for the oldest child, a girl named Sarah, who turned eleven the very day of the tragedy. A cousin named Mary, apparently the same age as Sarah, had been visiting as well to join in the celebration. Little Mary and her two parents were also listed as victims of the fire. The entire family had perished in a few hours, leaving no survivors.
He read the article twice, looking for names of the servants who must also have perished. Unfortunately, they were deemed irrelevant in the initial tale of outraged horror.
There was a second article in a paper a few days later, however, that took gruesome delight in listing every known soul who perished. It listed twenty-three servants in the household, along with the cousins, Mr. and Mrs. John Archer, and their daughter, Mary. The Marquess of Longmoor, his wife Evelyn, and their two children, Sarah, age eleven, and Samuel, age nine, were again at the top of the list. After the immediate family, another visitor, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Duke of Rother, was also listed amongst the dead.
Interestingly, the author hinted that foul play was involved. Officials, those charmingly anonymous informers who seemed so fond of men who wrote for the broadsheets, apparently told the author that one or two slim wedges of wood had been found. They might—or might not—have been shoved between the doors and frames, effectively sealing them shut.
Or the slivers may have fallen from the wooden doors when hatchets were used to open them in futile attempts to assist those inside and to put out the blaze. In the confusion, it was difficult to determine the truth.
In any event, no one had escaped through the doors, even if they had been able to find them through the flames and smoke.
A vision of the star-shaped scar on Sanderson’s forehead hovered between the smudged print and William’s eyes. He read the article again, sympathy and anger tightening his stomach. Sanderson would have been…what? Nine, or ten at the most, given his youthful appearance now and slender build.
Who would have lit a fire, knowing children were present in the house?
William would gladly have lodged the end of his sword in whoever had done so. It sickened him just to consider the grotesque act.
If it had, indeed, been deliberately set.
Pushing away the thought, he concentrated on the sparse facts.
The son of the marquess was called Samuel. He had been nine at the time of the fire. Had he managed to escape and hide for thirteen years? Is that what Sanderson hadn’t told him last night? That he was really the Marquess of Longmoor, but was too afraid to step forward and claim his title?
“Were there any more?” William asked.
“Any more what?” the clerk replied.
“Articles, man. Any more articles?”
The clerk shrugged, laying his hand casually on the counter, palm upwards. William flipped a few more coins onto the counter, deliberately missing the goblin’s palm.
“Sorry, guv’. That’s it. Public lost interest, you might say, after that second piece.”
“Lost interest ? In what might possibly have been the murder of a marquess and his entire family? Don’t be absurd.”
The goblin shrugged his bony shoulders. “Be that as it may, there was no more written after that second article. ’Cept the obituaries. They're in the back of that second paper yer resting yer hand on, there, sir.”
William scanned the obituaries but found no more information. Impatient to see what the other newspapers reported, he left the Globe and visited the British Press . Their articles were just as hysterical, decrying the pitiful deaths of the three young children. That paper printed three articles. The last two speculated on the possibility that the fire had been deliberately set and doors jammed to prevent the inhabitants from escaping to safety.
The Observer had a correction a week after the event, indicating
There was even a tearful description of a birthday party for the oldest child, a girl named Sarah, who turned eleven the very day of the tragedy. A cousin named Mary, apparently the same age as Sarah, had been visiting as well to join in the celebration. Little Mary and her two parents were also listed as victims of the fire. The entire family had perished in a few hours, leaving no survivors.
He read the article twice, looking for names of the servants who must also have perished. Unfortunately, they were deemed irrelevant in the initial tale of outraged horror.
There was a second article in a paper a few days later, however, that took gruesome delight in listing every known soul who perished. It listed twenty-three servants in the household, along with the cousins, Mr. and Mrs. John Archer, and their daughter, Mary. The Marquess of Longmoor, his wife Evelyn, and their two children, Sarah, age eleven, and Samuel, age nine, were again at the top of the list. After the immediate family, another visitor, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Duke of Rother, was also listed amongst the dead.
Interestingly, the author hinted that foul play was involved. Officials, those charmingly anonymous informers who seemed so fond of men who wrote for the broadsheets, apparently told the author that one or two slim wedges of wood had been found. They might—or might not—have been shoved between the doors and frames, effectively sealing them shut.
Or the slivers may have fallen from the wooden doors when hatchets were used to open them in futile attempts to assist those inside and to put out the blaze. In the confusion, it was difficult to determine the truth.
In any event, no one had escaped through the doors, even if they had been able to find them through the flames and smoke.
A vision of the star-shaped scar on Sanderson’s forehead hovered between the smudged print and William’s eyes. He read the article again, sympathy and anger tightening his stomach. Sanderson would have been…what? Nine, or ten at the most, given his youthful appearance now and slender build.
Who would have lit a fire, knowing children were present in the house?
William would gladly have lodged the end of his sword in whoever had done so. It sickened him just to consider the grotesque act.
If it had, indeed, been deliberately set.
Pushing away the thought, he concentrated on the sparse facts.
The son of the marquess was called Samuel. He had been nine at the time of the fire. Had he managed to escape and hide for thirteen years? Is that what Sanderson hadn’t told him last night? That he was really the Marquess of Longmoor, but was too afraid to step forward and claim his title?
“Were there any more?” William asked.
“Any more what?” the clerk replied.
“Articles, man. Any more articles?”
The clerk shrugged, laying his hand casually on the counter, palm upwards. William flipped a few more coins onto the counter, deliberately missing the goblin’s palm.
“Sorry, guv’. That’s it. Public lost interest, you might say, after that second piece.”
“Lost interest ? In what might possibly have been the murder of a marquess and his entire family? Don’t be absurd.”
The goblin shrugged his bony shoulders. “Be that as it may, there was no more written after that second article. ’Cept the obituaries. They're in the back of that second paper yer resting yer hand on, there, sir.”
William scanned the obituaries but found no more information. Impatient to see what the other newspapers reported, he left the Globe and visited the British Press . Their articles were just as hysterical, decrying the pitiful deaths of the three young children. That paper printed three articles. The last two speculated on the possibility that the fire had been deliberately set and doors jammed to prevent the inhabitants from escaping to safety.
The Observer had a correction a week after the event, indicating
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