Hartley removed his hat, turning it over in his hands. His usually composed demeanor was shaken and he didn’t even have his pipe in his mouth.
“I’m afraid I have unfortunate news, Your Graces. Thomas Pritchard is…”
“Is what?” Morgan barked.
“Dead.”
The word hung in the air like a ghost, swirling around them like thick smoke.
“Dead?” Eliza whispered. “How?”
“Officially? He fell from his boarding house window. Landed in the alley behind the building. Broke his neck.” Hartley’s jaw tightened. “The magistrate ruled it an accident, said he was drunk, and leaned out too far.”
“But you don’t believe that,” Morgan said.
“No, Your Grace, I don’t. Not for a minute.” Hartley pulled out his notebook, though he didn’t open it. He just took out his pipe and tapped it against it. “I’d spoken with Pritchard just two days prior. He was nervous, yes, but he was considering our offer. Said he needed time to think. He wasn’t drinking that night either. Landlady confirmed it. And the window in question? It’s barely large enough for a man of Pritchard’s size to fit through, let alone fall out of accidentally.”
“Whitfield killed him,” Eliza said quietly. “He found out we were getting close, and he killed the only witness who could testify against him.”
“I believe so, Your Grace. Though proving it is another matter entirely.” Hartley finally met their eyes. “I’m sorry. I know how much was riding on this lead. I did my best.”
Eliza stood abruptly, moving to the window and pulling a shawl tight around her shoulders. Morgan could see her shoulders shaking, though she made no sound.
“What about other leads?” Morgan asked, though he already suspected the answer. “Surely there must be someone else you can find?—”
“I’ve interviewed every former servant I could track down, Your Grace. Most have nothing useful to say, and those who might know something are too terrified to talk. After what happened to Pritchard…” Hartley shook his head as he finally lit up his pipe. “Word travels fast in the servants’ quarters. Everyone knows what happens to people who cross Lord Whitfield.”
“So that’s it then?” Eliza turned from the window, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears that shone in midday light. “We just… give up? Let him get away with murdering three innocent women? Let Abigail’s death mean nothing?”
“Your Grace?—”
“No!” Eliza’s voice cracked. “He killed my best friend. He tried to force me into marriage, and when I escaped, he threatened me at a social event. And now he’s killed a man who was going to testify against him, and we’re just supposed to accept that there’s nothing we can do? What will he do next?!”
“Eliza,” Morgan said gently, moving toward her.
She held up a hand, stopping him. Tears were streaming down her face now.
“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t Mr. Hartley’s fault. I just…” She pressed her hands to her face, shoulders heaving with silent sobs. “I promised Abigail I would make this right. I promised her.”
Morgan pulled her into his arms, holding her as she wept. Over her head, he met Hartley’s sympathetic gaze.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza said again, her voice muffled against Morgan’s chest. “Mr. Hartley, please forgive me for losing my composure.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Your Grace. This is a devastating blow.”
Eliza pulled back from Morgan, wiping at her eyes. She was quiet for a long moment, and Morgan could practically see her mind working. Then her head snapped up.
“Wait,” she said. “At the Hartwell soirée. When Whitfield confronted me.”
“What about it?” Morgan asked.
“He lost control. Just for a moment, but he did. When I stood up to him, when I refused to be intimidated…his mask slipped. People saw it.” Eliza’s eyes were bright now with somethingother than tears. “His need for control, his rage when he’s challenged… that’s his weakness.”
Morgan felt ice form in his stomach. “Eliza, what on Earth are you suggesting?”
“We make him lose control again.”
“You cannot mean?—”
