The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

“We also have Mr Proctor’s notes.” So much for the truth being one’s best friend. Lies after more lies tumbled from Sybil’s mouth. “Before being savagely murdered, he discovered the late-night habits of the Duke of Melverley’s steward. That gives you a motive, Mr Warner.”

Why else would Mr Proctor have asked to meet Lucius?

“And now you have a dilemma,” Lucius said. “We all know the truth, Sir Melrose. You’ve already murdered three men—Cribb, Proctor and Atticus Atwood. How do you propose to keep us silent?”

Sir Melrose turned deathly pale. “Look, I may be guilty of blackmail, but—”

“The fact you’re willing to go to extreme lengths to obtain the journal is proof of your guilt,” Lucius pressed.

“Warner is equally guilty,” Julia said, but this time her cough made her retch. The Scot patted her back until she could breathe easily again. “Warner withheld my allowance from the Duke of Melverley. Warner is the one who suggested you use me in your scheme. Knowing of my weakness for the tables, he employed a card sharp. He made sure I ran up debts, made sure I had no choice but to return here and steal the evidence of Sir Melrose’s crimes from my son.”

Sir Melrose looked like he might retch, too. He scrubbed his face with his bony hand and whimpered. He exchanged nervous glances with Warner, who suddenly shuffled backwards and bolted.

“Peregrine?” Sir Melrose shouted at his accomplice. Panic turned to anger. “Don’t leave me to answer for your crimes!”

“Hellfire!” Lucius thrust his bound hands at the Scot. “Untie me quickly, before Warner gets away.”

“I’ll catch the devil.” Alcock thrust the satchel at Sybil, forgetting there was a loaded pistol inside, and gave chase. Mere seconds passed before she burst back through the misty gloom. “Mr Wycliff and his friends nabbed him by the boathouse.”

Mr Wycliff appeared, hauling Warner behind him by the scruff of his neck. His friends Mr Trent and Mr Cavanagh followed behind to join the crowd gathered on the narrow path. The men were dressed in tatty breeches, poorly fitted coats, coarse shirts and blue striped neckerchiefs.

“I believe you have a runaway,” Damian Wycliff mocked, dragging the weasel forward. “Let’s hear the fop’s confession, shall we?” He released Warner and gave him a hard shove.

Warner almost plunged headfirst into the river. “There’s nothing to confess. Can a man not help a troubled friend?”

“Don’t blame me for this debacle,” Sir Melrose countered.

“Who else should I blame? Had you been scrupulous when picking your lovers, none of this would have happened. Mr Cribb was hunting for a goose ripe for the plucking. And you’re a damn goose.”

“Keep your mouth shut!” Sir Melrose turned to Mrs Dunwoody. “This is your fault. If you’d just given me the journal as I asked.” He raised his arm as if ready to strike the woman.

The Scot stepped forward. Lucius did, too.

Everything happened quickly then.

“God, I’m tired of this game.” In one fell swoop, Lucius lunged, threw his bound hands over Warner’s head and yanked the rope against the man’s windpipe. “Confess to the murder of Mr Cribb.”

Warner choked and spluttered. His face turned beetroot red as he struggled to breathe. He thumped Lucius’ arm, kicked and tried to wriggle free.

Lucius gritted his teeth. “I warned you I’d take your last breath. Now bloody confess.”

Warner stabbed his finger at Sir Melrose and croaked, “He k-killed Cribb.”

“Liar!” Sir Melrose cried. “Warner killed Cribb, and the runner who lived on Stangate Street.”

Lucius choked Warner again, much to the delight of Alcock, who appeared as excited as if she were watching acrobats and tightrope walkers at Astley’s Amphitheatre.

Warner’s knees buckled. He batted Lucius’ hands, begging to speak. “I’ll confess—” He gasped for breath as Lucius released his grip. “I—I killed Proctor … but … only because he knew about the Garrett, knew Melrose and I were … were—” Warner pointed to his lover. “He killed Cribb.”

“Silence, buffoon!” Sir Melrose’s g

aze shifted to the path.

Mr Trent and Mr Cavanagh moved to block all means of escape.

“Which one of you devils killed my father?” Sybil choked back a sob. She didn’t want to think that one of these vile men had entered her house while she slept. Had murdered a man who lived only to do good deeds.

Both men looked blank when she repeated the question.