Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isobel blinked. "Riot!" Her sharp hiss made his feet stutter. "Why are you chasing my neighbor?"

  "Your neighbor is a notorious forger."

  "Even less of a reason to chase the old fellow. That's the sort of neighbor I like." She hurried to the banister. "It's all right, Mr. Crouch. He'll behave."

  "Like hell!" Crouch snarled, before slamming the front door.

  Isobel sighed.

  "You wouldn't think so highly of him if he forged documents to steal your fortune."

  "Did he do that to you?"

  "Not directly."

  "Perhaps he's retired?"

  A door opened from a story above, and a face peeked over the railing. "Is everything all right, Miss Bonnie?" It was Miss Merrily Taylor, a fellow resident, and a phone operator with a passion for mysteries and eavesdropping.

  "Yes, Miss Merrily. Apparently Mr. Crouch has an even worse side of the bed to wake up on than we previously thought possible."

  "Oh, dear. I told Mrs. Beeton not to polish his cufflinks."

  "I'm sure he'll settle down," Isobel called back. "Have a wonderful day." She looked at Riot. "Did you want to meet Miss Merrily to make sure she's not a cat burglar?"

  "I'm already acquainted with you. I don't need to meet another."

  8

  Inquest

  The Gambler had a quick hand. No one else had time to draw. I admire a steady hand, and his was uncommonly so.

  —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  "NOW THEN, MR. RIOT, you stated that Jim Parks reached for a revolver on his hip, you drew, and fired. Is that correct?" Alex Kingston asked.

  "It is."

  Excited whispers traveled around the graveyard chapel. It was full to bursting, with more oglers milling about outside. Isobel stood in the back, on a chair that she had wrestled away from an old man by throwing her 'feminine frailty' in his face. As she had climbed atop for a better view over taller heads, he had shot her a glare that lasted the entire trial. She hardly noticed—her gaze was on Atticus Riot. Only every time Alex Kingston stood to speak, her stomach roiled and her knees shook, causing her chair to chatter against the wood.

  Alex turned slowly to take in the crowd. Her 'widowed' husband struck an impressive figure in court. Tall, and as solid as a bull, his voice carried to all corners, as loud as if he were right beside her. He was the kind of man who could convince a crowd that the sky was green and the grass blue. Direct. Overpowering. Blunt. Jurors liked his style—a self-made man who spoke plain. In truth, he took what he wanted, and was as slick as a snake oil salesman.

  "We've heard testimony from Sgt. Price and Inspector Coleman, both respected lawmen. Both testified under oath that they saw Jim Parks reach for his gun. And while Parks was shot in the stomach, he was still breathing and speaking, and had enough strength to unsheathe his knife and take his own life."

  Alex paused to look at each of the six jurors in turn. A bent gravedigger, an undertaker who kept checking his pocket watch, and a fellow who seemed more concerned about the reporters than the trial. Then there were three crows, as Isobel thought of them. Dressed in dour black and eerily similar in appearance, they seemed better suited to sitting on a fence than a jury.

  All in all, not a promising bunch. A hanging would be good business for the gravedigger and undertaker. And the dandy might push for a verdict of murder to get his name in the newspapers. The three crows looked the type to go along with the majority.

  "The medical examiner testified that Jim Parks did not die from the bullet in his gut, but rather the knife he drove into his own heart. Now some of you may be wondering—did Jim Parks actually reach for his gun?" Alex gestured towards the lawmen. "We have the eyewitness accounts of not one, but two lawmen. And while all of us here in this court are law-abiding citizens, I, like yourselves, am a man of the world. We know enough to doubt anyone in a position of power. With good reason. So, gentlemen of the jury, I'd like to put a challenge to Mr. Riot. A challenge that will allow each of you to witness the duel, just as it happened, with your own eyes."

  Voices rose in excitement at the prospect. Even the undertaker tucked away his pocket watch. Isobel glanced at Riot, who sat for all the world like a man sipping his morning tea. A segment of Ravenwood's journal floated to her mind: I was first struck by the confidence of the young man. Affected or genuine? I would soon discover.

  Zephaniah Ravenwood had discovered that it was genuine. As had Isobel. Riot was as cool and calm as a man came. And the only reaction he gave to Alex's surprise proposal was a slight cock of his head. Atticus Riot was amused, while she felt like the chair had just been yanked from under her feet.

  What was Alex playing at?

  Coroner Weston cleared his throat. "What type of demonstration are you suggesting, Mr. Kingston?" The new coroner was a middle-aged man who appeared to have been fit at one time. His gut strained an expensive suit, and he tended to hunch his broad shoulders. He reminded her of a penguin.

  "A mock duel. With your permission, I'd like to allow one of these fine gentlemen of the jury to draw against Mr. Riot. With unloaded revolvers, of course."

  Excitement rose to a pitch, and the young dandy hopped to his feet with a wild whoop!

  "Quiet down, now!" Coroner Weston banged the butt of his revolver on the table. "Are you sure about this, Mr. Turner?"

  Mr. Turner grinned. "Sure as I'm standing here today."

  With a glint in his icy eyes, Alex turned to the audience. Pure pleasure radiated from the man. It made Isobel sick. And then he stopped, his eyes narrowing on her.

  Isobel quickly tilted her head, so he was staring at a hat brim. She let her knees slowly bend, making it appear natural, and sank back into the sea of reporters. The chair underneath her rattled on the planks. A hand touched her arm. She flinched, but stopped herself before striking.

  "Are you all right, Miss Bonnie?" a fellow reporter from the Chronicle asked.

  "I'm fine, thank you. It's only the excitement." Her voice wavered, breathless and unsteady.

  "I'll say."

  Clenching her teeth, she risked a glance towards the front of the chapel. Alex had turned his attention back to the case.

  A patrolman unloaded two revolvers, his own and Riot's. By the order of the coroner, revolvers were handed out, and the juror and Riot faced off at ten feet. Turner wrapped a belt around his hips, and gave the gun a fancy twirl before dropping it into the holster. Someone in the crowd cheered. Bolstered, he drew a few times, each twirl more elaborate than the last.

  Riot didn't glance at his opponent. Not trusting another man with his gun, he rechecked the chambers of his revolver. Satisfied, he slid his No. 3 into its holster. While Turner wore a holster on his hip, Riot preferred a shoulder holster, where it sat at his waist, stock facing out and angled slightly towards his left hand.

  "I see you've handled a revolver before, Mr. Turner," Alex said.

  "I'm a fair shot and a fast draw," Turner boasted. Another twirl drew more cheers.

  "What luck," Alex said. "It appears, ladies…" His gaze swept over the crowd once again, focusing on the back of the room. Isobel made sure only her hat was showing. "…and gentlemen, that we are to have an impromptu exhibition."

  A number of bulbs flashed, choking the air with smoke. When it cleared, Alex turned to Inspector Coleman. "Is this the distance that was between Atticus Riot and Jim Parks while they were talking in the cemetery on the eighteenth of March?"

  Coleman made a circuit of the two men. "It is," he confirmed.

  Alex took a purposeful step back. "Mr. Riot, say your lines. I'll trust our volunteer has been paying enough attention to repeat Jim Parks' final words."

  The audience laughed, and Turner smiled along with them. "I was, sir."

  Alex nodded in approval. "I wish all my jurors were so attentive."

  More laughter filled the chapel.

  "At your leisure, Mr. Riot. Repeat the words you spoke to Jim Parks."

  But Riot didn't speak right away. He let q
uiet settle, until every scuff and cleared throat echoed in the chapel.

  "Who hired you?" Those three words sent a chill down Isobel's spine. Ten feet from death, and Riot stood cool and untroubled, his right hand resting on Ravenwood's walking stick.

  Turner tucked back his coat, then held his hand just above the revolver stock.

  Inspector Coleman cleared his throat. "That was not how Jim Parks was standing."

  "Would you position Mr. Turner, Inspector? If he'll allow you?" Alex asked.

  The Inspector obliged. And now Turner stood with his hands at his side, every muscle in his body ready to spring. "I guess you'll never know," he said, and jerked for the revolver.

  One moment Riot stood as casually as could be, and the next his revolver was out and pointed at the man. The hammer clicked when Turner's fingers clamped around his own stock.

  The audience gasped, one person gave a wild whoop, and someone shouted, "Clear as day he went for his gun! What's all the fuss about?"

  Other voices were quick to agree. Isobel looked for the owner of this first statement, but couldn't find him in the crush. It had sounded suspiciously like Tim, but the old leprechaun was shorter than she was, and a hundred times more conniving.

  "I want another go," Turner said. "This isn't my revolver, and I'm not used to the weight of it."

  "Of course," Alex said.

  Riot slid his No. 3 into its holster, and the mock duel was repeated exactly as the first. The young dandy turned red.

  "Thank you, Mr. Turner." Alex quickly stepped forward to shake the man's hand. "You've been invaluable. And you're a good sport as well. Not every man would have the guts to face an expert gunman." The compliment bolstered Turner's ego, which was precisely what Alex intended.

  "And a fine demonstration of a road agent's spin," Riot added. "I've never been much good at twirling." Having seen the man spin cards on the tips of his fingers, Isobel knew he was lying through his teeth.

  "I'd be happy to teach you some tricks."

  "I'd be obliged."

  "Gentlemen, this is not a social event," Coroner Weston growled. "Kindly sit."

  Satisfied, Turner shook hands with Riot, and the two gentlemen retreated to their seats. Isobel blew out a breath.

  When the court quieted down, Alex took center stage. "My client's skill has been demonstrated, the police have testified that the shooting was done in self-defense, and the medical examiner's report states that Jim Parks died of a puncture to his heart—by his own hand. That is all I have to say, Coroner Weston. I leave justice in the hands of these fine gentlemen."

  Alex inclined his head to the coroner before taking his seat.

  The coroner turned to the jury. "Gentlemen, while Jim Parks died from the blade he thrust into his own heart, we cannot discount the events leading up to that drastic action. It is your duty to decide today whether Atticus Riot acted in self-defense, or attempted to murder Jim Parks before he reached for his revolver. You may confer in the side room for as long as you need."

  The men filed out, and conversation filled the chapel. The noise beat at Isobel's ears. Alex turned towards the audience, and she quickly bent her knees, deciding it was best to get off her chair. A few men left to smoke, greatly diminishing her cover. Had Alex seen her?

  Leaning against the wall, backed into a corner, her heart fluttered. Isobel swallowed down an urge to bolt as voices pounded at her from every side. But she would not—could not—leave Riot to face the verdict alone.

  Murder. That word sat in the hollow pit of her stomach. Isobel had studied law for two months, long enough for her to be afraid. Alex bent his head towards Riot's ear, and the latter gave a slight nod. Alex turned towards the door, reaching into his coat for his cigarette case.

  Isobel edged into what was left of the crowd. When Alex reached the very back, he paused at the door, and searched the sparse crowd. A mob of reporters ambushed him, all tossing questions and asking for a statement at once. But he towered over the lot.

  Isobel could feel his eyes on her hat. Impulsively, she rested a hand on the nearest gentleman's arm, and sidled up close to make small talk.

  "Er, Miss? I am… er, might I help you?"

  "What do you think the verdict will be?" she asked.

  "I don't much care for men going around shooting each other."

  "But Jim Parks was a murderer."

  "Murderers are slated for the noose, not a bullet."

  "Hmm." She was only half-listening to the man. She watched Alex out of the corner of her eye. He was ingratiating himself with the reporters, his baritone carrying like a gong through the chapel. A minute later, he pushed his way through the ring of reporters, and she tensed to run. There was nowhere to go.

  A banging on wood rescued her. "Take your seats," Coroner Weston ordered. Called to work, Alex abandoned his search and returned to his seat. As the audience settled, the jurors filed back into the chapel.

  "Have you reached a verdict?" Coroner Weston asked.

  With great ceremony, the gravedigger climbed to his feet, and cleared his throat. "We have."

  Weston gestured impatiently.

  "We, the jury…that is, all of us here, after much deliberation and consideration, have determined that the defendant acted in self-defense and Jim Parks died by his own hand."

  Isobel took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Voices slammed into her again. Reporters rushed forward for interviews, a few in the crowd surrendered cash to a lost wager, and the rest of the onlookers started to file out.

  With her cover quickly dwindling, it took all her restraint not to bolt. Steeling herself, she walked at a decorous pace, the back of her neck prickling with the touch of eyes.

  9

  The Storm

  Tuesday, April 17, 1900

  JUDGE ADAMS SCOWLED AT the attorney, his eyebrows drawing together in one bristling line of white. "Have you had ample time to consult with your client, Mr. Hill?"

  "I have, your honor."

  "Proceed."

  Hill stood. "You claim that you never met Mrs. Kingston prior to her pseudocide."

  "I'm not claiming; I'm stating," Riot clarified. "I was as surprised to find her alive as you were."

  "Have you had carnal relations with the defendant?"

  Murmurs traveled through the audience. Riot glanced over Isobel's shoulder, to her mother and father and some of her brothers sitting in the gallery. Mrs. Amsel sat rigid, her cane planted in the aisle, her knuckles white. Mrs. Amsel was refusing to look at either Isobel or Lotario, yet she was present. Her steely gaze locked onto Riot, and he met it calmly.

  "I object to that question on the basis of it being a private matter."

  "Overruled, Mr. Riot."

  "The fifth amendment claims otherwise," he returned.

  Judge Adams leaned forward. "Answer the question, Mr. Riot. This is a court, not a church. I'm sure the prosecution will grant you immunity for the duration of the trial."

  Alex Kingston leaned over to whisper in his attorney's ear. They consulted for a few hushed seconds. "The prosecution does indeed," Hill said.

  Riot adjusted his spectacles. "It's a matter of principle, your honor. A gentleman would never divulge such information."

  Adams grunted. "Then the gentleman will find himself in contempt of court."

  Isobel leaned over and whispered in her attorney's ear. Thin, pale, and exhausted, she looked faded from her time in jail. The defense hoisted himself out of his chair. "My client has given the gentleman permission to answer the question."

  A small smile played at the corners of Isobel's lips.

  "I'll ask again, did you have carnal relations with Mrs. Kingston?"

  The court room dropped away, and Riot matched her smile. "Not until three months after her supposed death," Riot stated. "Frequently, energetically, and thoroughly."

  Throats cleared, and fans snapped open. Alex Kingston curled his fists.

  "Thank you. I have no further questions."

  Ju
dge Adams frowned at Hill. "You don't intend to question the witness about that token?"

  "The token is irrelevant, your honor."

  Adams narrowed his eyes. "Mr. Riot."

  "Yes, your honor."

  "Kindly hand over the token."

  Riot did as asked. When the bailiff had passed it to the judge, Adams began to study it under a magnifying glass. "Was the defense aware of this token, or of any reference to Sing… whatever the devil it is?"

  Farnon adjusted his pince-nez. "I was not aware, your honor. I knew only that my client's life was in danger, that her brother tried to murder her, and her husband blackmailed and abused her."

  "Objection!" Hill said.

  Judge Adams looked from the token to Isobel. "Was the defendant aware of this token?"

  Before her defense could consult, Isobel inclined her head.

  Judge Adams puffed up his cheeks. He let out a slow breath, and looked to Riot in the witness stand. "You didn't mention Sing Ping King Sur during the pretrial." Judge Adams held the token up between his fingers. "This faro token wasn't submitted as evidence."

  "No, your honor."

  "You've been involved in enough court cases to know that I could charge you with obstruction of justice."

  "I do, your honor, but I'll wager you'd have prisons full of attorneys if you made a practice of that."

  The court laughed.

  "I don't find you humorous, Mr. Riot."

  "Neither will you find my reasons humorous, your honor."

  "What is your reason? What is the significance of this token?"

  "I intend to explain, if given the chance."

  Judge Adams leaned back in his seat. "And why should I give you leeway?"

  Riot met the judge's gaze. "I may never get another chance."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because someone will attempt to silence me. As well as the defendant. If you don't grant me leave today, I doubt either of us will be alive tomorrow."