39. The Testimony

THE TESTIMONY

N orthwoods reined in his horse a few yards away, his gaze pinging between Malum and the other riders. His attempt at swagger was painfully transparent, betrayed by his almost brittle expression.

“Your Grace,” he greeted, tipping his hat with less than his usual flourish. “Quite the gathering you’ve arranged. I didn’t expect such an… impressive audience.”

Malum didn’t reply, instead allowing the silence to stretch.

Westcott’s lips curved into something just shy of a sneer. “All the more reason not to waste our time.”

Standish crossed his arms, his relaxed posture doing nothing to mask the sharpness in his eyes. “You’re involved with Crossings,” he prompted, cutting right to the thick of it.

Beckworth said nothing, but watched.

“Yes. As I said—er.” Northwoods flicked his eyes in Malum’s direction. “As I informed His Grace . I want to make things right.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the reins. “I have, in fact, been working with Crossings for months. But only because I had no choice. The man—” He broke off, darting another glance at Malum before continuing. “He’s involved in illegal trade.”

Westcott shook his head. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

“Right.” Northwoods nodded and cleared his throat again. “Made a bundle, at first, but more recently…” Thin fingers reached up to pluck at his cravat, then his collar, then back down again to twist in the reins. The earl could hardly sit still. “He’s suffered more losses than gains. And he’s… dangerous. When he feels threatened, you wouldn’t believe the lengths he’s willing to go to.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Why don’t you enlighten us?” Malum said.

Northwoods’ expression crumpled in a brief lapse of control, but for that fleeting moment, he looked every bit the desperate man he was.

“Crossings ordered the fire at the hunting lodge,” he said at last. “He was after evidence—correspondence between him and Roland Rutherford.”

“My father,” Standish clarified.

“Yes… From what I understand, those letters would have revealed their discussions about certain… investments.”

“To fund more shipments,” Beckworth said.

Northwoods nodded quickly. “Exactly. But Rutherford refused to give them up. So, er, Crossings ordered the lodge burned to the ground.”

Standish’s jaw tightened, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. “And my family?”

Northwoods flicked his tongue out to lick his lips, looking hesitant once more. “Crossings didn’t care who got hurt.”

The silence that followed was thick, tense.

“And who did his dirty work?” Malum asked.

“A man called Beasley. But he’s dead now, too.” Northwoods’ gaze shifted.

This information was exactly what Malum had expected, had hoped for, but although Northwoods seemed to be saying all the right things, his posture didn’t line up with his words.

“But why the fire at the Domus ? Was that supposed to be some kind of warning?” Malum asked.

Northwoods’ brows furrowed. “I don’t know anything about that.”

So, either Northwoods hadn’t been informed… or Crossings wasn’t behind it after all. Perhaps Malum had jumped to conclusions. Perhaps it had been set by one of his other enemies. Regardless, it hadn’t been an accident.

“Why would we believe you about any of this?” Standish asked.

Northwoods leaned forward, his desperation bubbling to the surface. “I’ll swear to it! I’ll testify, give names, dates—whatever you need.” His voice cracked, and his beady eyes shot around their group, his earlier confidence shattered completely. “Please, Your Grace. I just want to be done with him.”

Malum narrowed his eyes, studying the man before him. The earl didn’t look like a man who was unloading his conscience—just the opposite, actually.

Northwoods was distressed, yes, but this… This felt off.

Or were Malum’s instincts failing him once again?

"And what of Lady Amelia’s father?" Beckworth asked, breaking his silence.

“Foxbourne knew too much.” Northwoods’ eyes darted away again, and for a moment, he seemed on the verge of bolting. “Crossings threatened to kill the marquess. I imagine his body will turn up eventually.”

“Who else was in Crossings’ way?” Westcott’s voice was cold as steel.

“Dewberry.” Northwoods swallowed hard. “He was poisoned.”

Added to the others that they were already aware of, that made for six, possibly seven murders. A duke, a marquess, an earl…

For money, position, and revenge.

The revelations hung heavy, and the air turned even thicker with the weight of it. Malum’s gut twisted.

“Anything else we should know?” he asked coldly.

Northwoods paused, then shook his head. “No, Your Grace. That’s everything I know.” He was damn near squirming in his saddle. “You’ll return them to me, then? My vowels?”

Standish, Beckworth, and Westcott sat silent, their expressions mirroring Malum’s thoughts—a mix of anger and suspicion.

“After you’ve put all of this in writing. And it’s been verified,” Malum said finally, his voice a quiet threat. “But understand this, Northwoods. If you’re lying?—”

“I’m not,” Northwoods blurted out, his composure crumbling. “I swear it.”

“If you are, you’ll regret it,” Malum replied, his tone lethal.

"I’m risking everything by telling you this!” Their witness bristled, his hands twitching at his sides, and for an instant, the scent of kerosene seemed to blend with that hint of smoke in the air. But Northwoods was imploring him now. “Do you think Crossings won’t find out? That he won’t retaliate? I… I just want to make things right."

Malum’s gaze bore into him, unrelenting. "And yet, you were quite content to follow his orders until now.”

Northwoods dropped his gaze. "I… I realized I couldn’t live with myself. I… I’m willing to testify. Whatever it takes."

Malum narrowed his gaze. "You’ll testify, all right. But not because you’ve had a change of heart. You’ll do it because you have no other choice.”

After a beat of silence, when Northwoods didn’t dare argue, Malum turned his head sharply at the sound of another horse approaching.

Helton pulled his mount to an easy stop, eyes sweeping over the assembled group. Although he’d obviously raced to meet them, the earl managed to maintain an air of unbothered composure. His cravat was slightly askew, his jacket hastily thrown on, but behind his spectacles, his eyes were sharp.

His brows lifted slightly as he took in Beckworth—unexpectedly present, since his home was miles away on the coast—and Northwoods, whose jittery presence spoke volumes. But any questions Helton had were set aside as his focus settled on Malum.

“Crossings’ townhouse,” he said. “It’s gone.”

“Gone?” Standish echoed. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Burned to the ground,” Helton replied bluntly. “Happened early this morning. The fire crews couldn’t save it. Nothing left but ash and rubble.”

A shocked silence fell over the group, and in the beat that followed, every single one of them shifted their stares to the same direction, to where a towering structure had stood for over a century on Park Lane, to the south and west of Hyde Park. A dark grey cloud hovered in its place, stretching upwards into the London sky.

Smoke. Malum had been smelling it all morning, but he’d assumed it was from his own clothes, from the fire at the Domus .

He flexed a hand, his mind racing. The timing was too suspicious for it to be an accident. And yet, it didn’t make sense.

The faint tang of smoke was stirring a bitter undercurrent. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, having been momentarily forgotten even, Northwoods did the last thing Malum would have expected.

He laughed.

“The old man must have realized he’s finished,” Northwoods said, smirking.

“You’re suggesting Crossings burned it down himself?” Helton demanded.

Northwoods shrugged, bitter amusement twisting into something darker. “He’s lost everything, hasn’t he? His family, his money. And now, he must know he’s about to lose his position. Isn’t it obvious? That devil took the coward’s way out.”

The irony in that statement had multiple pairs of eyebrows lifting, but then the insinuation itself registered, giving Malum pause.

Crossings’ opinion of himself was too inflated for him to ever consider taking his own life. He believed himself above the law, beyond justice.

Untouchable.

Northwoods, on the other hand…

For the first time, Malum allowed himself to consider the possibility that the plain-looking earl wasn’t as hapless as he seemed.

“Was anyone hurt?” Westcott asked, his voice uncharacteristically solemn.

“Not as far as I’ve heard,” Helton said. “But…” His voice trailed off. “What the hell is that?”

Another darker plume was beginning to rise, this one more distant…

In the vicinity of Regent Street.