Edmund held himself very, very still. In the days since Bromley had found him and explained the information he’d been tasked to acquire, Edmund hadn’t released the tight fist of control he held on his emotions.
He controlled every breath and every careful movement of his hands and legs. Each and every word from his mouth.
That control was the only thing keeping him upright. The only thing preventing him from not finding and strangling the truth from Philip Denley.
Bromley had discovered more information about Arthur’s murder than Edmund’s own investigators had with the obscene amount of money he’d offered. He had half a mind to demand his payment returned in full. The other half of him wanted to tear those investigators apart for failing him.
Failing Selina. So he breathed with careful control and listened to every word anyone spoke, as if that were the sentence to return Selina to him.
Five days. Five days of nursing that small spark of hope Strathmore ignited. It didn’t burn brightly through him, a constant beacon. But it did warm the coldness that fisted over his heart and choked the life from his limbs.
Edmund turned from the window of his study. A cold March wind battered rain against the panes in a constant drum that beat to the sound of his heart. The fireplace danced with each gust of wind and threw sparks along the stone flooring. Dozens of candles and oil lamps made the room brighter than any sunny day.
And still he waited.
No one knew where Selina and Annabelle now lived — not even her hired investigator, Bromley. One step at a time — find those truly responsible for Ashworth’s murder, prove it wasn’t Arthur Lyndell, then find Selina and bring her home.
Once she was home, home with him, he could begin to beg for her forgiveness. He’d failed her. He’d asked her to trust him with her father’s life, and he’d failed both Selina and Arthur.
Edmund breathed deeply and tightened the control over his emotions. With conscious thought, he uncurled his fists. Today was the beginning of those steps.
Hamilton leaned against the desk, a forgotten crystal of whiskey next to him. They hadn’t spoken since last night. There’d been naught to say that hadn’t already been spoken. Edmund had waited — waited on Bromley to bring in Young Peter, waited for something to give in this investigation. Hamilton quietly stood by him, a constant support, and for that, Edmund didn’t know how to ever repay his friend.
Tall and thin, Young Peter McArdle looked like nothing more than a small, scared child. He trembled in Bromley’s hold despite the warmth of the study, his eyes skipping from Hamilton to Edmund and back again, as if too terrified to decide who to fear more.
Hamilton straightened, his arms folded over his chest. Edmund remained by the window. He didn’t trust himself.
“Sit,” he snapped.
Young Peter jumped, but didn’t move; he didn’t seem capable of moving. Bromley dragged him to the chair and shoved him down. Young Peter all but collapsed into the seat.
Edmund took a deep breath then another. Jaw clenched, his hands once more curled into fists, he slowly stalked across the room.
“We know,” he said, his voice low. He leaned over the trembling man and watched Young Peter’s eyes widen even further.
“I know your testimony at Arthur Lyndell’s trial was all a lie,” he growled. Each word sounded like a shard of glass, and Young Peter shuddered.
“Sir, sirs!” Young Peter said, his voice cracking. He tore his gaze from Edmund to Hamilton then to Bromley, but couldn’t focus on any one of them. “I don’t understand,” he stuttered, the words thin.
Edmund breathed in sharply through his nose and leaned even further over the man. “Your master murdered Clayton Ashworth,” he snapped. “Did. He. Not?”
Young Peter shook too badly to form words, but his head moved from side to side in short, sharp jerks.
“Or perhaps it was you,” he bit out. “You who bludgeoned the man. You who carried out Denley’s bidding.”
A high gasp came from Young Peter, but he said nothing.
“It won’t take long for a hangman’s noose to squeeze the life out of you,” Edmund promised. “Be grateful for that.”
He stood, his control seeping through the tight fist he’d kept around it. “Dream about it each night you survive in Newgate.”
“I did not!” Young Peter gasped, his voice a thread of fear. “I didn’t kill Mr. Ashworth! You can’t tell them that! Mr. Ashworth and Mr. Lyndell were good to me,” he said, the words tripping over each other now. “I’m afraid — so afraid of Mr. Denley.”
Young Peter rubbed his wrists, and at first Edmund didn’t know if the movement was part of the now-uncontrollable shaking or something more. But then he remembered the boy had done so at the trial as well.
It was a small, almost obscure memory buried amongst so many others from that time, but it forced him back, just a step.
“I need this position,” he pleaded, his tears cutting through the grime on his face. “I need the money for my uncle, and he is sick. If not for the company, we’d starve. Please,” he begged, sliding from the chair to the floor. “Please, sir, don’t send me to the hangman.”
Edmund swallowed and watched the boy beg. “Tell me all I want to know.”
Young Peter nodded, and Hamilton yanked him back into the chair. A faint stir of pity broke through the rage at failing Selina and the fear at never seeing her again. It cracked through his control, and he did take a step back.
“When did Denley begin his plot against Ashworth and Lyndell?” Edmund demanded, though his voice didn’t sound as unforgiving.
“It was Mrs. Ashworth,” Young Peter sobbed. “She persuaded Mr. Denley.”
The boy stopped and gasped for breath. Hamilton’s hand clamped down hard on Young Peter’s shoulder.
“Go on, boy,” Hamilton said, his voice cool and even.
“Mrs. — Mrs. Ashworth visited Mr. Denley near every day in the office,” Young Peter said quickly. “There was a crack between offices, from Mr. Ashworth’s to Mr. Denley’s. It offered a view of the entire office without him realizing it.”
Young Peter sniffled and swiped a hand under his nose. “I’m not proud, but I was curious and wanted to see them. I watched when Mrs. Ashworth joined him in the office.” His face red with embarrassment, he lowered his eyes. “I listened when they talked of Mr. Ashworth and Mr. Lyndell.”
“What did they say?” Edmund asked and watched the boy flinch.
“Mrs. Ashworth told Mr. Denley how much she hated her husband,” Young Peter said, his eyes now trained on the floor. “How she hated when he touched her. How she only wanted to be with Mr. Denley and they shouldn’t have to hide.”
“Go on,” Hamilton said, still behind the boy.
“Mrs. — Mrs. Ashworth suggested their lives might be better if Mr. Ashworth were dead. Mr. Denley was worried he’d not retain his position under Mr. Lyndell, as he was Mr. Ashworth’s manager.”
Young Peter shuddered again, his eyes flicking up to look at Edmund then back to study his shoes. “That was when they talked about accusing Mr. Lyndell of Mr. Ashworth’s murder.”
Edmund slowly released his breath. That was what Bromley had discovered, or suspected at least, once he’d uncovered the affair between Eleanor Ashworth and Philip Denley. To hear Young Peter admit to overhearing it, however, was something else entirely.
It was a witness.
Granted, one who had now perjured himself on the stand, but it was a start, and the fist that gripped Edmund’s heart these last months eased.
“Did Denley murder the man himself?” Edmund demanded, questions flying from his lips. “Did he hire someone else? Or did that woman do it?”
Hamilton rounded the chair, his eyes hard and sharp. Edmund looked from Young Peter to his friend and waited, patience hanging by a thread. He didn’t care he terrified the boy more than he already was. He wanted answers.
“Mr. Denley looked for someone else,” Young Peter gasped. “He asked me, but I don’t know! I don’t know how to find such people! When he asked, I panicked. I thought he knew I’d been listening, but—” Young Peter shook his head, his fingers pressing into his thighs until they whitened. “I — I.” The boy shook his head. “Mr. Denley didn’t want to ask any of the dockworkers, but I know he asked Mr. Kendrick.”
“Who the hell is Mr. Kendrick?” Hamilton demanded, still standing between Edmund and the boy.
“He — he owns a builder’s business,” Young Peter managed, cowering deeper in the chair. “He’d done work on the docks, and Mr. Denley met him on several occasions. I know Mr. Denley went to him to ask him about his workers.”
“How do you know this?” Edmund asked with cold fury.
“Mr. Denley told Mrs. Ashworth in the office, my lord,” Young Peter whispered.
Edmund gave a curt nod and waited.
“Mr. Kendrick gave Mr. Denley the names of several men,” Young Peter said.
“Who were they?” Edmund demanded. “What were their names?”
“I don’t know,” Young Peter sobbed. “I never saw them, I don’t know their names. I don’t know who he found. I don’t know, my lord, I don’t know!” He sucked in a deep breath and looked utterly pathetic as he watched Edmund.
“Next I knew, Mr. Ashworth was dead. Then Mr. Lyndell was accused and the trial came,” Young Peter said, words falling faster now, hands once more rubbing his wrists. “Mr. Denley told me what to say. Said if I didn’t tell how Mr. Lyndell and Mr. Ashworth were at odds he’d hurt me. I’d lose my employment.”
Edmund stalked away from Young Peter even as Bromley offered the boy a handkerchief and a glass of wine. Scrubbing his hands over his face, Edmund watched the boy clean himself up and drain the crystal in one breathless swallow. Young Peter was clearly terrified for his life and that of his uncle’s, and any future he might have, and it wasn’t his fault.
Slowly releasing a breath, he looked to Hamilton, who’d followed him to the windows. “We need to speak with this Mr. Kendrick.”
“I’ll find him,” Hamilton promised, his arms folded over his chest.
Rain continued to lash at the windows, and a chill draft moved the curtains and candles in an eerie dance. Young Peter huddled in his chair and despite the driving need to find Selina, Edmund felt badly about intimidating the poor lad.
He’d been scared enough. Rounding his desk, he pulled out ten pound notes. Holding it for Young Peter he said, “You will repeat this story to the magistrate, and you will testify to all you’ve said to me. I’ll make sure Mr. Denley understands you can’t return to work for several days, as your uncle is too ill to be left alone.”
His eyes wide now for a different reason, Young Peter hesitatingly took the pound notes. He nodded and opened his mouth. “Yes,” he said faintly.
Edmund jerked his head at Bromley, who joined him and Hamilton by the windows. “I need Kendrick’s address.”
“I’ll have it within a few hours, my lord,” Bromley promised, and he bowed and left.
“Have one of Bromley’s men take Young Peter home,” Edmund instructed. “I don’t trust Denley not to kill the boy to keep him quiet.”
Hamilton nodded and left the room with Young Peter. Barely a moment later, Hamilton returned and waited.
“Should’ve done more during the trial,” Edmund snapped, finally admitting aloud what he’d been thinking these last five days. The anger at himself, the failure. “I should’ve kept a stranglehold on the men I sent to investigate Ashworth’s murder.”
He paced from the window to the fireplace and back again. He preferred the cold and wind, the bleakness. The anger at himself for his failures. For failing Selina.
“It was impossible to know then,” Hamilton said with infuriating calm. “Bromley was only able to uncover what he had because Selina recognized the lies told during her father’s trial. But it was too late by then. We simply didn’t have enough time.”
Hamilton shook his head, his hand on Edmund’s shoulder. Edmund shrugged it off, unable to accept the comfort from his friend.
“Lyndell was dead just a day later,” Hamilton added and returned to his previously untouched whisky, downing it in one swallow.
Anger thrummed through him. “If I didn’t know it’d ruin all,” Edmund said through clenched teeth, “I’d strangle the life out of Denley and Eleanor Ashworth.”
Hamilton nodded. “The hangman’s noose will do that soon enough.”