Forcing her thoughts away from Marco, she tried to concentrate on Von Seilig’s murder. She had, in all likelihood, been the last one to see him alive. Save for the person who had killed him. It wouldn’t take the magistrate long to uncover that fact. And if, in truth, her knife had been used as the murder weapon, what rational explanation could she offer?
Her mind was a blank.
“Miss Woodbridge.” The duke’s majordomo called Kate for her turn.
It proved to be a very perfunctory interview. Aside from asking her to identify the knife, the magistrate asked a few questions about her movements and when she had left Von Seilig to retire for the night. He wrote down her answers in a small notebook and then dismissed her with a curt nod.
After a lengthy time spent interrogating the other guests, Becton finally reappeared in the main drawing room. “Thank you all for your cooperation. Rest assured that I shall make every effort to resolve this heinous crime as quickly as possible,” he announced. “However, due to the gravity of the situation, I cannot permit anyone to leave the estate grounds until further notice. The duke has been informed of this…” He fixed Cluyne with a chilly stare. “And His Grace has kindly extended his hospitality for as long as is required. I will take my leave now to pursue the matter.”
However, the magistrate made no move to go. “But first, if I may, I have a few more questions for Miss Woodbridge.”
Marco leaned a shoulder against the alcove archway, the subtle shift of position allowing him a better view of Kate’s face.
Cluyne started to object to the request, but she quickly cut him off. “Yes, of course. Ask anything you wish.”
“If Sir Reginald insists on interrogating you further, let us withdraw to the morning room,” growled the duke, shooting a challenging look at Becton. “And this time, I shall come with you.”
“There is no need, sir. I have nothing to hide.”
The magistrate’s small smile of triumph was almost imperceptible, but Marco didn’t miss it. Nor did he miss the answering clench of Cluyne’s jaw. There did not appear to be any love lost between the two men. And despite the difference of rank between them, Becton was, for the moment, the one who held the upper hand.
“Thank you, Miss Woodbridge,” said the magistrate with exaggerated politeness. “I would just like to clarify a few things, now that I’ve heard statements from everyone.” A pause. “You were the last person to see the colonel alive?”
“No, I was not,” replied Kate without hesitation.
Becton’s eyes narrowed. “Then can you tell me who was?”
“If I could do that, you would have your murderer.”
Bravo, bella. Marco smiled at her sangfroid. Kate Woodbridge was not easily intimidated.
“Indeed.” Becton did not looked pleased with her response. His lips pursed as he consulted his notebook. “Yet I see here in my notes that you were last seen with him. And that the two of you were engaged in a quarrel—”
“No!” exclaimed Kate.
“No?” repeated the magistrate.
The Spanish diplomat coughed. “I regret to say that I distinctly overheard you two disagreeing. Quite loudly.”
His companion of the previous night nodded in agreement.
“What were you arguing about?” pressed the magistrate. He made a show of thumbing back through the pages. “A number of people have commented that Colonel Von Seilig was paying particular attention to you. Was he making unwanted advances?”
“We were simply friends,” said Kate, her voice suddenly taking on a brittle edge.
Perhaps she was aware of how weak the reply sounded, thought Marco.
“Good God, man,” interceded Cluyne. “You can’t possibly think that my granddaughter—
The magistrate cut him off. “I am making no judgments, Your Grace. Not yet. My job is to find the truth, no matter who is involved.”
Lady Duxbury leaned over to whisper in her brother’s ear. Marco saw Allenham’s gaze narrow. The man’s hand slipped to his watch chain, and for several long moments he merely fingered the gold links, watching and waiting as the silence stretched out.
Then Allenham cleared his throat. “Much as it pains me to say it, Miss Woodbridge, I must speak the truth of what I know. Your father was Josiah Woodbridge of Boston, was he not? The owner and captain of the merchant vessel Kestrel?”
“Yes,” she answered stiffly.
“The same Captain Woodbridge who was involved in a very unpleasant incident in Antwerp? The account I heard mentioned that he absconded without paying a hefty cooperage and