Chapter 8
The Thames was a sluggish grey ribbon beneath a sky veiled in clouds as Charles Whitaker ascended the stone steps of the Lambeth Constabulary.
The building loomed before him—stoic, soot-darkened, and smelling faintly of coal dust and ink.
Inside, he was met by a young officer who escorted him through a series of narrow hallways, until they reached a sparsely furnished room lined with filing cabinets and low-burning lamps.
Constable Edgar Clark stood waiting near a long wooden table. He was a man of middle age and solid build, with a face carved into permanent suspicion. He offered Charles a nod—not quite curt, but not warm either.
“Mr. Whitaker. I trust the walk was not too unpleasant?”
“I have survived worse,” Charles replied dryly, removing his gloves. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“You are here to review the material pertaining to Duke of Ravenshire’s case?”
“As agreed.” Charles stepped toward the table, where several objects and folders lay arranged. His eyes immediately fell upon a sleek, silver paper cutter—its handle ornate, its edge dulled slightly with time.
Clark gestured toward it. “Found during the second sweep of the garden. Buried near the hedgerow not far from the terrace. Not standard issue to the household staff, and traced to the Jameson estate.”
Charles frowned. “Curious. The victim was not stabbed.”
“No,” Clark agreed. “No incisions, no lacerations. Cause of death remains consistent with a fall—blunt force trauma. But the arms… they bore bruises. Someone gripped her. Hard.”
Charles picked up the letter opener delicately, examining its weight. “And His Grace?”
“Said it vanished from his father’s study on the day of the funeral,” Clark replied. “Claims he had not seen it since. Did not bother to report the loss.”
Charles arched a brow. “Careless of him. But not incriminating in itself.”
“Perhaps.” Clark’s tone was unreadable.
Charles set the object down and folded his arms. “So. Either my client is tragically clumsy—dropping incriminating items with wild abandon—or someone orchestrated this well in advance. A scheme months in the making. Betrayed from within his own house.”
It was a favorite tactic of Charles Whitaker’s—to speak his theories aloud with deliberate boldness and study how others flinched or stood firm beneath the weight of implication.
Clark did not flinch. But his silence hung heavy.
After a moment, the constable said quietly, “We both know something is off about this, Mr. Whitaker.”
Charles inclined his head. “We do.”
Clark exhaled and crossed the room to a drawer. He withdrew a worn envelope and pulled from it a small photograph. Sliding it across the table, he spoke with the faintest note of regret.
“This was found among Lady Sarah’s personal effects. She carried it with her.”
Charles picked it up and narrowed his gaze.
Damon—years younger, no more than twenty-five perhaps—stood beside Sarah Thompkins.
His arm was around her waist, and he pressed a kiss to her cheek.
Her smile was wide. Sincere. They looked, in that fleeting captured moment, like people who had let their guard down entirely.
“She kept this?” Charles murmured.
“Close,” Clark said. “A maid confirmed it never left her side. Most of the estate’s inner circle admits they had a thing. Quiet, but persistent. Off and on for years.”
Charles returned the photograph gently to the envelope.
“And you think he cared for her?”
“I do,” Clark replied. “For what little that is worth. In fact, the Duke specifically asked me to find the killer—days after his arrest. It did not feel performative.”
Charles nodded slowly, but his face remained reserved.
“Of course,” Clark added, “the pregnancy complicates things.”
“Yes,” Charles said. “It suggests passion. Secrets. A motive that writes itself.”
“And yet,” he continued, tone sharpening, “His Grace does not strike me as a man capable of brutality. Especially not toward a woman he once cherished.”
Clark’s eyes narrowed slightly. “But what you believe, Mr. Whitaker, is not what matters.”
“No,” Charles agreed. “Only what I can prove.”
There was silence for a beat. Then Clark stepped back toward the table and shut the folder.
“That is the full extent of what we have recovered. Unless something new comes to light, there is nothing else.”
Charles adjusted his coat, preparing to leave. But paused with one final query.
“And the guards? You questioned each one who was present that night?”
Clark nodded. “Of course. Each confirmed what we expected. Nothing suspicious, no clear motive. They claimed all was as it seemed.”
"Hmm." Charles studied the folder a moment longer. "I read through the testimonies on my way here. If I recall correctly, every one of them concerned what the guards witnessed that night. Where they stood. What they saw. What they heard."
"Naturally," Clark said. "They were there all night. It seemed the obvious place to start."
"Did you ever ask a different question?" Charles met his eyes directly. "Not what they saw — but whether one of them might have been more than a witness. Whether one of them might have been complicit."
Clark's eyes widened slightly. "Not really, no. I—" He paused, then exhaled. "Truthfully, there was pressure from every direction. A case of this profile needed careful handling, time, room to breathe. We did not have that luxury. It was a misstep on our part. I see that now."
"I rather think it was," Charles said, not unkindly.
"I will call them in for further questioning. Properly, this time."
"Please do not."
Clark frowned. "You are asking me to ignore your own findings?"
"I am asking you to hold," Charles said. "I have no evidence implicating any of them yet. If you summon them now, on no more than a hunch, whoever is responsible will know precisely why we are looking, and we will lose whatever advantage surprise affords us."
"So you ask me to not do my job."
"For a little while," Charles said. "Act as though the case is closed. Make no inquiries. Raise no questions. I will inform you the moment anything new comes to light — and when I do, I expect you to act on it without hesitation."
Clark was quiet for a long moment, studying him.
"I will not get involved," he said finally. "Not for now. But if anything happens—"
"I understand," Charles said, before he could finish. "And I am grateful for your cooperation, Constable."
Clark held his gaze a beat longer. "I do this out of respect for you, Mr. Whitaker. And, truthfully, for His Grace as well."
“Well then, that will be all. Thank you for your time, Constable.”
“Good day, Mr. Whitaker.”
As Charles stepped back into the hot wind of the afternoon, his expression was unreadable—but his mind moved swiftly, ticking through inconsistencies like pieces on a chessboard.
A missing guard. A buried weapon. Bruises on a woman who trusted someone deeply enough to keep a photograph of him near her heart.
Someone was lying.
And Charles Whitaker had every intention of uncovering who.
◆◆◆
The scent of ink and ash still clung to Charles Whitaker’s coat as he stepped through the door of the safe house, shaking off the heat from outside. The candles burned low, casting warm amber light across the parlor.
He found Damon reclining in an armchair, a thick leather-bound book open in his lap. The title gleamed faintly in the firelight: Culinary Compositions of the Modern Gentleman.
“Expanding your talents, Your Grace?” Charles asked, setting his cane by the door.
Damon glanced up with a crooked grin. “I have burnt enough of Elizabeth’s meals to finally feel shame.” He held up the book. “Figured I ought to learn something before I light the kitchen on fire again.”
Elizabeth, seated at the writing desk, did not look up from her papers. “You have made progress. You did not smoke out the house last time.”
“I take that as a triumph,” Damon replied lightly, then returned to his reading.
Charles removed his gloves slowly and moved toward the center of the room. “I visited Constable Clark this morning.”
That made Elizabeth look up at once. “And?”
“I reviewed the evidence myself. Most of it we already know—or suspected. But a few pieces stood out.” He paused, glancing between them. “One in particular: a photograph. Damon, you and Lady Sarah—years ago. She carried it with her.”
Damon froze mid-turn of the page. His eyes remained fixed on the paper for a breath too long before he slowly closed the book and set it aside.
“I remember that day,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of bravado.
“It was summer. We had argued the week before, but made peace again in the garden. She always forgave me too easily.” He inhaled deeply, as if steeling himself against something unseen.
“She asked someone to take that photo on a whim. I laughed. I kissed her cheek. We both hated posing for such things.”
His gaze unfocused.
“It was a happy day.”
Silence fell.
Without another word, Damon rose and walked toward his room. The door clicked gently shut behind him.
Elizabeth watched after him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her expression. She folded her hands tightly in her lap.
“It is clear,” she said at last, “that even hearing her name wounds him. It is like the grief runs deeper than he admits.”
Charles poured himself a small glass of water and sank into the armchair Damon had vacated. “Or he feels guilty.”
Her eyes snapped to his, wide with disbelief. “You think he…?”
Charles held her gaze, calm but unwavering. “I think he is not telling us everything. And you must not rule out the possibility—even if it wounds you to consider it.”
Elizabeth’s voice dropped, brittle with tension. “My instinct warned me that he is innocent the moment I heard about this case. And my conviction is to prove that.”
Charles arched a brow, unconvinced but gentle. “Even convictions, Lizzie, can blur when they come with feelings. Do not let them blind you to truth.”
She turned away slightly, swallowing hard. “I trust my instincts.”