Page 89 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“Were you? Then how come you didn’t come to see me? I’ve had letters every day from those concerned for me, and visitors too. Strange that my oldest friend in the world wasn’t one of them, eh?” Horace challenged.
Walter turned on the spot, rustling his hair and breathing heavily.
I know him. I have to rile him.
Horace was confident of this. There was no evidence against Walter beyond Horace’s suspicions. The only way he was ever going to find out the truth was to get a confession, but like Horace, Walter had a temper. His best opportunity was to taunt that temper into rising.
“Was it because Miss Bonneville showed me so much more attention than you? The woman you planned to marry could have her head turned so easily?” Horace asked.
Walter jerked his head around. His eyes flashed angrily now, but his pallor was still sickly pale. He turned away again, pacing, not speaking.
“Or perhaps it’s because you knew you would soon be losing control of the business,” Horace snapped. He was in full flow now, one word following the next with great relish and aggression.
“I told you I was going to sell, and you realized that with a healthy partner, someone would pay greater attention to the frauds you were committing. How else can you deck this house finer than a prince would have it?” Horace gestured to the ugly ornaments on the mantelpiece. “You had nothing left to lose, did you? So you sought to stop me. You sought to get the whole business and take revenge for Miss Bonneville’s attentions–”
“You’re mad,” Walter snapped, turning to face him and matching his sudden volume. “I had no wish to harm you! Look, look, I’ll show you what happened.” He marched into the corner of the room and jerked open the drawer of a writing bureau. “The last day I saw you, you gave it all. You handed over everything to me.”
“What!?” Horace’s voice echoed. It was so loud.
Walter snatched up some papers from the bureau and darted back across the room. He practically flung them at Horace in his madness. Horace snatched the papers from the air and rifled through them fast.
It was a long contract, ensuring that Horace handed over the whole business to Walter.
“No, no, no,” Horace muttered repeatedly under his breath. “I don’t remember this. I didn’t give you the business, Walter.”
“You did,” Walter snapped. “You gave it to me. Look, you signed.”
Horace turned to the last page. There, at the very bottom, was his signature, but it was shaky and wobbly.
Then a memory cut through sharply. He’d dreamt of it once in his sickness, believing it to be a dream, but it was in fact real.
Walter had placed the quill in his hands and urged him to sign his name. He was so out of it by that point, high and dizzy on some drug in his system, he hadn’t even fought Walter as he forced him to sign a rough version of his name.
“Well, I suppose fraud isn’t a long stretch after murder, is it?” Horace challenged. He tucked the papers into his jacket pocket, knowing confidently that he could argue them later.
Walter jumped back. His face was puce red now, as if he had been struck across the face.
“M-murder? I am no murderer!”
“Then what would you call the man who poisoned me? Hmm?” Horace snapped. “You did, didn’t you?”
“It’s not like that!” Suddenly, Walter was running at him.
Horace had to escape. He darted around the furniture, agony suddenly blooming in his chest.
Walter was the man he had trusted for so many years, and for all their arguments, he had never once thought his good friend capable of this, not before he had fallen so sick.
“Don’t touch me,” Horace warned as Walter flung himself forward again. Horace grabbed an armchair and tipped it over. It landed against Walter’s legs, tossing him backward into the wall behind him. “You made me weak once. You won’t get that chance again.”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Stop trying to deny it. I know you did it. There isn’t a hesitation in my mind!” Horace barked. “And you have just handed me your motive.” Horace snatched the papers back out of his pocket and waved them in the air. “So, thank you for giving me something I can hand to the constable.”
“The man who poisoned you had to know what Mr. Byrne was doing to you.” Walter turned the chair back over, releasing himself. “That is not…”
Yet Walter halted in his words. He had clearly realized, as Horace did, what he had said.
“And how do you know what Colm was doing to me, eh, Walter? I haven’t told you about that discovery. I have not told you thatColm was slowly poisoning me with camphor. So, what was it? Hmm?” Horace pursued the point. He walked across the room and this time, Walter was the one on retreat, backing away as fast as he could. “Did you give me an overdose of camphor that day? Or was it something else you added to my system? Something that reacted with the camphor?”
