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“But that can’t be,” d’Arque said slowly as if talking to himself. “Roger had no enemies. Everyone liked him—they had ever since we were both schoolboys. He’d smile at the most misanthropic bully and suddenly they were a jolly bosom-bow. I truly can’t think of anyone who would’ve wanted to kill him.”
“There were no witnesses?” Reading asked.
D’Arque’s eyes flicked to him. “There was a footman. He was the one who came to tell us of the news during a ball at my home.”
“Did you question him?” Godric asked.
“Only briefly.” The viscount hesitated. “His name was Harris. He disappeared in the weeks following Roger’s death. I remember a note came later asking that his things be sent to the One Horned Goat in St. Giles.”
“This footman, he was the one who reported that the Ghost was the murderer?” Reading asked.
D’Arque nodded.
“Perhaps he was bribed,” Reading murmured.
Godric leaned forward. “Had he been with Fraser-Burnsby long?”
“No.” D’Arque slowly shook his head, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Roger had hired him only the month before.”
All three men were silent, contemplating the obvious conclusion.
“Damn it!” d’Arque hissed low. “I spent months searching for Roger’s killer, but it never occurred to me that it might not be the Ghost of St. Giles.”
The viscount’s outburst seemed genuine enough. But then Godric had seen beggars weep real tears for the pain of their crippled legs—just before stealing a purse and running away.
“What about your friend Seymour?” he asked the viscount. “Wasn’t he killed in St. Giles as well?”
Reading started to say something, then closed his mouth.
D’Arque’s eyes narrowed. “What has that to do with Roger’s death?”
Godric shrugged, for he could not reveal what he knew of Seymour’s death. The viscount sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching the stage, though Godric doubted he saw anything. “We were all friends, Kershaw, Seymour, Roger, and I. Kershaw and Seymour helped me search for the Ghost of St. Giles before … before Seymour was killed in such an untimely manner.”
His eyelids flickered and Godric took note. He knew from Winter Makepeace that d’Arque had known about Seymour’s involvement in the lassie snatchers, had in fact helped cover up the true nature of Seymour’s death for the sake of his widow.
Makepeace seemed to think that d’Arque had not been involved with the illegal workshop and the lassie snatchers. Godric decided to reserve judgment. After all, if d’Arque had been the other partner in the workshop, it would’ve been smart of him to lie low for a bit, convince Makepeace that he had indeed cleared up the entire lassie snatcher evil.
And then when the coast was clear, he could start up operations again.
“Odd,” Godric said softly, “that two of four friends should be killed in St. Giles.”
D’Arque frowned as if considering. “Don’t think that I hadn’t thought of the matter before now, but that’s just it. There was no link between the killings.” He turned to meet Godric’s eyes. “None at all.”
The audience roared and rose to their feet, clapping. Godric’s gaze jerked to his wife, her head together with Lady Hero’s, whispering some feminine secret. The play was obviously over.
The viscount caught his arm.
Godric looked down at the hand on his sleeve.
D’Arque let go of his arm, his face darkening with something that might’ve been embarrassment. “I wish to continue this discussion.”
“Don’t worry.” Godric stood, watching as Megs turned and beamed at him, all glorious, vibrant life. Everything he was not. Everything worth protecting. “We will.”
Chapter Ten
“Hold on tight,” the Hellequin grunted as he guided the great black horse toward the far shore.
“Do you care for my welfare, then?” Faith leaned forward and asked in the Hellequin’s ear.
