Chapter 37
Thirty-seven
Rafe
Blessing the lady for taking notes, Rafe eased out of the crowded parlor, into the hall to investigate the new arrivals.
He met Damien Sutter, the town lawyer, in the doorway, accompanied by Rafe’s partner, Fletch Ferguson.
Between them, they held the arms of a rather battered, stout fellow with a rumpled mane similar to Greybourne’s, although more properly barbered.
Larger than the baron, the brute also sported a darkening bruise on his jaw and a patch on his cheekbone where Meera had bandaged him up.
Blood still stained his disheveled cravat.
Even nearly-drowned, the professor had packed a powerful punch, most likely driven by an equally powerful fury. A good reminder that scholarly lords weren’t necessarily innocent lambs.
“Stay out here until I ask Hunt what he wants done with him. The house is filled with scoundrels and they’re taking turns not talking.” Rafe nodded toward the parlor with disgust. “Captain ain’t much for questioning, and Greybourne looks ready to skin them all alive.”
At least the lady had traded her deadly walking stick for a pencil, thank all that was holy. Rafe knew women were dangerous, but the quiet lady he’d scarcely noticed earlier had briefly shown her claws. He’d do well not to underestimate her.
“Why don’t you hold Mr. Stewart Greybourne while I talk to Hunt?” Damien suggested. “I’m no barrister, but I’ve been in enough courtrooms to know there’s a proper order to these things.”
Rafe snorted. “Good luck with that. We’ve got a lady taking notes, a baron conducting the interrogation, and the magistrate into his second glass of brandy. And an Australian son of a convict as witness.”
“Jolly good fun,” Damien said with a whistle, leaving Stewart in Rafe’s hands.
“This is all a misunderstanding,” the bruised brute insisted. “My cousin has a temper. He’s the one who ought to be charged for assault. But I’ll forgive the charges and give you both ten guineas each, if you’ll just let this rest. I’ll go home, and you won’t hear another word from me.”
“Sutter asked him where he hid the gold since he hasn’t a farthing on him,” Fletch said with a smirk. “He doesn’t have an answer.”
“I can send them to you,” the prisoner insisted. “I have an estate and trust funds and all that. You could send someone with me. You won’t regret it.”
“Nah, it’s worth a few guineas to watch the professor take you apart,” Rafe decided. “We don’t get much entertainment in these parts.”
Before Stupid Stew could reply—Rafe now understood Grey’s sobriquet for his cousin—one of Hunt’s ex-soldiers arrived to take the prisoner in hand, freeing Rafe to return to the interrogation.
“May I read my notes to Mr. Russell to catch him up?” the lady asked when Rafe returned to the parlor.
Nice to have someone notice his presence, because the lot of them were back to shouting again.
The captain nodded agreement and wearily sipped his brandy. He’d start whacking heads with his deadly cane, if they didn’t bring the crowd under control.
Miss Leonard began reading from her notes.
“Mr. Richard Bradford says he did not see what happened to Mr. Comfrey, but there had only been one workman on the roof the morning he died. He does not have a timepiece and wasn’t certain what times the worker was up there.
He’d watched Mr. Percival traversing the alley, heading toward this house, but did not see him depart.
Mr. Bradford’s report was interrupted by Mr. Percival cursing him. ”
Rafe was fairly certain the lady’s notes had been cleansed of obscenities, improper grammar, and refined with clarifications that the Australian had never uttered. But a judge would appreciate it.
The journalist was still cursing and struggling against his bonds. The bearded Blackford simply kept to his silent corner.
As far as Rafe knew, Bradford could have killed Comfrey and was placing the blame on his cousin. He’d seen and heard too much evil to believe any tale without evidence—or confession. “But we have no idea who the workman on the roof was and we have proof of none of this?”
“Not the tiniest shred,” Hunt said wearily. “Just Mr. Percival’s loud objections and a non-leaking roof.”
“May I suggest a different approach?” the baron growled in a tone indicating he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Rafe gestured for him to continue, grabbed a handful of crackers and cheese before they were all gobbled, and settled himself against the wall halfway between Bradford and Percival, prepared to leap into any physical fray. Let the gentlemen handle the verbal.
Greybourne sipped his brandy, then announced, “Please note, Miss Leonard, that Cecil Greybourne, Baron Greybourne, states Mr. Eduard Percival attacked him with an oar, causing severe bruising.”
Miss Leonard looked up in alarm, but the baron patted her—knee?—and continued. Rafe bit his tongue and pretended not to notice the familiarity. The lady appeared briefly startled but continued scribbling industriously.
“The subject, after pummeling his victim with the oar, knocked him, in full dress, into a rapid current, with the intent of committing murder by drowning.”
“I was just climbing out of my boat.” Percival quit struggling to object. “I must have clipped him while I was reaching for my catch. He got violent and I had to defend myself.”
“That’s a lie,” Miss Leonard declared softly, as she wrote down her own testimony.
“I had followed Lord Greybourne and heard the altercation. I saw Mr. Percival deliberately hit the baron with an oar and knock him into the water. I screamed. Mr. Percival attempted to escape in his boat. Mr. Richard Bradford crashed out of the shrubbery and trounced him. At that point, men came running, but in the dark, no one could see his lordship in the river. Men I did not recognize jumped into the boat to search, but they rightfully assumed he went downstream and went the wrong direction. You might wish to ascertain their names.”
“I know who we stationed here. I’ll hear them out later. They’re holding the prisoners right now.” Impressed by the lady’s calm description, Rafe looked to Hunt for the next move.
“She just said it was dark,” Percival shouted. “She couldn’t see! I didn’t lay a hand on him!”
“I have a bruise on my back and ended up in the river,” Grey said dryly.
“Is there a mark on the suspect indicating that I got in a single blow if I inexplicably turned violent? Shall I recite all the many times I have been nearly killed while in the vicinity of Percival and his cohorts? I came here instead of London, hoping to avoid them. How did you know I was here, Percy?”
“Some magazine sent him.” Leaning against the doorjamb, Fletch kept one eye on the prisoners, the other on the proceedings. “I hear things at the gallery. He’s supposed to be writing an article on Arnaud’s art.”
Grey snorted but did not comment.
The captain impatiently tapped his boot with his cane. “Rafe, bring me witness statements from your guards in the morning. Now, will someone explain what possible motive a hack journalist has to kill a baron? He’s not related to you in any way, is he Greybourne?”
No, that was Stewart, Rafe thought, following the captain’s thoughts. The plot thickened.
Grey gestured at a stack of periodicals on the floor, where bookshelves ought to be.
“I have written articles exposing Percival’s various treacheries.
He’s accused me of depriving him of income with lies.
In my younger days, I may have humiliated him a time or two in front of his fellows by planting a facer and drawing claret.
If he had been a true gentleman, he’d have accepted my challenge, and I’d have shot the mongrel just to rid the world of a nuisance.
These days, I prefer peace, and keep to myself.
But I have no clear idea why he keeps it up. ”
Rafe kept a straight face but the plot thickened more. Greybourne had not always been the polite scholar. He’d simply learned to control his youthful fury and power, probably in a boxing salon, if what he’d seen was any example.
Hunt gestured at the prisoner. “Anything you wish to say for yourself?”
“You’ll use anything I say against me, so I’ll save it for a real courtroom and not this provincial excuse for one.” The scoundrel leaned against the wall, apparently tired of fighting—or recognizing the odds stacked against him.
“The magistrate sent my dad to the penal colonies just for defending himself.” Blackie Bradford finally condescended to intrude. “You attacked an aristocrat. You’ll hang,” he finished with a certain amount of satisfaction.
Percival’s bravado faded, and he didn’t reply.
“Mr. Bradford, you say besides Percival and Comfrey, Mort and Tiny are also your cousins?” Rafe inquired.
“Second cousins, so they say,” Blackie Bradford acknowledged. “Their dad was my dad’s cousin or some such.”
“Let’s find out why they were here tonight, when everyone knew Greybourne and his household would be gone,” Rafe suggested. He didn’t know what to expect of the artists, but the Bradford family seemed peculiarly prone to criminal activity.
“If it will get this over faster. . .” The captain gestured to no one in particular.
Fletch was first to respond. He vanished from the doorway and returned shortly with the burly artist who resembled the bearded Blackie.
Rafe took over the questioning. “Your name?”
Mort shook his shaggy head and burped, “Morton Blackford.”
Making certain the lady was still taking notes, Rafe continued, “We had men stationed in back here saw you and another come through the alley into Bradford House’s yard while the inhabitants were away. Why were you here?”
Mort looked to Percival, and finding no help there, shrugged. “Percy said he’d get me good reviews in a London periodical. He could make my fortune. I thought mayhap he had some way of persuading Lord Greybourne to say good things about me. It’s the rich what spread the word.”
“Your work is good, Mr. Bradford, I’d fully intended to have it noticed.” Looking even more tired than the captain, Greybourne leaned back against the sagging sofa, then sat up again to stare at the leather sofa back. “Someone upended this piece. I doubt your brother or Percy have the strength.”
Through his muddled drunkenness, Mort had the sense to look uneasy. “Percy said his uncle hid coins in there, but there weren’t nothing but that rusty old hook shoved up under it. It’s there on the hearth. I’m no thief.”
Rafe took a lantern to the cold hearth, where a rusted grappling hook lay among the ashes. Examining it a little closer, he asked cautiously, “Since Mr. Percival was at the river, did he say he’d be back to collect his coins after you found them?”
“He owed me. I was supposed to wait before I turned it over, but he was taking too long, and I figured he’d done a runner. We flipped it over but like I said, there warn’t nothing there, even after we tore into it. Me and Tiny got out when we heard the lady screaming.”
“Evidence, Mr. Russell?” the captain asked coldly, evidently impatient with testimony.
Rafe picked up the iron piece and carried it over to Hunt, laying it on the makeshift table and holding the lantern up to illuminate it.
“That’s blood, not rust,” both the captain and Greybourne said at once.
Exactly what Rafe had concluded.
Percy attempted to run. Fletch tripped him with his big boot and sent the journalist sprawling.