I had a few ideas on that score, however.
“Where are you staying in Rome?” I asked Mr. Cockburn.
“In rooms near the Colosseum.”
There were a number of boarding houses near the ruins of the grand amphitheatre. The area was a bit marshy, I’d been told, the air insalubrious. Cockburn wasn’t a pauper as I’d observed, but still it would have cost him a fair bit to pursue Broadhurst across the Continent and into Rome. He’d not have much to spend on luxurious accommodations.
“I will help you, Mr. Cockburn,” I said. “I did not like Mr. Broadhurst, and I too would not be surprised if he in fact killed your brother himself, or at least had a firm hand in his death. If he did, I assure you, I will make certain he pays.”
I spoke grimly, and Mr. Cockburn brightened. “You will beat him down?” He glanced at Brewster who stood like a sentinel near the door.
“I will deliver him to authorities in England,” I returned. “You must cease trying to exact revenge yourself.”
Mr. Cockburn shook his head. “What choice do I have? Everyone believes me a madman.”
“Write your story and your suspicions again, clearly and concisely. I will send your letter to another magistrate in London—he is at the Whitechapel House—whom I know will give it the attention it deserves. Even if the crime was committed in the City, he commands enough respect to have the matter investigated once again.”
Cockburn did not appear convinced, but he nodded. “I will try.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Brewster will escort you home—no more coming at me with knives if I am going to help you. Though the throw you did in Napoli was quite skilled.”
Cockburn reddened. “I thought you in league with my brother’s killer. You have my most profound apologies.”
“Hmm.” I remembered my fright as I hugged the wall, and the knowledge that I’d barely escaped with my life. “I will let you make it up to me somehow. Good day, Mr. Cockburn.”
Brewster, without returning Cockburn’s weapons, led the man from the room. I heard him growling at Cockburn as they left the house, the door slamming behind them. A cool draft scented with rain flowed into the reception room and then faded.
Donata rose, signaling for Matthias to leave the tray and asked him to fetch her a shawl. Matthias disappeared at once.
“Well,” Grenville said. “What do we make of all that?”
“That Mr. Cockburn is a desperate man,” Donata answered. “I confess I have sympathy for him, despite the fact that he very thoroughly attacked us. I hope he ceases his violent ways and allows Gabriel to deliver Mr. Broadhurst to London.”
I tried not to flinch at her conviction that such a thing would be simple.
I took up my walking stick as Matthias returned with a long ivory embroidered shawl that Donata accepted from him gratefully. I helped her drape it around her shoulders, longing to close my hands on the soft garment and draw her into my arms. But Grenville and Matthias hovered, and I had errands to run.
“I’m off to visit Mr. Denis,” I said as I stepped back from her.
Chapter18
Donata turned from me and drew the shawl closer. “Please do not bring him home with you,” she said crisply. “I have no wish to set eyes on the man.”
Her chill tones touched me, but my visit to Denis was of a practical nature. He had eyes and ears both here and in London that could be very useful.
“Take Bartholomew with you,” Grenville advised. “Since Mr. Brewster is engaged conveying Mr. Cockburn safely home. I will keep Donata company, if she will allow it.”
“Of course,” Donata said, her tone a trifle warmer. “Though in a more comfortable sitting room, I think. I want to hear your version of all these events.”
“Delighted to oblige.” Grenville extended his arm, and Donata took it.
I followed them out, asking Matthias to fetch his brother. Grenville and Donata ascended the stairs, the two much alike in their manner, background, and place in the world. As I watched them, I realized how outside their sphere I was, and wondered anew at my good fortune of finding the esteem of both.
I pressed these thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. Not long later, Bartholomew and I strode through a finely falling rain north toward the Palazzo Borghese, near the river. Brewster would not be happy that I did not wait for him, but he could catch us up.
“How are you faring, Bartholomew?” I asked as we went. “I haven’t given you much to do on this sojourn.”
Bartholomew regarded me in surprise. The tall, fair-haired young man trod evenly as though he never noticed the rain.
