Epilogue
Neither Thompson nor Betts nor any within the crowd noted the man in the long dark coat and a pulled down floppy hat, who had studied the altercation from his perch upon the seat of a hackney.
Dressed as he was, he was part of the background scenery of a poorly played stage performance.
He had heard Betts shout “I know who killed her!” and he frowned deeply.
Though several people raised their hands in hope of transportation, he had told each that he was being paid to wait.
Now, he slowly trailed Betts as the fool made his way farther and farther from the park and the traffic common in this part of London.
Finally, he pulled ahead of Betts’s staggering figure and waited.
“Ye be needin’ a ride, me lord?” he called as Betts approached.
The fool was swaying on his feet as he took another swig from the flask he carried openly in his hand. “Demme thing… be empty,” Betts slurred.
“I kin supply ’nother,” the driver said. “And give you a ride for the right price.”
Betts fumbled in his pocket, obviously searching for his purse.
“Capital of you,” Betts declared as he awkwardly opened the carriage door and lifted himself into the interior without first setting down the steps.
The man in the box climbed down to close the door and hand Betts the other flask, though Betts was still on his knees and attempting to crawl upon the seat.
“You rest yerself, sir. Old Isaac will see you safe. Here be the other flask.” He shoved the flask between Betts’s fingers before he closed the coach’s door and climbed back into the box.
“Demme fool,” he growled before setting the horse into action.
He traveled through London’s streets, ignoring several more raised hands with a simple nod of his head.
Onward still to southwest of Charing Cross.
Eventually, he entered the area he sought, the area around Putney Heath, famous for its duels.
It would be easier to carry out his plan if it were the early morning hours, and he was taking the chance of someone seeing him, but he found a relatively secluded place to stop.
Wresting Betts’s body from the carriage was less problematic than he expected, for the fool had never made it onto the bench.
Instead, Betts had fallen back against the door and tumbled out of the coach when the unknown driver pulled it open.
“Be every Englishman a fool?” he grumbled as he tugged Betts farther off the road.
He claimed the flask he had provided Betts and emptied the contents into the earth.
“Witless!” he said to the open sky above him.
“Could not taste the poison. Drank it as if it was nothing foul. Now let us be finished with this one. Another example of piss ass manhood, thinking with his member rather than his head. Goodbye, young Mr. Betts. Your epithet will read, ‘Bumbling though you once were.’” With that, he took out his gun and placed a bullet through Betts’s heart. “People will swear he died in a duel.”
Before the sound of gunfire died upon the wind, the unknown man claimed his flask from where he had dropped it when retrieving his gun and pocketed both before climbing back into the box.
“I must find another means to bring Lord Macdonald Duncan to his knees. I foolishly thought he only tolerated the son named after his father because the man was a cripple. Thought they all only tolerated Aaran Graham, but my initial judgment failed me. Aaran Graham’s prayer over Duncan had more power than I first thought.
“I went after Lord Richard Orson, for he was Lady Elsbeth’s first choice of sons when she could not present Duncan with one of their own.
However, I erred. Then I chose Marksman because he was set upon marrying Lady Theodora.
Marksman’s death would have left both Duncan and Lady Elsbeth’s precious daughter with gaping holes in their hearts, just like the one I carry around with me.
Lord Beaufort became my choice because of his obvious affection for Lady Annalise.
Killing the girl after Marksman and Duncan finally rescued her would have been just revenge, and the attack on Thompson was for how his quick reaction saved both Marksman’s and, especially, Duncan’s life.
But all along it should have been Graham.
He is the paste that holds each of his brother’s happiness together.
No more sentimentality on my part. Aaran Graham it is. ”
~ Finis ~