The answer was unintelligible to me, though I was pleased I received any answer at all.
Grenville’s brows had shot skyward. “Say that again, my good man. Is that truly your name?”
The man nodded and repeated the words.
“Good Lord.” Grenville turned to me, stunned. “His name is Joseph Cockburn.”
“Cockburn?” I stared at the man. “A relation of Leonard Cockburn, who was killed in London?”
This time I understood his answer, hurled with fury. “He was my brother.”
“Ah.” Now I understood the reason for his rage, a frustration born of grief. “I am so sorry, my dear chap. But why have you decided to take revenge on Mr. Grenville and me? We know nothing about your brother.”
Cockburn hesitated, but it was clear he didn’t believe me.
“We might be much better served if we sat down,” Donata said. She’d handed her wet wraps to Bartholomew, who’d hurried in at our entrance, and now settled herself on the most comfortable chair in the room. “Do let him go, Mr. Brewster. Bartholomew, bring us all a pot of coffee. Something rich to cut the chill.”
Bartholomew, who always instantly obeyed Donata, hurried away.
Brewster was more uncertain. “I turn him loose, who knows what he’ll do?”
I did not trust him any more than did Brewster, but I wanted to hear the man’s story.
“If you give me your word you will sit and speak to us, Brewster will release you,” I said to Cockburn.
Cockburn hesitated. He glanced at Donata, who gave him a cool nod, a great lady promising him sanctuary.
“I give you my word,” Cockburn said. I was beginning to catch on to the cadences of his voice.
I gestured to Brewster, and he, with great reluctance, eased his grip. Cockburn untwisted his arm, rubbing it, both relief and anger on his face. Brewster would not let him stray a step, however, until he’d searched the man and relieved him of several more knives.
Cockburn wore breeches and boots rather than trousers, the better for tramping about. As Grenville had observed before, his coat didn’t fit him exactly, which spoke of secondhand gear, but the cloth was serviceable, whole, and sturdy. Not a wealthy gentleman, but not one in penury either.
Grenville, still the congenial host, waved Cockburn to a chair. Cockburn brushed off the back of his breeches before he sat. He did not plop into the chair or lower himself gingerly but took the seat as though comfortable chairs were usual for him.
Grenville waited until I’d also sat down, and Brewster had retreated to the doorway, where he planted himself like a pillar. Grenville pulled a delicate-legged chair around to face Cockburn and lounged on it, crossing his ankles. Any moment, his reclined pose said, he’d call for a brandy and box of snuff.
“Now then. Let us proceed in a civilized manner.” Grenville fixed Cockburn with a stern gaze. “We were very sorry to learn of your brother’s demise in so horrible a fashion. We also know that the world believes the dead man to be his partner, Mr. Broadhurst. You know differently, obviously. But why are you throwing yourself at the captain and myself? We had nothing to do with it.”
“I sawhim, didn’t I?” Cockburn shot an angry glance at me. “With the coward Broadhurst, thick as thieves.”
“You wrote the letters,” I said. “Threatening him.” The handwriting on the card had been the same as on the letter Broadhurst had given me.
Cockburn nodded without repentance.
“Mr. Broadhurst sought me out because he feared for his life,” I explained. “Your letters worried him, and he asked me to discover who was writing them. Before I had the chance to investigate, you began throwing knives at me and chasing me through ruins.”
Cockburn had proved his resilience though, evading Brewster and besting Grenville, who was an excellent fighter. Broadhurst was right to be worried.
“I assure you, I had nothing to do with your brother’s death,” I continued. “Broadhurst approached me because he knew of my reputation for handing criminals over to the Runners. That is all. Why do you believehekilled Mr. Cockburn? He found the man after the deed was done.”
“So he says.” The words were filled with wrath. “I know he killed my brother. Stole his name and escaped to Rome. Broadhurst knew he’d be held responsible for all the swindling. So he killed my brother and ran.”
It was plausible and something I had considered. Broadhurst had been fortunate that ruffians had murdered Cockburn at that very moment and to be the first to find the man was very convenient.
“He also beat my brother’s face with a brick to hide his identity,” Cockburn announced. The blood-marred brick was found beside him.”
All three of us gazed at him in horror. I thought of Broadhurst with his fleshy hands, his nervousness when he told me his story.
