“Is that why you helped her kill Henry’s wives? To secure her favours, that she may allow you to see your son?”
His head snapped up. “No! I would never! I meant demands for more money which I had to borrow from Henry to fulfil. Or an introduction to staff of affluent households. References. I would never hurt a soul, especially Henry, Your Grace. That is God’s honest truth.”
Violet said nothing for a moment. Her last argument with Henry floated around in her mind, and she shook her head at herself. Henry had one family member he trusted in his dark life. She had tried to take that from him, and she had been wrong. Watching Edmund fall apart now, she realised how wrong she had been. She didn’t want to believe him but there it was.
“Did you know anything about why she killed the duchesses? Has she mentioned anything?”
“Nothing. If I had suspected, I would have gone to Henry or the Bow Street Runners. I would have intervened. I had not spoken to her for a decade until recently. After I learned what kind of woman she was, I had avoided her. The dinner with Your Grace and Henry,” he pointed at her with his chin, “was the first time I heard it. I swear it.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“About her taking money from Henry, about lying to him.” His expression pleaded with her to deny it. “Do you truly believe she took those lives?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head again with a shuddering sigh. Violet rose to her feet. “Please stay in the house while the investigation is occurring. If you run, I will assume you are guilty of murder.”
She turned to Kit. “Untie him and put him in the guest room on the third floor.”
Kit nodded once.
“May I see him?” Edmund said as she stepped toward the door. She turned, hesitated.
Then: “Not yet. He needs rest and peace. When he is more stable, you may see him.”
She left them, with Kit kneeling and working the knots.
The Bow Street Runners arrived at half past four. There were two of them: a senior man named Hatchett, broad and greying with hands the size of bread loaves, and a younger man named Poole who carried a leather notebook and wrote in it constantly. They came through the front door with their clothes rumpled and hats crooked.
Violet received them in the small drawing room. She rang for tea.
“Your Grace,” Hatchett said as he took a seat in the settee across from her. Poole sat beside him. “We have apprehended Sarah Baker.”
Violet exhaled. “Where?”
“At the cottage in Surrey. The direction your man provided was accurate. She was packing the boy’s belongings when we entered.”
“Where is she now?”
“In a cell at Bow Street. She has not confessed to the poisoning, but she has not denied it either. She is…” Hatchett paused, choosing his words, “She is very composed for a woman in her situation.”
“I find her frightening, if you don’t mind me saying so,” the younger man interjected. Hatchett gave him a look that ended the contribution, then returned his attention to Violet.
“We will need to take statements,” Hatchett continued. “From Your Grace, His Grace when he is recovered, the household staff, and from Mr Vexley whom we understand is on the premises.”
“Of course. Whatever you need, Mr Hatchett.”
After the Runners took her statement, Violet put the Duchess of Cranbrook in charge of organising the staff for questioning. Kit confirmed that there were enough footmen stationed at Edmund’s door. She then climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Henry was in the bed with her mother in the chair beside him. Dr Bainbridge was gone for the evening, his instructionswritten in a neat hand on the bedside table. The room was warm and quiet and smelled of iron and charcoal and her mother’s lavender soap.
“His pulse is eighty-eight,” her mother said. “He moved his legs an hour ago. He said your name.”
Violet sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand. His fingers curled around hers, stronger now, a proper grip.
“I am here,” she said.
Her mother stood and placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.