Though each of his friends appeared calm, wee discrepancies leapt out—Rafe’s rigid spine, Alex’s folded arms. Andrew kept shifting his weight. Ewan paced in a circle.
Mr. Patterson removed his spectacles, cleaning them with a handkerchief, oblivious or perhaps uncaring of the tension in the room.
“Your missing memory poses a significant problem to this inquiry, Miss Fyffe,” the man said. “As a procurator fiscal, it is my job to determine the cause of any suspicious deaths.The Minerva, though a private merchant vessel, was sailed from Scottish waters and, therefore, is under the jurisdiction of the maritime courts in Aberdeen. One hundred and twenty-seven men lost their lives at her sinking. That is not an insignificant number, as I am sure you can all appreciate.” He perched his glasses back on his nose and peered over the lenses at Jamie. “The untimely deaths of so many are of deep concern to the Judge Admiral. I have already questioned all other known survivors of the voyage—most of whom are in this room. I was hoping that you, Miss Fyffe, could provide more clarity on the issue. But as is, I fear I shall have to draw conclusions and make recommendations to the Judge Admiral based on the information Idohave at my disposal.”
Mr. Patterson reached into his brief bag and removed a clutch of papers. He shuffled through them, placing several on the table before him and returning the rest to the bag. He pushed his glasses up his nose yet again.
The man struck Kieran as less of a firebrand and more of an unyielding bureaucrat. The sort who would not mount a campaign of vengeance but who would inexorably work his way toward the conclusion that facts and evidence supported.
A man who would never permit the spirit or intent of an action to supersede the letter of legality.
For men like Mr. Patterson, the law was the law.
“I interviewed Captain Cuthie and Mr. Massey and received their version of events before they departed for the Caribbean. That was nearly three years ago.” Mr. Patterson tapped the papers before him, studying them. “Since that time, as no new information had come to light, the Judge Admiral had allowed the matter to lapse. However, that was before any of us knew that you—Miss Fyffe—had survived.” Again, he peered at her over his spectacles. “Naturally, your survival changes matters.”
“How so?” Andrew leaned forward from his seat on the sofa, eyes narrowed. “She cannot remember—”
“So she says.” Mr. Patterson raised an eyebrow and gave Jamie a rather pointed look.
Ire, hot and potent, rose in Kieran’s chest.
Was this man calling Jamie a liar?
Kieran opened his mouth, but a sharp glance from Andrew had him shutting it again.
“Please explain yourself, Mr. Patterson,” Rafe said, adopting his loftiest I-am-the-son-of-a-duke expression.
“As I was saying, Captain Cuthie and Mr. Massey separately provided me with an account of the sinking ofThe Minerva. Their versions of those events closely align, which is what the Admiralty looks for when prosecuting a case—corroborated evidence. Despite circumstantial reports of the ship having wrecked on a reef, both the captain and his first mate insist that a deliberately-caused explosion sunk the ship.” Mr. Patterson clasped his hands atop the papers on the table and fixed his gaze on Jamie. “Miss Fyffe, I will not go into details of their recitation, as I still wish to hear your version of events, free and clear of other influences. However, I will say that both Cuthie and Massey named yourself, Miss Eilidh Fyffe, as the party responsible for the explosion.”
A rather dreadful silence followed Mr. Patterson’s words.
Jamie’s jaw, quite literally, dropped. Her mouth hung open in a blankness that mimicked the shocked horror of Kieran’s own brain.
“Myself?” she whispered. She shook her head, brows drawing down in bewildered horror. “I am but a woman, Mr. Patterson. I cannot countenance it. That I, no matter the state of my lacking memory . . . that I would . . . that I woulddestroya ship . . . to knowingly cause the deaths of so many innocent men . . .” She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
Kieran lurched to his feet, as if Cuthie himself were present and he could bury a fist in the liar’s face.
Alex shot him an alarmed look.Get a hold of yourself.
“That is what Cuthie and Massey have asserted, Miss Fyffe,” Mr. Patterson said, uncaring of Kieran’s reaction. “They were most clear in laying the blame at your feet.”
“But . . . ,” Jamie frowned, “can I be held responsible for something I don’t remember?”
“Yes. A self-proclaimed inability to recall committing a crime does not exonerate one from consequences. Otherwise, every thief and murderer in the kingdom would claim to have no memory of their offenses. If witnesses present corroborated, sworn evidence against yourself, then yes, you can and will be brought to justice, Miss Fyffe.”
The words landed like a fist to Kieran’s stomach.
If she were found guilty of killing so many people . . .
Jamie would swing for it.
She obviously understood the same, as her hand wandered up to her neck.
“I wouldhangfor such an offense,” she whispered.
Mr. Patterson said nothing, the silence speaking for him.
It was too much. Too much to bear. Too much to accept.
