“If you say so.”
“It is all I am prepared to say. Can we not leave it at that?”
“Very well. For now. Can you think of anything else that might have a bearing on Mr. Oliver’s death?”
She slowly shook her head. “I think you have extracted quite enough information from me for one day, young man.” She rose. “If you will excuse me, I am tired. Feel free to arrest me or let me go and have my nap.”
Frederick stood. “By all means, my lady. Rest. I did not intend to wear you out.”
She dipped her head as majestically as any royal and turned to go. And in truth, she did seem a little unsteady on her feet.
———
After asking Brixton to meet him back there in an hour, Frederick took a respite to stretch and have an early dinner in the coffee room. He’d been up since dawn and had eaten nothing all day.
First, he walked out through the garden to clear his mind. Evening was approaching, but the air was still mild and the breeze refreshing.
Seeing Miss Lane sitting on a bench near the fountain, eyes downcast, he hesitated. So many questions and emotions had run through him in recent hours, and he was uncertain how to proceed, especially where she was concerned.
Walking closer, he asked, “Daydreaming, Miss Lane?”
She looked up with a start. “Just thinking.”
He sat beside her, heedless of keeping a proper distance, dispirited when she averted her gaze.
“Look at me,” he said, his tone more commanding than he’d intended.
She obeyed, blinking up at him, her expression fearful.
He gentled his voice. “I believe that, at heart, you are a good and honest person, and you must have an important reason for withholding the truth.”
Miss Lane lowered her head but not before he saw her face mottle red and white in mortification.
Regret stabbed him. “I have no wish to shame you. I want to help. To do that, I need to know the truth. I will wait a little longer for you to confide in me, but I can’t wait forever.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He leaned closer and said, “And I hope you know you can trust me, with whatever it is.” He pressed her hand and rose to take his leave. “Good evening, Miss Lane.”
After a simple meal, Frederick asked Mr. Brixton to join him in questioning Isaac King. If he were truthful with himself, Frederick felt a bit uneasy about interviewing this particular guest. His reputation had preceded him.
“Mr. King. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.”
The impeccably dressed older man raised his palms in a magnanimous gesture. The jeweled ring on his little finger sparkled. “I don’t mind. I would say I have nothing to hide, but at my age that is not entirely true.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “However, I can honestly say I have nothing to hide in this particular matter.”
“Good. Now, during the inquest, Mr. George—who was employed by Ambrose Oliver in a ... protective role—testified that his employer owed money to...” Frederick consulted his notes and quoted, “‘impatient, dangerous people.’ The coroner asked if he was suggesting a moneylender or bookmaker might have killed him, and George replied, ‘It’s possible.’”
Mr. King shook his head, expression as placid as his tone. “Are you accusing me? Nonsense. If a man does not repay what he owes, I take the collateral he pledged when I made the loan—not his life. Why do you think I demand security? I am no fool.”
“Clearly not. And Ambrose Oliver? What security did he offer?”
The dark eyes glinted. “What could he offer? The man owned almost nothing. The profits of his next book, of course.”
Frederick said, “Not exactly as guaranteed as, say, an indebted lord’s property or family jewels.”
“True. Perhaps I took an unwise risk in Mr. Oliver.”
“So you came here to ... remind him ... of his debts?”
