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“Good evening, Sampson! Marvellous to find you here,” Charlotte said. Her stomach curdled with distaste.
“Are you really out here all alone?” he asked, his grin widening. “I cannot imagine a worse way for the likes of Charlotte Stanton to spend her time. You’re a woman of the world, my darling. A woman who should be admired. Can I fetch you a drink? Perhaps we could join the others inside …”
“Not necessary,” Charlotte said, wanting to stay away from the mystic as long as possible.
“I’ll fetch you a drink. Stay out here. The sunset is a sight to behold, is it not? And me, lucky enough to sit and enjoy it with the beautiful Charlotte Stanton,” Sampson said.
Charlotte collapsed at the edge of the garden bench, watching as the horrible Sampson sauntered away. Oh, but he was harmless, wasn’t he? It was better to remain outside, away from the rest of the partygoers, awaiting Jeffrey’s final plot. Perhaps Sampson would deliver some sort of boring speech about his recent forays into new hobbies; perhaps he would report a memory they’d had together, one Charlotte would have to pretend to remember.
When Sampson reappeared in the garden, he passed her a glass of berry wine and insisted she clink glasses with him. She blinked wide eyes towards him as he sat beside her, clearly overly willing to make himself comfortable and press tight against her. Only moments before, she’d been wrapped in Jeffrey’s powerful arms.
“How has your life been, then, Charlotte?” Sampson said.
“Oh. Absolutely nothing to report,” Charlotte affirmed. Her voice waned, losing power.
“I see. So you don’t think being wanted for murder is anything so interesting?” Sampson asked.
Charlotte’s heart thudded. How on earth did he know this? Charles Baxter didn’t seem the sort of man to reveal his investigation to anyone. Perhaps someone her father had reported the news to had told someone else; still, it had only been a day since the event had befallen her, and she felt this was far too swift for gossip to spread.
“How did you know that I’m wanted for murder?” she whispered finally.
His laughter was horrendous, the sort of thing that made her brain sizzle with panic. “Oh, darling. You know that sort of thing gets around,” he said.
Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Besides,” he continued. “Someone told me that they saw you speaking with Brooks on the very night he was murdered. Doesn’t sound like such a coincidence to me. But here I am, seated beside you. I don’t feel so afraid.”
Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. “How did you hear this?” It was the second time she’d heard this lie. She hadn’t seen Brooks in months.
Sampson laughed once more, a laugh so sinister that it filled every piece of Charlotte’s body with dread. Finally, as his laughter died out, he swung his head around and peered at her with horrible eyes. All her life, she’d found his eyes to be singularly wretched.
“You should have stopped the first time,” he said suddenly. His voice was deeper than it had been. Harsher.
Charlotte furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”
Sampson arched one of his horrible, thick eyebrows. “You should have stopped snooping around when you were told to. You should have behaved like a good girl. You have it in you to be ever so good. I know that. I’ve known you almost your whole life. Unfortunately, this time around, you didn’t listen.”
He gave a sad little shrug of his shoulder. Charlotte’s lips formed a round O. Her eyes flashed around the darkening garden. She recognized that there was no escape. If Sampson wanted to take her down—he could. He’d cornered her.
She shot to her feet regardless. Fright tried its best to glue her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Luckily, she forced it free and yelled, “You. It was you all along. I should have known. You were always such a—a freak …”
Her voice shook.
Again, Sampson’s laughter erupted through the evening air.
“You helped her. The mystic…” Charlotte breathed. “There was no way she could have killed Brooks alone. She’s entirely too small to murder a man of his stature, and…”
The light reflected back in Sampson’s eyes told her everything she needed to know.
Her guess was altogether correct.
“Darling, you look as though you might faint,” Sampson said. “Why don’t you sit once more? I imagine there isn’t anywhere else you’d rather be than beside me.”
“You… you murdered him,” Charlotte uttered. “You—”
“Don’t make yourself so dizzy with all these accusations,” Sampson said. He gave a lacklustre shrug, then flicked a bit of dirt from the side of his pantleg. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps I used my former status to bring that beautiful man, Brooks, to the mighty Florentia. Perhaps I watched from afar as Florentia and Brooks fell madly in love—as Brooks tended to her every whim, delivering gifts and all the money she required. ‘How difficult it is for me, darling Brooks! I travel across the continent, delivering people their fortunes, and yet I still have the worst fate of all, as I’m entirely too poor to go on …’”
Sampson imitated Florentia almost perfectly. It was clear that the two knew one another very well.
