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Except in the storage room.
There, a dimly lit gas lamp sat atop a pile of boxes, illuminating the broad, uncluttered section of floor directly below. Upon that area lay André's latest abstract, its unwieldy size making it impossible to maneuver atop a desk. Instead, Baricci and Williams had shoved aside boxes and frames, and now crouched over the painting, concentrating on the task of removing the final nail that held its frame in place.
"That should do it," Baricci muttered, inching away the block of wood.
"Good." With a sigh of relief, Williams leaned forward, helping finish the task. "It's already after eight. I want to deliver the Rembrandt, reframe that abstract, and get it back on the wall so I'll be able to sleep tonight."
"I assure you, you'll be snoring by ten o'clock." Baricci stood, lifting André's painting and revealing the classic lines of the Rembrandt. "I'll take this treasure to my office, wrap it up for transporting. You reframe the abstract; framing is a skill you're far more adept at than I. We'll be on our way to the docks by half after eight."
"Fine." Williams was already reassembling the frame, pulling out a hammer and readying the nails.
Baricci crossed the room, the Rembrandt tucked beneath his arm. "I, myself, don't intend to waste a moment sleeping," he announced, pulling the door handle. "I'll be too busy envisioning Tremlett's face when he—"
His voice lodged in his throat as he opened the door and walked smack into the very man of whom he spoke.
"Why envision it, when you can see it firsthand?" Ashford drawled, lounging on the threshold. He stepped backwards, gesturing toward Detectives Conyers and Parles, who loomed behind him, pistols raised. "Oh, and while you're studying my expression, would you mind handing that painting over to the detectives? I'm sure they're eager to return it to Lord Mannering as soon as possible."
Baricci sagged against the wall, his expression rife with disbelief. "You never intended to wait for morning. Your visit to the gallery this morning, your threats—it was all designed to force my hand."
"Every last bit of it," Ashford acknowledged. He peered into the storage room, beckoning Williams to rise from his collapsed position on the floor. "You needn't finish, Williams," he advised the white-faced curator. "Where Sardo is going, he won't need the proceeds from the sale of that painting. In fact, maybe the two of you can be cell mates. I don't think Baricci here will be joining you. He'll be awaiting his hanging with the other murderers."
"I didn't kill Emily Mannering." Baricci nearly shouted the words, abandoning his refined demeanor and grabbing the front of Ashford's coat. "What I told you was the truth. She was ali
ve when I left her."
Ashford's brows rose in ironic distaste, and he wrenched his coat free as Conyers sprang forward, seized Baricci's arms behind him, and jabbed a pistol in his back. Simultaneously, Parles pushed by, grabbing Williams and shoving him forward at gunpoint.
"The truth?" Ashford mocked. "Baricci, you wouldn't know the truth if—"
"You're wrong, Tremlett," the older man interrupted, struggling against being led away. "This time you're wrong. With God as my witness, I didn't kill Emily." With that, he hesitated, long-standing antipathy for Tremlett vying with reason. The former urged him not to cooperate, to damn the earl and his whole investigation to hell. The latter shouted its comprehension of what his silence could mean.
Cooperation could lead to leniency. Silence would most certainly lead to death.
As a shrewd businessman, there was but one choice to make.
"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," he proclaimed. "But I won't hang for a murder I didn't commit."
"Wait," Ashford instructed Conyers, holding up a detaining palm. He scowled, studying Baricci's fervent expression. The man was a thief, a fraud, the lowest form of scum. And yet, something about his tone, the urgency of his claim gave Ashford pause. Maybe he was losing his touch, maybe all his instincts were failing him, but he'd swear Baricci's words had a ring of truth to them.
"If you didn't kill her, then who did?" he demanded.
"I don't know." Baricci's forehead was dotted with sweat. "I've wracked my brain since the day it happened. I was stunned, horrified, when I heard the news. Tremlett, I am who I am. I'm damned good at what I do. Well, this time I wasn't good enough. You outmaneuvered me, and you won. For that I'll pay. But, I repeat, I won't hang for a murder I didn't commit."
Ashford swooped down on the initial part of Baricci's statement, which smacked of a confession. "You admit to stealing the paintings—not only the Rembrandt but over a half dozen others?"
"If I do, what guarantees will you offer me?"
A humorless laugh. "Ever the negotiator, Baricci. Gentlemen?" Ashford arched a quizzical brow at the detectives. "What kind of deal can you offer our prisoner here?"
"That depends on whether or not he killed Lady Mannering," Conyers replied.
"I told you I didn't kill her," Baricci ground out.
"If that's the case and if you cooperate, Parles and I will see what we can do to minimize your sentence."
Satisfaction glinted in Baricci's eyes. "Very well then, yes, I admit to stealing the paintings Tremlett is referring to."
"Who else worked with you, besides Williams here?" Ashford prodded.
