Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

T he enlarged investigative team once again gathered in the drawing room in Barnaby and Penelope's house. Together with their host and hostess, Stokes, Claudia, Charlie, Jonathon, and Bryan had only just settled on the chairs and sofas when the doorbell pealed, and seconds later, the marquess walked in.

Everyone rose, and Penelope and Barnaby welcomed Rattenby and saw him to the armchair by the hearth hurriedly vacated by Jonathon, who moved to the chair between his brother and Stokes.

As everyone resumed their seats, from under heavy lids, Rattenby surveyed them all, then commanded, "Tell me what you've learned."

The question sounded more like a quiz, the marquess's tone hinting that he knew far more about his late heir's less-than-acceptable proclivities and was concerned about how much they'd uncovered.

Stokes responded by inviting Penelope, Claudia, and Charlie to share what they'd learned. "Even though you sent us word, it would be useful to have the critical points restated."

For the marquess's understanding were the words that Stokes didn't need to say.

Penelope shared a glance with Claudia, then opened with "It seems that Sedbury had a liking for what Lady Selborough termed ‘roughing it.'"

Her expression severe, Claudia cut in, "By which Aunt Patricia meant indulging in all manner of cruelties and darker dissipations." Her tone rang with haughty disgust.

"Apparently," Penelope continued, "Sedbury had chosen an area by the docks—or at least, somewhere near the river—in which to practice his despicable activities." She looked at Stokes. "Given Duggan's sense that Sedbury was looking forward to his meeting that night, it seems likely that the subject of the meeting was something to do with Sedbury's contemptible deeds in that dockside area."

"So," Charlie concluded, "after he left Pall Mall, his destination might well have been somewhere near the Cole Stairs."

Stokes nodded. "We canvassed the locals in the area surrounding the Cole Stairs and, informed by your report"—he tipped his head to Penelope, Charlie, and Claudia—"we learned that Sedbury had, indeed, taken to treating those in the local area as if they were his serfs."

Barnaby confirmed, "Distinctly medieval behavior of the most cruel and vicious sort."

"It was as if he'd decided that area was his personal territory, and he could do whatever he pleased. Anything and everything." Jonathon looked almost accusingly at his father, and Barnaby saw the marquess faintly wince.

"Subsequently," Stokes continued imperturbably, "one of Barnaby's lads brought us the jarvey who took Sedbury up in Pall Mall, and the jarvey confirmed that he drove Sedbury directly to an intersection two short blocks north of the Cole Stairs, leaving him there at about a quarter to one o'clock."

Stokes made a show of consulting his notebook, although Barnaby was sure he didn't actually need to refresh his memory. "Subsequently," Stokes went on, "we found three further witnesses to the fight between two men on the Cole Stairs at close to one o'clock. One of those men was Sedbury, the other his murderer. We have a sketchy description of that man—taller and broader than Sedbury, with possibly curly dark hair." Stokes paused, then looked at the marquess. "In terms of motive and even opportunity, our suspects are legion, but courtesy of what we now know, it appears most likely that the reason Sedbury was killed relates to his activities in the area around the Cole Stairs."

The marquess's eyes narrowed. "So not anyone of the ton?"

Stokes calmly replied, "While not impossible, a killer hired by a member of the ton who happened to know enough to lure Sedbury to an area he considered his own to kill him seems considerably less likely." He glanced at his notebook, then raised his gaze and said, "Based on what we now know, our next step is to find Sedbury's killer. He will either be a local or someone known to the locals, and his size and strength will mark him."

Bryan said, "There simply can't be that many men of such a size in that one area."

Stokes nodded. "So at last, we're progressing. I'll have constables crawling all over the area tomorrow, searching for our man."

The marquess studied Stokes, then steepled his fingers before his chin. "I take it, Inspector, that you feel confident in your ability to lay hands on this man."

Stokes paused, then replied, "I would like to say yes, but with us having asked questions about Sedbury all around the area, it's possible he's heard of it, realized we're closing in, and fled. If he has, then catching up with him won't be easy."

Silence lengthened as the marquess and the rest of the company considered that prospect.

Eventually, the marquess lowered his hands and said, "I have thought long and hard about this situation—about the rights and wrongs of it—and subsequently, I consulted with several of my peers, as well as with my wife and sister and her husband." He focused his steely gaze on Stokes. "As much as I would infinitely prefer that you dropped this investigation and left the matter of Sedbury's murder unresolved, I've been counseled that I must, however reluctantly, accept that, in order for the innocent to be cleared of suspicion, we need Sedbury's murderer identified.

"Nevertheless"—the marquess's gaze swept the company—"I wish to make it plain that I am not in the least delighted by the prospect of having Sedbury's distasteful activities investigated and aired for all the world to goggle over. That would rank as a final evil act, one enacted from beyond the grave to adversely impact the futures of his relatives, most especially Jonathon, Bryan, Claudia, Margot, and Conrad."

The marquess paused, and his gaze grew weighty as it circled the faces of the company. "So I caution you all that, while I accept the need to pursue Sedbury's killer, I expect and will continue to insist that all information regarding Sedbury's activities remains closely held, shared only among those who need to know."

Stokes met the marquess's gaze and inclined his head. "I take your point, my lord, and accept your stipulation." He glanced at the others. "We will do our best to catch the killer with the least possible dust raised." He returned his gaze to the marquess. "Once we have our man, what happens next will be in the hands of the commissioner and the courts."

The marquess held Stokes's gaze, then nodded. "Just so. Very well." He shifted his gaze to Penelope and Barnaby and inclined his head. "Mr. and Mrs. Adair. Inspector. And the rest of you. I will leave you to your deliberations."

He made to rise, but Jonathon held out a staying hand. "One moment, Papa." When the marquess eased back into the chair and looked questioningly Jonathon's way, Jonathon continued, "I wanted to ask…" He broke off and looked at Stokes. "Do you have that letter that Sedbury started to write to me?"

Stokes hunted in his pocket and drew out the folded note. He handed it to Jonathon.

Jonathon unfolded the sheet, read the words again, then huffed. "I thought so." He looked at his father. "Do you remember the Weatherspoons? The family that had the smithy in Rattenby village?"

The marquess frowned. "I remember them, yes."

Jonathon looked around at the others. "I've been racking my brain over who Sedbury might have meant with his reference to a ‘little maid,' and finally, I remembered the bit about the pigtails." He looked at his father. "The only pretty little maid with pigtails that I ever had my eye on was Weatherspoon's daughter. But they left Rattenby years ago, while I was at Oxford. Do you know where they went?"

The marquess took his time before he replied, "No." He continued to stare at his son; it seemed obvious the marquess was debating how much to reveal. Eventually, he said, "I don't know where they went, but I know why they went."

When he didn't elaborate, Stokes gently prompted, "And why was that?"

The marquess sighed. "This was back…it must be eight years ago. I was surprised to hear that Weatherspoon was selling the forge and the business—his family had been blacksmiths in Rattenby since before my father was born. By the time I heard of it, he'd sold up, but he did come to see me before he and his daughter left, to tell me why he was going." The marquess's gaze returned to Jonathon. "Unbeknown to me, Jonathon had been…flirting with the girl. Weatherspoon's wife had died long ago, and the girl was all the family he had left. Unsurprisingly, he was protective of her, and he'd noticed Jonathon hanging around. And when Jonathon returned to his studies, Weatherspoon learned that the girl was harboring unrealistic dreams of becoming a lady… Well, the man was solid, respectable, and above all sensible. He was a working man, at his forge most of the day—he could never hope to keep an eye on his daughter all the time. So he decided to take her out of harm's way. That was why they left the village."

The marquess paused, then went on, "I thanked him most sincerely and bestowed a sizeable parting gift. Oh, he hadn't come hoping for anything of the sort—I had to insist he take it. He'd come to tell me because he'd felt the family quitting the village without any explanation to me was rude. As I said, he was a solid, decent man."

Jonathon looked faintly aghast. "I had no idea…"

"No," the marquess replied. "In my experience, young gentlemen rarely do. You don't think through the consequences of your actions."

"Oh, God." Jonathon paled and looked down at the note in his hand. His fist clenched. "So it's my fault if Sedbury…"

"No." Barnaby spoke decisively. "When it comes to Sedbury's actions, the only person at fault is Sedbury himself."

"Indeed." Penelope looked at Jonathon. "How old was the Weatherspoon daughter when they left the village?"

Jonathon swallowed and frowned. "Fifteen, I think." He raised tortured eyes to Penelope's face. "She was sweet and innocent and very pretty in that fresh-faced country way."

Thinking aloud, Barnaby said, "So on Saturday afternoon, we have Sedbury starting a letter to Jonathon about the Weatherspoon girl. What prompted him to commence writing that letter at that time?" He glanced at Penelope. "Was there a reason the Weatherspoon girl was on his mind?"

Rather grimly, Penelope returned, "What you mean is, was the meeting arranged for that night something to do with the Weatherspoon girl?" She looked around the circle of faces. "If so, that might explain why Sedbury left the letter unfinished—he expected to have more to add to it later." She looked at Stokes. "After he returned from the meeting."

Stokes stared back, then sat up. "He was meeting with Weatherspoon." Stokes looked at the marquess. "You said Weatherspoon is a blacksmith. How large is he? Taller than Sedbury?"

The marquess was nodding, but it seemed most unhappily. "He is a very large man."

Stokes got to his feet. "So it's likely to be Weatherspoon we're searching for. A very large man, possibly still a blacksmith. I'll get the word out to my men and, through them, to our informants on the docks." He nodded to the marquess. "No need to make it a hue and cry. If Weatherspoon's been living in that area, he'll be known, and even if he has run, we will, at least, know he's our man."

With the briefest of nods to the company, Stokes strode from the room.

The others exchanged glances, then rose and followed more slowly, all wondering and pondering about what would come next.

The following morning, having heard nothing from Stokes in the interim, Barnaby and Penelope were enjoying a quiet and peaceful breakfast and trying not to speculate over what the day would bring or whether they should head for the docks to be in on the end of the case when the doorbell pealed, and seconds later, Stokes—looking very much as if he hadn't slept at all, but was nonetheless relieved—walked into the room.

With the barest of nods in greeting, he drew out a chair and slumped into it. "One of our snitches finally told us what we wanted to know." He helped himself to a crumpet.

Along with Penelope, Barnaby remained silent and waited for more; never before had he felt more empathy for his wife's impatience.

Stokes took a large bite of the crumpet, chewed, swallowed, then went on, "The entire population of the docks was beyond reluctant to even tell us if Weatherspoon lived in the area, much less give us his address. When any of my men uttered the name Weatherspoon, everyone—even our most reliable chatterers—buttoned their lips. More, they grew stony and hard of hearing. We'd been asking for most of the night and got nowhere until we spoke with one of those who has more reason than most to keep us sweet. As he put it, and I quote, ‘How's a man to make a living with all you rozzers clomping about?'"

Penelope leaned forward. "So, what did he tell you? Is Weatherspoon there?"

"It turns out"—Stokes blotted his lips with a napkin—"that Weatherspoon is the owner and publican of the Drunken Duck."

"The pub in the lane just up from the Cole Stairs?" Barnaby clarified.

Stokes nodded. "That's the one. And although Weatherspoon knows we've been searching all around—a constable questioned him and his helpers early on—it seems he's stayed put. Yesterday evening, before I'd got the word down there, Morgan had a pint in the Drunken Duck, and he said the man behind the bar matches the description we got from the boatman and had a slightly bruised face. But he's a publican and is constantly wading in to stop fights, so Morgan didn't get too excited over that."

Barnaby grinned. "I bet Morgan's excited now."

Stokes nodded. "He volunteered to keep an eye on the place for the rest of the night, although if Weatherspoon's made no move to leave yet, I doubt he'll bolt now. O'Donnell's rounding up some experienced men and will meet us near the stairs."

Barnaby raised his coffee cup. "So when are we leaving?"

Stokes eyed the half-filled platters before him. "How about as soon as I've soothed my hunger pangs."

Penelope huffed, drained her teacup, set it down with a clink , and rose. "Five minutes," she declared and bustled out.

Barnaby smiled and sipped while Stokes dutifully applied himself to the ham and eggs.

Six minutes later, the three of them walked down the front steps to where Penelope's carriage stood waiting by the curb. They gained the pavement only to be hailed by Charlie, who was heading their way with Claudia, Jonathon, and Bryan.

"Ho!" Charlie called. "Where are you off to?"

The four lengthened their strides, patently eager to join the investigators.

Claudia said, "We were just coming to see what you thought we should do next."

Stokes exchanged a resigned look with Barnaby, then explained that they'd located Weatherspoon.

Naturally, Jonathon, Bryan, Charlie, and Claudia insisted on being a part of the expedition to the Drunken Duck. With no way of deterring let alone denying the four, Stokes reluctantly agreed, and when Barnaby tipped his head toward their carriage, Penelope promptly climbed up. As Barnaby and Stokes prepared to follow, Jonathon hailed a passing hackney, and Charlie did the same.

Charlie called to Barnaby, "Lead on—we'll follow."

With a nod and an inward sigh, Barnaby climbed into the carriage and sat beside Penelope, and as soon as Stokes was aboard, the carriage rattled off.

The bells had just finished pealing for ten o'clock when their company joined a bevy of uniformed policemen gathered at the corner of the lane within sight of the Drunken Duck's front door.

Morgan had been waiting for them and promptly reported, "No sign of activity inside the place." He looked toward the pub. "But apparently, that's normal. According to other locals, he usually opens his door sometime after eleven."

Barnaby glanced at the buildings around them. Many were already alive with the hustle and bustle of a working day. "It's likely Weatherspoon's up and about, but keeping his door and shutters closed against any early drinkers."

"Is there a rear entrance?" Stokes asked.

Morgan nodded. "Into a yard, and from that, into a runnel at the rear of the buildings."

Stokes sent three beefy constables to wait in the runnel in case Weatherspoon tried to flee.

Given that Stokes kept both O'Donnell and Morgan with their group, Barnaby concluded that Stokes thought Weatherspoon fleeing wasn't at all likely and had to agree. The man had stayed put so far; he was clearly not disposed to run.

Stokes gave the constables five minutes to get into position—five minutes their group spent in impatient fidgeting—then, flanked by O'Donnell and Morgan, Stokes walked down the lane. With Penelope by his side, Barnaby followed, and the rest of their company trailed behind them.

Barnaby noticed that several others who had been in the lane stopped what they were doing and watched. He had to wonder how the locals would take the arrest of one of their own—one, moreover, who, if their reluctance to identify him was anything to judge by, seemed to be respected by many—but Stokes had brought a sizeable force. Ten more constables followed their group down the lane, taking up positions here and there, plainly on guard against any interference.

Stokes reached the Drunken Duck and halted before the door. Morgan stepped forward and thumped his fist on the panel, but refrained from announcing them as police.

They waited. Barnaby wasn't sure any of them were breathing and certainly not deeply.

Then the sound of bolts being drawn back reached them.

The door swung open, revealing a massive bear of a man filling the entryway. Taller than Jonathon definitely, and much more heavily built, that this man had been a blacksmith for most of his life wasn't hard to believe. Despite the shadows, Barnaby confirmed that Weatherspoon had curly dark hair, streaked here and there with gray.

Weatherspoon stared, his gaze swiftly taking them in. His eyes widened a fraction on seeing Jonathon and Bryan, then he looked at Stokes and grunted. "Wondered when you'd get here." He tipped his head into the pub. "Best come inside."

Weatherspoon turned and retreated into the dimness. Stokes threw a glance of mild surprise at Barnaby and followed.

Their host led them into a large taproom. The heavy black-painted beams running across the smoke-stained ceiling made Barnaby want to duck, but although the atmosphere still smelled faintly of hops and stale ale, enough air had seeped through the slatted shutters during the night to alleviate the worst of the fug.

Weatherspoon pulled upturned chairs off the round tables and set them on the floor, creating a large circle around one of the tables nearest the bar. Only once everyone who had ventured inside and wished to sit had claimed seats did Weatherspoon pull up a chair for himself and settle his bulk upon it. He didn't react when O'Donnell and Morgan drifted as unobtrusively as they could to stand behind him. Instead, Weatherspoon—like the rest of him, his head and features were large, but his face gave the impression of being comfortably worn, and his brown eyes held no hint of either shame or malice—focused his clear-eyed gaze on Stokes and said, "Right, then. What do you want to know?"

In the silence that followed the simple question, Penelope studied Weatherspoon. He was truly huge, with massively muscled arms straining the sleeves of his cloth jacket, and his hands, clasped in his lap, looked more than adequate to the task of strangling a brute bigger than Jonathon.

She was on Stokes's left, sitting a little way back from the table across which Weatherspoon faced them. The others were still settling in their seats when a faint creak reached her ears, and she glanced toward the alcove that screened the front door just in time to see a shadow slide inside—a very tall man moving slowly and carefully.

Penelope turned back to the table. The company had been focused on Weatherspoon; no one else seemed to have noticed the interloper. As she had a very good idea of his identity, she made no comment and gave her attention to the proceedings as Stokes commenced by asking, "Did you strangle Viscount Sedbury on the Cole Stairs just before one o'clock on Sunday morning?"

Weatherspoon thought, then slowly nodded. "I did. He set on me with his whip. He struck at me first. I took the whip off him, and then he came at me like a vicious animal. He wasn't going to stop until he had that whip and was beating me with it—according to him, like a misbegotten cur, until I was dead." Weatherspoon lifted his huge shoulders in a faint shrug. "So I ended it. I had the whip in my hands, and I looped it about his throat and hung on. Didn't have to do much more than that, and then he was dead, and I let his body slide into the water, threw that blasted whip away, and came home."

Weatherspoon paused, then, his gaze level, went on. "Can't say as I'm sorry. He was a blight on the lives of all hereabouts, and I'm glad he's gone."

Penelope glanced around, but no one protested. In fact, the comment elicited several small nods.

Barnaby, seated on Stokes's other side, said, "You came to meet him at the stairs. Did you arrange that or did he?"

"He sent me a note by errand boy telling me to meet him there at half past twelve that night. He was late, but with him, that was par for the course. Lesser mortals had to wait on his convenience."

"Do you have the note?" Stokes asked, his tone suggesting he held little hope of that.

But Weatherspoon nodded. "Aye. Happens I do." He reached into his pocket and drew out a crumpled sheet. He regarded it for a moment. "Meant to throw it away, but didn't get around to it." He held it out over the table to Stokes. "For what it's worth."

Penelope suspected that as matters were unfolding, the note might be worth Weatherspoon's life. If Sedbury had summoned him and come armed with a whip, which he'd used and, when denied, he'd refused to back away… That surely had to qualify as self-defense.

Stokes accepted the note, smoothed it out, read it, then handed it to Penelope, who was their writing expert. Swiftly, she scanned the bold strokes. "This is definitely in Sedbury's hand." For the others—including the one lurking in the shadows by the door—she read, "‘Meet me at the Cole Stairs at twelve-thirty on Sunday morning. I'm prepared to discuss your proposition.'"

Penelope looked at Weatherspoon, and before Stokes could, asked, "What proposition was that?"

Weatherspoon's gaze shifted to Jonathon, seated a little way beyond Barnaby. Weatherspoon regarded Jonathon for a moment, then returned his attention to Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope. It was to her he said, "I wrote to him last week. About my daughter, Millie." He glanced again at Jonathon, then refocused on Penelope and said, "My wife died long ago, and Millie was all I had left. Back when I was the blacksmith in Rattenby village, when Millie was just blooming, I saw the interest yon lordling took in her, and then I heard she was getting airs above her station, thinking he'd take her to wife. I knew that wouldn't happen—that nothing good would come of anything between the pair—so when I got a decent offer for the business, I took it, even though my folks had been blacksmiths there for generations. It was the only way I could see to keep Millie safe and give her something new to think about." He paused, then added, "It worked, too. We traveled about a bit, then settled here. The money from the blacksmith's and the extra the marquess had given us allowed me to buy this place. I enjoy company, and although some might think this neighborhood scruffy and down-at-heel, the people here welcomed us and made us feel at home. We were comfortable here."

Then he grimaced. "Well, we were for the years before that devil came strutting around. He—Sedbury—started haunting the area, no idea why, but he's been lording it over people hereabouts for the past two years at least." Weatherspoon's lip curled. "He was an animal. Might have been well-born, nobility and all, but he was a godforsaken animal beneath the skin. Any woman he fancied—anyone at all—he'd simply take. No question, and no such thing as saying no. He didn't know the word. He behaved as if he was our feudal lord, and people seethed, but no one could work out what to do about him, marquess's son that he was. And well he knew that, too—our resentment and our helplessness—and he rejoiced in that as well."

Weatherspoon paused, and his face clouded with anger and grief. "Then he came in here about six months back and spotted Millie. She was just a girl, a good, sweet girl, and that set a match to Sedbury's lust. I—and others about, too—tried our best to keep her safe—" Weatherspoon choked, then determinedly cleared his throat and went on, "He found her alone one day, and he…hurt her. Bad. She had to keep to her bed for more'n a week, just to stop the bleeding. And when she finally got back on her feet, she was never the same. She never recovered. And it came to the point of her not being able to live with what he'd done to her. She took herself off early one morning, while it was still dark, and threw herself into the river."

He paused to wipe a hand beneath his nose. Not so much as a rustle of cloth sounded throughout the room.

"I raged, of course, and then I had so many around here consoling me and telling me their tales. Some were as bad as what he did to Millie. I'd known for a time that there were whispers about some of his doings, but I hadn't heard the whole. But after Millie was gone, I listened to it all." He looked squarely at all three Hales. "Your kin was a monster."

It was Jonathon who, sympathy in his eyes, simply said, "We know."

Weatherspoon studied him for a moment, then looked at Bryan and Claudia. He saw the empathy in their faces and nodded. "Aye. P'rhaps so."

He paused as if gathering his thoughts, then went on, "After a time, I calmed down. I thought long and hard, then I wrote to Sedbury. I listed his crimes against us and asked for restitution. Payment in coin, not just for Millie but for all the others, too. I wrote that if he didn't pay up promptly, I'd take all the stories to Fleet Street and see who might be interested in printing them. I told him he had a week to decide, and he knew where to find me, but if I didn't hear from him by Sunday night, I'd be on my way to Fleet Street the next day."

Barnaby stirred. "So you weren't surprised by his note asking you to meet him?"

Weatherspoon shook his head. "Not surprised, but I wasn't born yesterday, either. I didn't see the likes of him shaking in his boots—at least, not yet. I didn't think he'd just turn up and pay, although I'm sure he'd've had the blunt for what we asked. Still and all, I wasn't surprised he wanted to meet. I expected him to bluster and threaten, and I knew about his whip, so I wore the gauntlets I used in the smithy. I knew they'd stop a whip if he thought to take a crack at me. As he did." He paused, then went on, "I was early to the meeting place. I wasn't sure I trusted him to come alone, but he did. I was standing back in the shadows by the steps when he sauntered down and walked out on the stairs, cool as you please."

In a mild tone, Stokes said, "You and the others around here could have come to the police with your stories."

Weatherspoon snorted. "Not likely. What possible use would that have been? We're just the rats from the docks, and he's a fancy viscount. Even if you lot had believed us—and I'm not saying you wouldn't have, given the number of stories we had to tell—you wouldn't have even been allowed to talk to him. Or if you had, like as not, he'd have claimed it was all lies and turned you around and set you on us?—"

Weatherspoon's gaze rose over Stokes's head, and he blinked.

The rest of them turned and watched with varying degrees of surprise as the marquess walked out of the shadows of the entryway. He nodded to Weatherspoon. "Good morning, Weatherspoon." Rattenby picked up a spare chair, lifted it to the table to Barnaby's right, and sat.

Unsurprisingly uncomfortable, Weatherspoon warily inclined his head. "M'lord."

With a glance at Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope, in an even tone, the marquess said, "As to your expectation that complaints from locals would have fallen on deaf ears, I can't be certain, yet at least in this instance concerning Sedbury, I believe that procedures have changed sufficiently that something would have been done."

The marquess caught Stokes's eye. "Inspector. I arrived in time to hear the entirety of Weatherspoon's confession. As per my earlier reservations regarding this case, I have spoken with the Law Lords"—his gaze shifted to Barnaby, and he inclined his head—"and also with those peers charged with overseeing Scotland Yard, and all have agreed that whatever charges might be laid in relation to Sedbury's death should take into full account any and all mitigating circumstances."

Calmly, the marquess went on, "From what you told me of the evidence previously amassed and what we've heard explained and confirmed by Weatherspoon here, it seems that Sedbury was undoubtedly the aggressor and that in more ways than one. It was Sedbury who caused harm to others, not the reverse, and while that fact fills me with no joy whatsoever, it will come as no surprise to all who were even distantly acquainted with the man he had become. In considering the incident on the Cole Stairs, it was Sedbury who struck the first blow, with his whip no less. In my eyes, and I respectfully suggest in the eyes of any judge and jury of sensible men, Weatherspoon was present because he was driven to put right a manifest wrong—a wrong the authorities should have seen and acted on themselves, but for a multitude of reasons had not— and in the face of Sedbury's attack, Weatherspoon was forced to defend himself."

The marquess paused, then, in the same even tone, said, "There are any number of people who will testify that Sedbury wasn't one to stand down. He it was who pushed Weatherspoon and prolonged the fight, until Weatherspoon had to act to save his own life." The marquess looked at Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope. "That is my reading of the essentials of this case. Do you agree?"

Stokes studied the marquess, then allowed, "I see no reason not to agree, but I'm left unsure as to what, in such circumstances, my next actions should be."

The marquess smiled faintly and inclined his head. "In that respect, in light of the circumstances of this particular case, the Law Lords suggested, and the commissioner and the relevant peers agreed, that should matters fall out as in fact they have, then while Scotland Yard should, indeed, trumpet their success in having taken up Sedbury's murderer, possibly mentioning that said murderer was a denizen of the docks, as the victim, namely Sedbury, was the true villain in this case, the charge should be manslaughter in self-defense and that Weatherspoon be left free pending further legal action, which, of course, will never eventuate. The charges will evaporate due to the lack of any willingness to pursue them, and the entire matter will be allowed to fade away. Along with, as far as possible, all memory of Sedbury."

Penelope had to restrain herself from applauding, but, it transpired, the marquess hadn't finished.

He turned to Weatherspoon. "You spoke of seeking retribution for all the suffering Sedbury caused to those in this area. Can I ask you to please consult with those around about and gather the details of all the harms perpetrated by Sedbury that you judge to have truly occurred, then bring the list to me? In gratitude for what you had the courage to do, I will pay all appropriate restitution and gladly. I should have reined the devil in long ago, but I could never work out how to manage it." The marquess held Weatherspoon's gaze, then half bowed. "Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, my family thanks you. In removing Sedbury from this world, you have acted as the Hand of Justice. By your action, you have freed countless people from the depredations of the monster Sedbury had become. You have removed a millstone from around the neck of my family, one that threatened to sink us all. Never doubt that you have my"—the marquess glanced at his sons and daughter—"and my family's genuine thanks. If beyond this time, you have need of help, know you have only to ask."

Weatherspoon blinked, then in a faintly bewildered tone, replied, "That's very nice of you to say, m'lord, but…" He looked at Stokes.

Stokes faintly smiled. "Those Law Lords the marquess mentioned are the lords who oversee the country's laws. They are the ultimate authority regarding the way the courts and the police operate. If they decree that we should not put you in jail, then we won't. Indeed, I suspect we can't."

Barnaby sensed Stokes had thought the case would end this way for a while and was inwardly pleased it had.

"Good Lord." Weatherspoon blinked, then blinked again as the realization that he would remain a free man sank in.

After a moment during which the others present shared Weatherspoon's relief, the marquess ran his gaze around the company, then stated, "Let us all be clear. Sedbury received nothing more than what he deserved. Weatherspoon and all like him who Sedbury exploited, including my family and many others throughout the ton, were Sedbury's victims. In this case, true justice—not blind but clear-eyed—has been served." He looked around again, then his gaze deflected to the front door, through which the murmurings of a gathering crowd could be heard. The marquess returned his attention to the company. "I suggest the right path for all of us is to accept that and feel vindicated. And now, we should head home to Mayfair and Scotland Yard and allow Weatherspoon here to open his business for the day."

Weatherspoon glanced toward the door, then returned his gaze to the marquess and bobbed his head. "Thank ye, m'lord." He looked around the circle. "I'm thinking them out there will be curious as all get-out. You sure you don't want to leave through the back?"

The prospect was discussed, but in the end, more than anything else to underscore Weatherspoon's continued good standing with the authorities, they elected to depart via the front door and rose to do so.

As they milled, trying to decide on an order of departure, Penelope was heartened to see Jonathon and Bryan shake Weatherspoon's hand and hear Jonathon swear with considerable feeling that if he'd known what would come from it years later, he would never have even looked at Millie.

To his credit, Weatherspoon gruffly conceded that Jonathon could not have known how black-hearted his brother would become.

"Half brother," Jonathon stressed. He glanced at Bryan, then looked at Weatherspoon. "If you hear of any other woman Sedbury abused, will you please let us know? We'd like to make what amends we can, in Millie's memory as it were, but if we advertise…"

Weatherspoon was touched, but managed a chuckle. "Aye. You'd be paying 'til kingdom come and never knowing the rights of it. Leave it with me, and I'll send word of those I know of once I check with them."

Jonathon and Bryan readily agreed, and Jonathon gave Weatherspoon his address.

Penelope smiled and, happy and content with how matters had played out, took the arm Barnaby, also smiling, offered, and following Stokes, they walked out of the Drunken Duck.

In procession, their company, each smiling and genuinely and openly pleased, emerged through the inn's open doorway. Among the considerable crowd watching, their expressions and attitudes caused some consternation and puzzled whispers, but when Weatherspoon, also smiling, appeared in the doorway and waved them on their way, the brittle tension gripping the onlookers evaporated.

Their party reached the corner of the lane, and from behind them, they heard a barrage of eager questions hurled at Weatherspoon. His rumbling replies were greeted with exclamations of amazement tinged with incredulous disbelief.

As they walked on to where they'd left the carriage, Penelope mused, "Somewhat unexpectedly, I feel deeply content. Despite having a veritable army of suspects, we managed to find our way to the truth."

"And"—Barnaby tipped his head closer to hers—"despite there being no one charged, it was rather uplifting to see justice—as the marquess labeled it, true justice—delivered in such a comprehensive way."

"Exactly! And we were a part of it." Looking ahead, she smiled. "True justice is rare, and we should applaud and savor the experience."

Barnaby grinned. "Hear, hear!"