Everything had been taken care of. And in true Julian fashion, he had even found a way to take care of me in the meantime.
“Okay,” I said, slipping into my shoes. “Let’s go.”
As I walked out, I grabbed the tuxedo jacket crumpled on the floor and pressed it to my face, breathing in the sun and soap smell of him, hoping it wouldn’t have to substitute for the real thing for long.
They spared me the indignity of handcuffs, but not the indignity of being forced into the police station itself. I frankly didn’t care that I wasn’t properly dressed—someone offered me an overcoat as I walked in, and I ignored it. But I did care that I was here, pointlessly.
I was more irritated than angry, more weary than worried. I had little doubt whatever “evidence” they had I could easily overrun. But it was at a cost I had avoided paying until now: telling the truth. The truth that the world would surely hear, and then my sins would be publicly laid bare. The world would know beyond a doubt how deep the veins of darkness ran in my soul and exactly how dense the ore of my transg
ressions was.
But as exhausting and peevish as that would be, I didn’t really care about anything other than extricating myself from this encumbrance and getting back to my wildcat.
My wildcat who had wanted to get married this very day.
Let them know. Let them all know the awful, despicable truth of it, and then let me get back to my life, which had finally become something worth living.
I was led to a chair near a wide rolltop desk, and I flung myself in it unceremoniously. “How long will this take?” I asked the inspector.
“You must be questioned,” the inspector said, “and then processed. Then a formal—”
“There’s no need for that,” I said, using a tone I usually only unleashed on my tenants—or my rebellious wildcat. The inspector closed his mouth quickly, blinking. The tone normally had that effect. I continued. “We will discuss two things, right now. Firstly, you will tell me what this new evidence is and how you came by it. And then I will tell you what happened on the night of my wife’s death. Then I will walk out of this station and you will carry on with more important matters.”
“I don’t—that’s not—”
“Inspector, I suppose you realize that, at any moment, I could call an army of barristers, judges and peers to my aid, do you not? We both know that I will not be in this station longer than a few hours, and you can spare yourself much embarrassment—and I can spare myself much trouble—if we both embrace this truth. Now. The evidence.”
His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he shifted papers around his desk, shuffling handwritten files and letters, refusing to look at me.
I knew how he felt. I knew he didn’t want to lose face in front of his men, and I knew that whatever evidence he thought he had must be pretty damn compelling, because he was obviously torn between complying with my reasonable suggestion and upholding the letter of the law. But even though I empathized with his conundrum, I was not in the mood to sacrifice my time and energy simply to accommodate a stranger’s needs.
I put my hand on the table. I didn’t say anything more, I didn’t touch him, I simply reminded him of my presence, and he sighed.
“Your manservant. Gareth White.”
“What?”
“Your manservant gave us eyewitness testimony about you murdering your wife.”
No. It wasn’t true. It was a thousand times not true. For one thing, Gareth could not have eyewitness testimony of anything of the sort, because I didn’t do it. While that saddle cinch was being cut, I had been balls deep in a clergyman’s wife. And secondly, Gareth had been nothing but incredibly loyal to me his entire tenure—even if he had seen me commit a crime, I would have believed him to keep my secret to his grave. He wouldn’t go to the police with a true story, much less a false one.
Or would he?
After all, he had been in love with Violet and he must have known what I did to her that final night. I would be surprised if her shouted pleas and loud sobs hadn’t reached every corner of the house. And I had not been quiet either—I didn’t spare Violet one note of the pleasure I was revenging myself with. I wanted her to hear every groan and every sigh, every curse as my balls had tightened and I filled that Harold woman over and over again. It had been her anguish that made me hard, her emotional pain that had driven me to exorcise every single insult and injury she’d dealt me, exorcise them on another woman’s body.
Yes. Perhaps that was what drove Gareth to lie to the police about Violet’s death. A quest of mistaken justice. Punished for the wrong thing, perhaps, but at least punished.
Would my sins always haunt me? Would I never be free? No. I didn’t deserve to be free.
The inspector finally met my gaze. I kept it steady and cold, even as a tumult surged in my mind, and I said, “Thank you. Now shall you like to hear my version of events?”
Two hours later, I left the police station, again without the overcoat, ignoring the stares of the passers-by on the sidewalk. A smartly appointed carriage waited in the road for me and the Baron opened the door from the inside as I approached. I got in.
“I knew you could take care of yourself,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“But you were waiting outside just the same.”
He shrugged. “I like to look out for my flock.”
