“What is that?” Diana asked.
“A horse,” Owen answered her. “More than one horse.” The sounds of hooves clattering against pebbles grew closer, along with whinnied cries from steeds. Shouts came next and calls for halts, leading the duke to peer out of the front door.
“What is going on?” he cried. “Who are all of you?”
Diana stood to her feet, leaving Owen momentarily to walk forward and see just who had arrived. He watched her with expectation, waiting for her to turn back.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Jessie. Only, she is not alone.” She hurried back to his side, checking the handkerchief another time to see if he had indeed stopped bleeding, just as figures began to filter in through the door, forcing the duke to step further back into his house.
“That’s him, Constable,” Jessie said, standing amongst them as she pointed at the duke. “He is the Duke of Somerset.”
Chapter 28
“What is going on?” Gilbert asked, his voice so loud that everyone turned their heads towards him. Amongst the men, Diana could see constable’s clothes, but there was another leading the men who was dressed almost as smartly as Gilbert and Lord Haroldson. “I demand to know what you are doing in my house!”
“This is him?” the smartly dressed man asked Jessie again.
“It is,” she confirmed with a nod.
“Jessie, what have you done?” Gilbert asked her. The harshness of his tone made Jessie lift her chin higher. Diana felt admiration for her at that moment. She might have once been beholden to the man before her, but she had escaped that trap and was defying him at last.
“The magistrate here wishes to speak with you,” Jessie said, motioning to the man beside her.
“Your Grace.” The magistrate cleared his throat and stepped forward. “You are being charged with arson.”
“Arson? What on earth!?” Gilbert laughed, but it seemed like an attempt at humour. Diana knew him well enough to recognize there was desperation in his face, for the laughter died quickly, and his eyes flitted between the men before him.
Diana helped Owen to his feet, and they stepped forward together, the better to witness what was happening.
“You are to be investigated over the death of Mr Jarvis Parker too.”
“Who?” Gilbert asked. The denial made Jessie whimper and step back.
“He died thanks to his injuries sustained in the fire at Brokerwood,” the magistrate explained and nodded his head at one of the constables. “Arrest him.”
“This is madness. I will not stand for it.” Gilbert tore his arm out of the constable’s grasp as he stepped forward. “Jessie, what have you done!?”
“What have we all done, you mean?” she said with glee and gestured to Diana and Owen. “Your wife found a list of place names, each one had a fire, yet she found the list before a fire had even taken place; can you explain that?”
“Coincidence.”
“I’m told you owned all the properties too,” the magistrate said, folding his arms as he stepped towards the duke. “Well, you owned them, burned down the houses, ousted the tenants, and then sold them for more money. Is it not true?”
Gilbert said nothing. His stare had darkened in Diana’s and Owen’s direction. Diana clung tightly to Owen’s arm, feeling the strength of that stare pinning her to the spot.
“Some scam you had, Your Grace, I’ll give you that.”
“You cannot prove the fires were anything to do with me.” His words were fast as he flicked his head around and spoke to the magistrate again. “They were because of the tenants’ neglect; candles knocked over, that is all.”
“Yet we have witnesses who saw two men running from the scene at Brokerwood. Then there is this.” The magistrate gestured for Jessie to pass something over. She handed him the small bronze matchbox, engraved with the initials A and P. “This belongs to an associate of yours, Mr Alfred Potts. He was arrested earlier this evening.”
“Well, what my associate does, I cannot be held accountable for, surely.” Gilbert smiled as if he believed he had truly escaped a comeuppance for his actions, standing a little taller.
“Then there is this.” The magistrate held out his hand towards Jessie another time. She reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out a small handkerchief, passing it over to the magistrate. “Embroidered with your initials, Your Grace, and peppered with ash from the fire. Do you recognize it?” he asked.
Gilbert said nothing, though his spine had slumped a little. He had turned his glare on Jessie, who was refusing to be cowered by it, staring back with just as much strength.
