Christian couldn’t risk looking at Letitia—he wanted Swithin’s full attention on him. All he could do was will her to stillness, and silence.
From the corner of his eye, on the ground far below he could see Justin haring back to the stables. He’d be after the long-barreled pistols they all carried beneath their box seats. Justin had been a crack shot since his childhood, and, Christian suspected, so was Dalziel.
From where they were, they’d have a clear view of Swithin.
All he and Letitia had to do was wait.
And keep Swithin occupied.
“There’s no sense to any of this, Swithin.” He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly. “Letitia won’t sell her share of the company if you don’t want her to.”
Swithin sneered. Jeered. “Of course she’ll want to sell—no lady like her would want to have anything to do with such an enterprise. And Trowbridge wanted to sell, too—he told me so. And then I’d have to sell, no matter that I don’t want to, because how can I not without admitting—”
Abruptly he closed his lips. Eyes distinctly feverish, he shook his head. “No, no—I’m not going to say. I’m never going to tell anyone. Can’t. It’s my secret. We kept a lot of secrets, but that one’s mine alone.” His lips lifted in a parody of a smile. “No one else gets to know that one.”
Christian inclined his head in acceptance. “But why kill people?” Justin had returned, pistols in hand. Christian could see the others moving about below. Keeping his gaze locked with Swithin’s, he frowned. “I don’t understand. Killing people never helps.”
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Swithin’s expression turned superior. “In this case, it will—it does. It stops them from selling the company without me having to admit…anything. Without me having to beg them not to.”
“But being convicted of murder’s not going to help. You don’t want that.”
Swithin smiled slyly. “It won’t happen—I won’t be convicted. No one can prove I killed Randall and Trowbridge. It was surprisingly easy. Just a knock on the back of the head and they were gone. Quick and neat. But there’s no proof I killed them—I made sure of that. No—now I just have to pitch this bitch off the roof and everything will work out.”
He shifted, turning toward Letitia as if to do just that.
Christian seized the moment to glance down; the others were repositioning, trying to get a bead on Swithin without Letitia or he anywhere close. Dalziel saw him looking and waved, beckoning—they wanted Swithin closer to the edge. Christian hurriedly asked, “But why from the roof? Why not just knock her on the head like the others?”
It was the only thing he could think of to ask.
Swithin looked back at him, a strange smile curving his lips; beyond him, Christian saw Letitia gathering herself—she’d used the time he’d bought them to regroup.
“I can’t do that,” Swithin told him. “She’s Randall’s and Trowbridge’s murderer—she’s the one who knocks people on the head. Not me. Never me. She was making far too many inquiries—or you were on her behalf. I know you spoke with Gallagher, and then you went to see Roscoe. I couldn’t allow that—couldn’t allow you, and her, to learn too much. But it doesn’t matter now. Once she goes over the edge, you won’t be able to help her anymore. And everyone will see that she killed the other two, then came after me, and when she couldn’t kill me, she rushed up here and threw herself off.” His smile widened. “It’s obvious.”
Christian didn’t know what to say, how to respond to such foolishness.
But it seemed they’d run out of time.
That quantity slowed as Swithin turned to Letitia. Christian saw him tighten the grip he had on her arm.
He was going to half throw, half swing her over the edge—he’d only need to make her topple. He could do it without stepping closer to the parapet. There was only one thing Christian could do—one risk, one gamble, he had to take.
“Swithin.” He poured every ounce of command he possessed into his voice. “Look down.”
Startled, Swithin glanced back at him; he still had his pistol in a firm grip. Christian didn’t move so much as an eyelash.
Puzzlement growing, unable to read anything in Christian’s face, Swithin shifted; bracing his arm, anchoring Letitia at arm’s length, he edged closer to the parapet, looked over and down.
Two shots rang out, virtually inseparable.
Swithin jerked, then stumbled backward, crumpling to the ground.
Slinging Letitia forward as he fell, his descending weight acting as a fulcrum propelling her over the edge.
Christian shot forward, leapt over Swithin, dove for the edge, grabbed—but her body had already cleared the parapet.
He couldn’t reach her—but her bound hands, desperately reaching out to him as she twisted and fell, brushed, clutched at his sleeves.