said. “You had better go down and join them, Gabriel. They are all doubtless bristling with ideas. But I will tell you this. That man deserves to be strung up by his thumbs.”
“I will keep it in mind,” Gabriel said, and he grinned at them—Jessica’s mother and her sister-in-law—before he left the room and went downstairs.
Good God! Every man who either was a Westcott or had some familial connection to them must be in the study. Plus Bertie. In addition to those who had been at the breakfast meeting, there were Colin, Lord Hodges; Molenor’s sons, Boris and Peter Wayne; Dorchester’s son, Bertrand Lamarr; and Dirkson’s son, Adrian Sawyer. All of them grim faced.
“They are packed and ready to leave,” Gabriel told them after nodding his greeting to the group.
“My men on the morning shift are keeping a close eye,” Netherby said. “No actual movement yet.”
“He has been thoroughly humiliated,” Hodges said. “And masterful choreography there, may I add, Lyndale. But he has probably concluded that it is unlikely he is facing imminent arrest. He is not likely to be convicted upon a thirteen-year-old rape charge, after all. As Elizabeth pointed out to me last night, it rarely happens. Enough doubt will be cast by any defense lawyer worth his salt to suggest that the encounter was consensual or that the woman lied about the identity of her assailant. As to murder, well, all the evidence is purely circumstantial. Unfortunately. There were no witnesses.”
“Proving Lyndale innocent is the easy part,” Dorchester said in full agreement. “Proving Rochford guilty is virtually impossible. Even his false claim to have seen Lyndale commit the murder can be explained by the fact that he was observing from a distance and was simply mistaken. His urging of Lyndale to flee can be explained by familial fondness.”
“We know what cannot be done, Marcel,” Lord Molenor said. “But what can be?”
“He cannot be allowed to go completely free,” Dirkson said. “Even though he would probably die of disappointment and live in abject misery until then. The whole business cries out for some sort of justice.”
“I plan to beat the stuffing out of him,” Gabriel said. “For what he was about to do to Mary Beck. For what he has already done to a number of the faithful servants at Brierley. For what he did to Penelope Clark. For what he did to Orson Ginsberg.”
“And for what he did to you,” Bertrand Lamarr added.
“And for what he did to me.”
“How?” Riverdale asked. “You have an idea, Lyndale?”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I would have written a note before leaving the hotel, but I wanted to get out of there before Jessica recovered sufficiently to . . . complicate matters. Perhaps I may write it here, Netherby. I will invite him to meet me in Hyde Park today, this afternoon, to discuss how we will proceed from here. I will inform him that I and my wife’s relatives are seriously considering having him arrested for rape and murder and attempted murder—of me. I will invite him to come and tell me why we ought not to do that. I will imply that I am willing to let him go unmolested if he can come to some sort of agreement with me—to keep out of my sight for the rest of his life, perhaps.”
There was a brief silence.
“Weak,” Hodges said. “He will know perfectly well that no solid case can be made against him.”
“But there may be enough doubt there,” Riverdale said, “to make him nervous.”
“I will emphasize,” Gabriel said, “that there are to be no weapons, that it is not a duel to which I am challenging him.”
“If he believes that,” Boris Wayne said, “he has feathers for brains.”
“There will be no weapons,” Gabriel said, “except my fists.”
“He would still be an idiot,” Peter Wayne said, looking him up and down. “If I were in his shoes, I would bring some weapon. Probably a gun.”
“So would I,” his father agreed. “He has every motive to get rid of you, Lyndale, if he possibly can.”
“I will not be going alone, though,” Gabriel said. “If one or more of you can be persuaded to go with me, that is. There would be too many witnesses. He would not dare risk being taken up for a hanging offense.”
“But what if he does?” Boris Wayne asked.
“I believe,” the Marquess of Dorchester said, “there must be more of us with you than will be apparent to the eye.”
“Slinking in the bushes?” Hodges asked. “Armed to the