“Dewberry.” Northwoods swallowed hard. “He was poisoned.”
Added to the others that they were already aware of, that made for six, possibly seven murders. A duke, a marquess, an earl…
For money, position, and revenge.
The revelations hung heavy, and the air turned even thicker with the weight of it. Malum’s gut twisted.
“Anything else we should know?” he asked coldly.
Northwoods paused, then shook his head. “No, Your Grace. That’s everything I know.” He was damn near squirming in his saddle. “You’ll return them to me, then? My vowels?”
Standish, Beckworth, and Westcott sat silent, their expressions mirroring Malum’s thoughts—a mix of anger and suspicion.
“After you’ve put all of this in writing. And it’s been verified,” Malum said finally, his voice a quiet threat. “But understand this, Northwoods. If you’re lying?—”
“I’m not,” Northwoods blurted out, his composure crumbling. “I swear it.”
“If you are, you’ll regret it,” Malum replied, his tone lethal.
"I’m risking everything by telling you this!” Their witness bristled, his hands twitching at his sides, and for an instant, the scent of kerosene seemed to blend with that hint of smoke in the air. But Northwoods was imploring him now. “Do you think Crossings won’t find out? That he won’t retaliate? I… I just want to make things right."
Malum’s gaze bore into him, unrelenting. "And yet, you were quite content to follow his orders until now.”
Northwoods dropped his gaze. "I… I realized I couldn’t live with myself. I… I’m willing to testify. Whatever it takes."
Malum narrowed his gaze. "You’ll testify, all right. But not because you’ve had a change of heart. You’ll do it because you have no other choice.”
After a beat of silence, when Northwoods didn’t dare argue, Malum turned his head sharply at the sound of another horse approaching.
Helton pulled his mount to an easy stop, eyes sweeping over the assembled group. Although he’d obviously raced to meet them, the earl managed to maintain an air of unbothered composure. His cravat was slightly askew, his jacket hastily thrown on, but behind his spectacles, his eyes were sharp.
His brows lifted slightly as he took in Beckworth—unexpectedly present, since his home was miles away on the coast—and Northwoods, whose jittery presence spoke volumes. But any questions Helton had were set aside as his focus settled on Malum.
“Crossings’ townhouse,” he said. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?” Standish echoed. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Burned to the ground,” Helton replied bluntly. “Happened early this morning. The fire crews couldn’t save it. Nothing left but ash and rubble.”
A shocked silence fell over the group, and in the beat that followed, every single one of them shifted their stares to the same direction, to where a towering structure had stood for over a century on Park Lane, to the south and west of Hyde Park. A dark grey cloud hovered in its place, stretching upwards into the London sky.
Smoke. Malum had been smelling it all morning, but he’d assumed it was from his own clothes, from the fire at theDomus.
He flexed a hand, his mind racing. The timing was too suspicious for it to be an accident. And yet, it didn’t make sense.
The faint tang of smoke was stirring a bitter undercurrent. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, having been momentarily forgotten even, Northwoods did the last thing Malum would have expected.
He laughed.
“The old man must have realized he’s finished,” Northwoods said, smirking.
“You’re suggesting Crossings burned it down himself?” Helton demanded.
Northwoods shrugged, bitter amusement twisting into something darker. “He’s lost everything, hasn’t he? His family, his money. And now, he must know he’s about to lose his position. Isn’t it obvious? That devil took the coward’s way out.”
The irony in that statement had multiple pairs of eyebrows lifting, but then the insinuation itself registered, giving Malum pause.
Crossings’ opinion of himself was too inflated for him to ever consider taking his own life. He believed himself above the law, beyond justice.
