Dillon watched Pris twit Rus on his unbounded enthusiasm, laughing when he jokingly attempted to disclaim, saying he was only behaving so in order not to hurt Flick’s feelings. He listened as she, Rus, and Adelaide turned their attention once more to Barnaby and the upcoming interrogations…he’d almost convinced himself nothing was wrong-that the disturbance he’d sensed, some nebulous elemental ruffling of his instincts, had had no foundation- when he caught Rus glancing at Pris, and saw the same uncertain anxiety he himself felt mirrored in her twin’s green eyes.
He focused more intently on Pris, but no more than Rus could he see past the shield she’d erected, one of easy good cheer, of transparent happiness that was simply too bright, too polished, to be true.
Something was troubling her, and she was hiding it from him. From Rus, too, but he didn’t care about that. What he did care about was that she was doing it deliberately, that she was shutting him out of her life-he didn’t care how small the matter bothering her was.
Barnaby turned to him. “We should go. If we manage to get a name, I’ll head straight to London-we’d better get to it so I can be away before dark.”
Dillon blinked, looked at Barnaby, then nodded. “Right.”
Stepping back as Barnaby turned to the door, he glanced once more at Pris, but she was looking beyond Barnaby, toward the door…
He waited. She looked his way, and her smile was back-but that wasn’t what he wanted to see.
A chill touched his soul. He didn’t know what she was thinking, feeling-how she thought and felt about him, about them. He’d assumed…but he knew better than to assume he understood how women thought.
Summoning a smile, he inclined his head to her. He was about to turn and leave, then suddenly knew he couldn’t. Not without…
Rus and Adelaide had turned away; stepping closer to Pris, he caught her green gaze. “To night?”
Her eyes, fixed on his, widened. For an instant, she ceased to breathe. Then she did, and whispered, “Yes. To night.”
Her gaze dropped to his lips for a fleeting instant, then she turned away.
He forced himself to do the same, and follow Barnaby to the door.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. What man?”
Belligerent and bellicose, Harkness glared at them.
They’d spoken to him first; he was the greater villain, therefore more likely to grab what he could from the situation. However, he’d got his second wind and had reverted to denying any part in any wrongdoing what ever.
Dillon ambled to the wooden table behind which Barnaby sat studying Harkness, seated in a hard chair on the other side; he touched Barnaby’s shoulder. “Leave him. Let’s go and chat with Cromarty and see what he has to say.”
Harkness’s beady eyes blinked. Until then, he hadn’t known they’d brought Cromarty in for questioning, too.
Glancing back as he followed Barnaby from the room, Dillon saw Harkness, staring straight ahead, start to gnaw a fingernail.
Leaving his stewards watching over Harkness, he and Barnaby walked to another of the small rooms reserved for interviews with jockeys, trainers, owners, and occasionally the constabulary.
He followed Barnaby in. As with Harkness, he introduced Barnaby as a gentleman with connections to the metropolitan police. All perfectly true, although from the way Cromarty, seated on a similar chair to Harkness, before a similar table, blanched, he’d leapt to the conclusion that Barnaby wielded all sorts of unspecified powers. Precisely what they wanted him to think.
“Good afternoon, Lord Cromarty.” Sitting behind the desk, Barnaby placed an open notebook upon it. Withdrawing a pencil from his coat pocket, he tapped the point on the page, then looked at his lordship. “Now then, my lord. This gentleman who went into partnership with you-your silent partner. What’s his name?”
Cromarty looked acutely uncomfortable. “Ah…what did Harkness say? You’ve asked him, haven’t you?”
Barnaby didn’t blink. He let two seconds tick by, then said, “This gentleman’s name, my lord?”
Cromarty shifted; he darted a glance at Dillon. “I…um.” He swallowed. “I’m…er, bound by privilege.” He blinked, then nodded. “Yes, that’s it-bound by commercial privilege not to divulge the gentleman’s name.”
Barnaby’s brows rose. “Indeed?” He looked down at his notebook, tapped the pencil twice, then looked at Dillon. “What do you think?”
Dillon met his gaze for an instant, then looked at Lord Cromarty. “Perhaps, my lord, I should tell you a story.”
Cromarty blinked. “A story?”
Pacing slowly behind Barnaby’s chair, Dillon nodded. “Indeed. The story of another owner who had dealings with this same fine gentleman.”
He had Cromarty’s full attention; he continued to pace. “This owner’s name was Collier-you might have met him. He was registered and raced for more than twenty years.”
Cromarty frowned. “Midlands? Races out of Doncaster mostly?”
“That’s him. Or was him, I should say.”
Cromarty swallowed. “Was?”
His fear was almost palpable. Dillon inclined his head. “Collier…
He told Collier’s tale, using his voice, his tone, to deepen Cromarty’s unease. Cromarty stared, pale as a sheet, the whites of his eyes increasingly prominent. Concluding with a description of Collier’s body being found in the quarry, Dillon met Cromarty’s starting eyes. “Dead. Quite dead.”
The only sound in the room for the next several seconds was Dillon’s footsteps as he continued to pace.
Once the full implications had sunk into Cromarty’s panicking brain, Barnaby said in his most reasonable tone, “That’s why, my lord, given the outcome of today’s race, we would most strongly advise you to tell us all you know about this gentleman, most especially his name.”
Cromarty had dragged his gaze from Dillon to Barnaby; he swallowed, then, in the tones of a man facing the hangman, simply said, “Gilbert Martin.” Cromarty looked at Dillon. “He’s Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”
Fifteen minutes later, they had what amounted to a full confession from Cromarty, extracted by Dillon, assisted by Barnaby’s musings on the likely reaction of the less-reputable bookmakers once they fully absorbed the dimension of the calamity that had befallen them; Cromarty had told them everything they’d wanted to know.
Thus armed, they returned to Harkness. His resistance lasted only as long as it took Dillon to inform him that Cromarty had told them all. Harkness confirmed Gilbert’s name and direction, and also the man’s description- tonnish, well turned out, tall, dark-haired, of heavier build than Barnaby.
Harkness confirmed their reading of him as the more experienced villain; unlike Cromarty, he didn’t beg for leniency but dourly stated that if there was a choice between Newgate and transportation to the colonies, he’d rather transportation.
About to leave, Barnaby cocked a brow his way. Harkness simply said, “More chance of surviving on the other side of the world.”
In the corridor, Dillon motioned to the constables sent by the magistrate, who he’d notified earlier. Leaving them to deal with Cromarty and Harkness, he led Barnaby to his office.
Sprawling in the chair behind his desk, he watched as Barnaby subsided into the armchair, a silly, beatific smile on his face. Dillon grinned. “What?”
Barnaby flashed that smile his way. “I didn’t believe we’d get a name-I hadn’t let myself believe it. Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.” Barnaby shrugged. “But he shouldn’t be hard to locate. Tonnish gentlemen have a tendency to overestimate their cleverness.”
“Speaking as a tonnish gentleman?”
Barnaby grinned.
