“The chandlery shop had grossly overcharged us,” muttered Kate.
“What of the disagreement in Lisbon?” pressed Allenham. “During that dispute, word has it that a female aboard the Kestrel fired shots at the pursuing longboat, forcing it to give up the chase.”
“Shots?” repeated Becton. The word echoed sharply off the polished paneling.
Oh, cleverly done, thought Marco. With one sound, the magistrate had made the lady out to be a dangerous lunatic. Trying to maintain a sense of detachment as the confrontation escalated, he crossed one booted ankle over the other and continued to observe the nuances of word and gesture.
“And what of the time in Algeciras?” went on Allenham. He, too, seemed intent on casting her in an ugly light. “In that city, a merchant complained to the authorities that Captain Woodbridge’s daughter had brandished a knife when he tried to come aboard ship to collect on an overdue bill.”
“Yes, but…” Kate bit her lip. “You must understand, seaports can be very rough places, filled with unscrupulous people seeking to take advantage of foreigners. Sometimes one is forced to act… boldly in order to fend off danger.”
“So, you are admitting that you resorted to force?” demanded Becton. “You fired a pistol? And threatened a respectable burgher with a knife?”
“He was cheating us,” exclaimed Kate. “I simply scared him off. I never intended any harm.”
The magistrate thumbed to a fresh page and touched his pencil to his tongue.
She looked like she wanted to ram it down his throat. “It’s not what you think,” she protested.
But despite her explanations, Kate Woodbridge was in hot water.
Scalding, really, amended Marco. Which was hardly any wonder, seeing as she was a tempest unto herself. But despite feeling a stab of sympathy, he warned himself to stay detached. Lynsley would expect a dispassionate report of the proceedings.
Kate finally seemed to realize that her words were only being used against her and remained silent. But the tilt of her chin was eloquent in her defiance.
His face ashen, the duke made no further attempt to speak up in defense of Kate. He looked fragile, a mere shell of his usual imperious self.
Thump. The notebook snapped shut. “That will be all for now,” said Becton. “If anyone else remembers anything—anything—that may be relevant to the investigation, I will be returning here first thing in the morning.”
On receiving their release, the guests quickly filed from the room.
Marco was the last to leave, and he took his time in walking toward the guest quarters.
Why, he wondered, was Kate Woodbridge being thrown to the sharks?
Did she kill the Prussian?
He didn’t doubt that she had the temper and the courage to do the deed. But it made no sense. Von Seilig would never have forced himself on her. And even if he had, Kate could easily have escaped his clutches without resorting to murder. As for any other motive, he couldn’t for the life of him come up with one.
Crossing the marble entryway, Marco saw that this wing of the house seemed deserted. He slowed by the stairs and then turned his steps for the rear of the house. The wall sconces were unlit, leaving the corridor wreathed in shadows. Halfway down its length, Marco flattened himself against the wainscoting as several servants came out of the conservatory, talking in hushed tones about arranging a cart to take the body to the coroner.
They headed off in the opposite direction and after a moment, he continued on. The latch was unlocked and Becton had not thought it necessary to post a guard.
Might as well have a quick look for himself. His report should include all the gory details.
A sheet lay over the colonel. Marco lifted it gently, noting that the knife had been removed. He felt a twinge of pity on looking at Von Seilig’s lifeless face. The Prussian had been a very decent man, upright and honorable to a fault. He did not deserve to have a sliver of steel shoved ruthlessly into his heart.
Did anyone?
Quelling his personal feelings, Marco quickly opened the man’s bloodied coat and shirt for a look at the actual wound. The cut, a thin slice, perhaps two inches wide, was located just below the left breast. Leaning low, he carefully probed at the colonel’s chest, inspecting the angle of the blade’s entry. The flesh was cold to the touch.
Despite his own doubts about eternal salvation, he whispered a terse prayer for the dead man as he checked under the colonel’s fingernails for evidence of a struggle. Moving on,