She opened the folder, bracing for gruesome details, her fingers brushing over the crisp parchment as though the paper itself might flinch.
One line had been underlined twice in the coroner’s hand.
No water in the lungs.
Daphne stilled.
He hadn’t drowned.
Her father had been dead before he hit the water.
She lifted her gaze to meet Mr Hawke’s. His expression had changed, the hard mask softened by sorrow. Something in his eyes reminded her of the warmth of his embrace.
For a moment, the burden didn’t feel like hers alone.
She read on.
Another line caught her attention.
“A blow from behind. Object smooth and cylindrical. Possibly metal.” A shiver rippled across her shoulders. She looked up again. “It wasn’t a fight. He never saw it coming.”
Mr Hawke leaned forward, eyes narrowing on the page. “A cosh. Or a length of pipe. Something quick. Quiet.”
“Used by someone who knew where to strike. Someone close enough to approach him without raising suspicion.”
She pictured the scene. Her father. The tyrant who haunted her days and ruined her sleep. The man she’d prayed might wake one morning and be kind.
Tears welled. Not for him, but for the opportunity lost.
“Have you ever wished you could change someone?” Shesniffed, dabbing her nose. “That you could mould them into the perfect parent? That life would be better then?”
He surprised her by answering.
“I wish my father hadn’t been a complete wastrel. His reckless behaviour was the catalyst for every tragedy that followed.”
She swallowed down her misfortune. “Where is he now?”
“In a grave at All Saints Church. The plot suits the life he led. Neglect for himself, and for everyone who depended on him.”
There was no bitterness in his tone, only a tired kind of truth. A man taking stock of the wreckage.
She wondered if he saw that life was a mirror. That necessity had shaped him into someone just as neglectful. Neglectful of his morals, his happiness, his peace.
“When it comes to rotten fathers, we have that in common.”
She turned back to the report and read the line about faint ligature marks found on his wrists, though his hands weren’t bound when they pulled him from the Thames.
“My father’s signet ring was missing. He owed money to the Moseley brothers. They might have taken it in payment.”
“No.” His reply came too quickly. “They would have tortured him first. Ransacked your house in the dead of night and taken everything of value.” He paused. Something dark passed over his features. “Including you. You’re not safe until the debt is paid. We need to know how much he owed them.”
She froze on the carriage seat. Suddenly, going to London felt like a dreadful mistake. “I can’t pay them. I haven’t a penny to my name.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“That’s not how bartering works. I’ll find a way?—”
“No. We’ll barter for everything but this.”
