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"I don’t threaten people and I wouldn't resort to arson, for god’s sake." He hands tightened into fists.

Beck made a noncommittal sound, jotting something in his notebook. "All the same, please account for your whereabouts between one and four o'clock this morning?"

"I was with my solicitor until nearly three, then visiting some associates." The truth sounded damningly vague even to his own ears.

Beck looked less than convinced. "Will any of these associates vouch for this?"

Graham hesitated. What could he say? Jimmy "Three-Thumbs" worked the docks when he wasn't picking pockets, Susanna O’Leary knew half the city’s secrets for the price of a pint, and Gavin White ran his empire from the back room of a betting house. None were the sort of allies one brought into the light—especially not in front of the Royal Exchange.

His silence was answer enough.

The investigator let the conversation lull—a typical trick to get someone to reveal something. Graham met the man’s gaze and held his peace.

Eventually, Beck asked,“Do you normally take tea with your associates in the middle of the night?”

"I was gathering information about Baron Hollan's dealings to utilize in the upcoming custody hearing." No point in lying—Abigail's theory was his best chance now. "In fact, I suspect he may have orchestrated this fire himself."

Beck's pen paused mid-stroke. "That's a serious accusation, Your Grace."

"It's a serious matter." Graham leaned forward. "Has he made an insurance claim yet?"

Beck's face hardened. "I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of any potential claim."

"Of course you aren't," Graham said, impatience creeping into his tone. "But perhaps you might consider investigating his financial situation. The timing of this fire is remarkably convenient for a man with mounting debts and a court case tomorrow."

Beck considered this. "Rest assured, Your Grace, I examine every angle in my investigations. Including the movements of all interested parties on the night in question."

Graham's mouth tightened. He'd walked into a trap. Each word he spoke seemed to entangle him further.

I should have gone on that damned picnic.

"I understand you're doing your job, Mr. Beck. I simply want the truth to come to light."

"The truth," Beck said, his voice soft but sharp, "has a way of surfacing, regardless of who tries to bury it."

The implication hung between them, as tangible as the smoke still rising from the ruins.

Beck held Graham’s gaze for a beat longer, then turned to the constable at the perimeter. “Bring her over.”

The constable nodded and signaled toward the edge of the crowd. A woman—small, wiry, and bristling with purpose in a faded dress and shawl—began making her way toward them.

As she drew closer, her eyes locked on Graham."That's him!" she declared, pointing a finger straight at him. "That's the man I saw!"

Graham stiffened. “What is this?” he demanded.

The woman ignored him, speaking directly to Beck. “Mr. Beck, sir, that’s him. I swear on me mother’s grave.”

Graham's blood ran cold. "That's absurd. I was nowhere near this area."

Mrs. Cartwright's eyes narrowed. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you was. Just after midnight, pacing up and down like you was waiting for something. Looking at the warehouse, you was."

"You're mistaken," Graham said, his mouth suddenly dry. "I was across town with my solicitor at that hour."

"I know what I saw," she insisted. "My Albert works nights at the brewery, and I always wait up. Was looking out the window when I spotted you—long black doctor coat and all. Not many gentlemen doctors in these parts at that hour."

Beck was watching him with the cool assessment of a predator who had just cornered his prey. His gaze flicked to Graham’s long black physician’s coat that he still preferred to ducal finery.

"It wasn't me," Graham said flatly. "And I can prove it. My solicitor, Mr. Nedley, was with me until nearly three o'clock. He'll confirm it."