Blessing the lady for taking notes, Rafe eased out of the crowded parlor, into the hall to investigate the new arrivals. He met Damien Sutter, the town lawyer, in the doorway, accompanied by Rafe’s partner, Fletch Ferguson. Between them, they held the arms of a rather battered, stout fellow with a rumpled mane similar to Greybourne’s, although more properly barbered. Larger than the baron, the brute also sported a darkening bruise on his jaw and a patch on his cheekbone where Meera had bandaged him up. Blood still stained his disheveled cravat.
Even nearly-drowned, the professor had packed a powerful punch, most likely driven by an equally powerful fury. A good reminder that scholarly lords weren’t necessarily innocent lambs.
“Stay out here until I ask Hunt what he wants done with him. The house is filled with scoundrels and they’re taking turns not talking.” Rafe nodded toward the parlor with disgust. “Captain ain’t much for questioning, and Greybourne looks ready to skin them all alive.”
At least the lady had traded her deadly walking stick for a pencil, thank all that was holy. Rafe knew women were dangerous, but the quiet lady he’d scarcely noticed earlier had briefly shown her claws. He’d do well not to underestimate her.
“Why don’t you hold Mr. Stewart Greybourne while I talk to Hunt?” Damien suggested. “I’m no barrister, but I’ve been in enough courtrooms to know there’s a proper order to these things.”
Rafe snorted. “Good luck with that. We’ve got a lady taking notes, a baron conducting the interrogation, and the magistrate into his second glass of brandy. And an Australian son of a convict as witness.”
“Jolly good fun,” Damien said with a whistle, leaving Stewart in Rafe’s hands.
“This is all a misunderstanding,” the bruised brute insisted. “My cousin has a temper. He’s the one who ought to be charged for assault. But I’ll forgive the charges and give you both ten guineas each, if you’ll just let this rest. I’ll go home, and you won’t hear another word from me.”
“Sutter asked him where he hid the gold since he hasn’t a farthing on him,” Fletch said with a smirk. “He doesn’t have an answer.”
“I can send them to you,” the prisoner insisted. “I have an estate and trust funds and all that. You could send someone with me. You won’t regret it.”
“Nah, it’s worth a few guineas to watch the professor take you apart,” Rafe decided. “We don’t get much entertainment in these parts.”
Before Stupid Stew could reply—Rafe now understood Grey’s sobriquet for his cousin—one of Hunt’s ex-soldiers arrived to take the prisoner in hand, freeing Rafe to return to the interrogation.
“May I read my notes to Mr. Russell to catch him up?” the lady asked when Rafe returned to the parlor.
Nice to have someone notice his presence, because the lot of them were back to shouting again.
The captain nodded agreement and wearily sipped his brandy. He’d start whacking heads with his deadly cane, if they didn’t bring the crowd under control.
Miss Leonard began reading from her notes. “Mr. Richard Bradford says he did not see what happened to Mr. Comfrey, but there had only been one workman on the roof the morning he died. He does not have a timepiece and wasn’t certain what times the worker was up there. He’d watched Mr. Percival traversing the alley, heading toward this house, but did not see him depart. Mr. Bradford’s report was interrupted by Mr. Percival cursing him.”
Rafe was fairly certain the lady’s notes had been cleansed of obscenities, improper grammar, and refined with clarifications that the Australian had never uttered. But a judge would appreciate it.
The journalist was still cursing and struggling against his bonds. The bearded Blackford simply kept to his silent corner.
As far as Rafe knew, Bradford could have killed Comfrey and was placing the blame on his cousin. He’d seen and heard too much evil to believe any tale without evidence—or confession. “But we have no idea who the workman on the roof was and we have proof of none of this?”
“Not the tiniest shred,” Hunt said wearily. “Just Mr. Percival’s loud objections and a non-leaking roof.”
“May I suggest a different approach?” the baron growled in a tone indicating he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Rafe gestured for him to continue, grabbed a handful of crackers and cheese before they were all gobbled, and settled himself against the wall halfway between Bradford and Percival, prepared to leap into any physical fray. Let the gentlemen handle the verbal.
Greybourne sipped his brandy, then announced, “Please note, Miss Leonard, that Cecil Greybourne, Baron Greybourne, states Mr. Eduard Percival attacked him with an oar, causing severe bruising.”
Miss Leonard looked up in alarm, but the baron patted her—knee?—and continued. Rafe bit his tongue and pretended not to notice the familiarity. The lady appeared briefly startled but continued scribbling industriously.
“The subject, after pummeling his victim with the oar, knocked him, in full dress, into a rapid current, with the intent of committing murder by drowning.”
“I was just climbing out of my boat.” Percival quit struggling to object. “I must have clipped him while I was reaching for my catch. He got violent and I had to defend myself.”
“That’s a lie,” Miss Leonard declared softly, as she wrote down her own testimony. “I had followed Lord Greybourne and heard the altercation. I saw Mr. Percival deliberately hit the baron with an oar and knock him into the water. I screamed. Mr. Percival attempted to escape in his boat. Mr. Richard Bradford crashed out of the shrubbery and trounced him. At that point, men came running, but in the dark, no one could see his lordship in the river. Men I did not recognize jumped into the boat to search, but they rightfully assumed he went downstream and went the wrong direction. You might wish to ascertain their names.”
“I know who we stationed here. I’ll hear them out later. They’re holding the prisoners right now.” Impressed by the lady’s calm description, Rafe looked to Hunt for the next move.
“She just said it was dark,” Percival shouted. “She couldn’t see! I didn’t lay a hand on him!”
“I have a bruise on my back and ended up in the river,” Grey said dryly. “Is there a mark on the suspect indicating that I got in a single blow if I inexplicably turned violent? Shall I recite all the many times I have been nearly killed while in the vicinity of Percival and his cohorts? I came here instead of London, hoping to avoid them. How did you know I was here, Percy?”
