“Tied her up and then just trundled her into a hole?” Greybourne asked in a low voice that rolled like thunder.
Rafe thought he must have kept his students awake with that voice.
“Weren’t deep. I needed to get Mort’s paintings to the river. And I woulda got them clear away if you hadn’t a’stole my oars!” The prisoner actually managed to look indignant.
Miss Leonard placed her hand on Greybourne’s arm, and Rafe stepped in between him and Tiny. “I’ll take him back to his cell now, if you don’t mind. Who do you want next?”
“Percival, but let us take a break, first,” Hunt said before Greybourne could launch from his chair and twist the weasel’s head off his shoulders.
Forty-three
Grey
“What will become of Tiny?” Ellie murmured as Grey led her down the main corridor toward the buffet in the dining room.
“If I can’t strangle him. . .” Grey choked back his futile anger. “What becomes of a man brought up with no moral compass, given to following orders without question, like a sheep?”
“That’s sadly dangerous, especially when he has such useful talents.”
As they perused the buffet the Priory cook had laid out to keep the ravening hordes from plundering her kitchen, Grey’s clever companion sounded more sympathetic than angry.
“Perhaps he’ll learn to use his talents in prison.” Still envisioning Ellie helpless and lying in a pool of blood in a dirt cellar, Grey lacked sympathy. “We cannot prove he broke the curricle wheel, but we can prove that he assaulted us and covered up a crime. His rationale does not matter. Mort will have to learn to paint from the ground.”
“Percival did not admit to hiring Tiny to break the axle?” She filled their teacups and took a seat at the table when Grey pulled out a chair.
“That was not among the accusations flying yesterday,” he admitted, providing her with a plate of delicacies. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather question Percival without you present. This could become personal, and you don’t need to hear his language.”
She turned those wide topaz eyes up to him, and Grey’s knees weakened—but not his spine. He knew his duty. She had a mind of her own, but so did he. And he’d had his a lot longer.
She did not argue, thank all that was holy.
“While you are occupied, I shall find Mrs. Huntley and confer over the copying she wishes me to do. Perhaps after this is all over, you and I can discuss my work hours. I ought to be allowed some time off occasionally. I might help her on my own time.” She turned away and picked at a pastry.
She might as well have hit him over the head with her walking stick.
This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? An employee he could leave behind when he inevitably departed. Perhaps he’d try staying until the lease was up. The book still needed to be finished, although there would be an extra chapter to write.
He just. . . had no idea what he was doing. Leaving her safely surrounded by servants, Grey carried his plate of bread, relish, and meat back to Hunt’s grandiose, bookless, new study and pondered the ceiling until the captain returned with his own repast. Shortly after, the ginger-haired bailiff arrived with a disheveled, protesting Percival. Walker arrived last, with fresh ink and paper, dressed more like a gentleman than the captain.
“Eduard Percival, we are charging you with the manslaughter of George Comfrey and murderous assault on Cecil, Lord Greybourne. This is not a court of law, only a criminal proceeding to gather facts and evidence. We already have sufficient evidence to commend you to assizes.” Hunt looked bored as he recited the charges.
Swearing, Percival struggled against his bonds. Rafe shoved him into a chair and buckled his wrists to it.
Grey didn’t rejoice in seeing his nemesis finally called to account. His purpose here was to put an end to years of depredations. He’d discussed it with Hunt, and they were in agreement, for as much as they knew.
“I didn’t touch Comfrey!” Percy cried. “You can’t do this!” He glared at Grey. “It’s you, you’re doing this, aren’t you?”
Hunt sighed. “Greybourne has done no more than report being shoved into the river at your hands. Do you deny this?”
Percy wiggled against his bonds and grumbled. “He was attacking me. I fought back. It’s self-defense.”
“This may not be a court of law, but lying to a magistrate is a crime. We have witnesses who say otherwise, so I suggest speaking the truth for a change. What possible motive could you have for trying to kill men who have never done you harm? Do you have anything to say in your defense?” Hunt bit into his sandwich and waited.
Percival apparently had difficulty with truth, Grey observed, watching the Grub-Street hack struggle. His articles had always embroidered facts, making them more explosive and exciting than reality. Exclamation points were so distracting.
“It seems your prisoner communicates better with the written word, when he does not have to see the people to whom he’s lying.” Grey nibbled on a sweet roll. “Is that how you met Stew?”
Percy turned his glare on him. “We met in school. We met again in London after he praised my articles.”
