Mornaday shoved her aside. “Stand down, Butterworth. I am taking this man into custody for arson.”
Stoker inserted himself smoothly between Elyot—who stood rooted to the spot, a startled expression on his face—and the importunate Mornaday.
“Stand down yourself, copper. You cannot prove he started the fire. He could easily say Lord Ambrose did.”
I resumed my seat, as I expected the little fracas to be shortly concluded, settling Al-‘Ijliyyah upon my lap. In any case, Stoker had matters comfortably under control. The day he could not keep J. J. and Mornaday in hand on his own would be a dark day indeed.
J. J. attempted to sidle around Stoker, but he extended one muscled arm, blocking her path. “Back. Mr. Elyot has no statement to make atthis time.” He turned to Mornaday. “If you do not put those restraints back into your pocket, I will use them on you.”
Mornaday curled a lip. “What makes you think I cannot escape from a pair of wrist irons?”
“What makes you think I would use them on your wrists?”
Mornaday paled and leapt back like a scalded cat.
Stoker took advantage of the moment to guide Elyot forwards and indicate a chair for him to take. As Stoker played the host, pouring out a libation for Elyot, I gave him a bright smile. “Do forgive them, Mr. Elyot. We have not yet had the chance to explain everything to them, but we were just about to do so.”
He murmured his thanks and took a small sip, blotting his lip with his finger. I turned to J. J. and Mornaday, who were watching him with the wariness one might extend to a lion on the loose.
“Sit down and stop looming over Mr. Elyot. He will not flee, and perhaps he will even make himself available for an arrest and an interview later,” I told them.
Mornaday dropped his head in his hands, tearing at his hair as he gave a muffled groan of impatience.
“What is happening here?” Julius Elyot asked.
“I believe poor Mornaday has been pushed beyond the brink of endurance,” I said evenly. “He is a sound enough investigator, and if he occasionally lacks imagination, it is not his fault. He also received some difficult news this week. He has been suspended until further notice.”
Mornaday lowered his hands. His eyes were rimmed in red, and his expression so woebegone, I felt a thrust of pity for him. “Because of you,” he said hoarsely. “I was meddling about in official files because ofyou. And now my career is in tatters and for what? I have a felonious firestarter sitting in front of me, and I cannot even bring him to justice because you all are mad as hatters, the lot of you.”
J. J. was regarding him with her usual bright-eyed curiosity, butStoker’s reaction was thoroughly unexpected. He sat forwards, fixing Mornaday with a level stare. “We will remedy this,” he said in a voice of quiet authority. “We will catch Lord Ambrose’s murderer and see that justice is done. We will not permit you to lose your position.”
Mornaday’s eyes lost none of their mournful look. “But—”
Stoker moved nearer still. “Have I ever once extended a hand to you in friendship? Have I ever pledged any sort of loyalty or sympathy to you?”
“None. You’ve been frequently hostile with occasional outbreaks of mere unlikability,” Mornaday replied.
“Exactly. We may not ever be the best of friends, but I do see your worth. And though it pains me grievously to admit it, you have been helpful upon occasion,” Stoker said.
“That must have cost you something,” I said with an understanding smile.
Stoker’s mouth curved downwards. “You cannot imagine.” He turned once more to Mornaday and put out his hand. “You have my word, Mornaday. We will remedy this.”
Mornaday took his hand slowly and with great caution—much as one might shake the paw of a lion.
“I appreciate that, Stoker,” he said, shaking his hand only slightly from Stoker’s stronger grip. “But I do hope you will not think me ungrateful if I inquire as to preciselyhowyou intend to accomplish such lofty goals.”
“Mr. Elyot has agreed to aid in our endeavour to bring Lord Ambrose’s murderer to justice. We are in agreement that the villain was Miss Eliza Elyot.”
I paused and looked around the assembled group to find them all nodding. Julius Elyot gave only a cursory nod, but I could not blame him for a certain lack of enthusiasm in naming his sister a murderess.
“We have a witness who places a lady of her description at the scene,” I went on. “Furthermore, she had motive, a good one—vengeance for a perceived betrayal.”
“But we do not know how it was done,” J. J. put in. “The official report attributes his death to heart failure.”
“I know how it was done,” Mornaday said grudgingly. “I had a word with a mate who works for the police surgeon. Nothing is documented, of course, but he saw the body with his own eyes. No injuries whatsoever save a single, small entry wound. It would not bleed excessively, and death would have been instantaneous. His expert opinion is that the likeliest weapon would have been—”
“An awl,” Stoker said smoothly.