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Chapter

Eighteen

THE WEIGHT OF TESTIMONY

T he following Tuesday, the inquest was held in a hushed, oak-paneled chamber within the Coroner’s Court, the air heavy with the scent of old books and older judgment. Outside, a spring drizzle dampened the pavement, but inside, the atmosphere was dry as tinder—and just as flammable. Whispers drifted like smoke through the room as Julia and I made our way down the narrow aisle.

She was dressed in mourning black from head to toe, a veil obscuring her face, though nothing could conceal the tension in her posture or the way her gloved hands clutched her reticule as though it were a lifeline.

A row at the front had been reserved for the family. Julia was guided to her place, and I took the seat beside her. On her other side sat the Walsh family solicitor, Mr. Greaves, his expression unreadable. The remainder of the bench was occupied by Charles Walsh, his harpy of a wife, Lucretia, and their cousin, Edwin Heller, who appeared appropriately somber.

A few rows back, the Duke of Steele had taken a seat. His presence was discreet—deliberately so—but no less notable for it.

The coroner, a thin man with a mouth like a straight line drawn in ink, opened proceedings with brisk efficiency. He wasted no time calling the first witness, the police constable who’d discovered Walsh’s body.

"I was making my regular rounds," said the officer, a barrel-chested man in a damp uniform that still bore traces of the rain. "Passed by Hanbury Street at a quarter past midnight. Body wasn’t there then. Found him just before one. So he’d been dead less than an hour."

"And the scene?" the coroner asked.

"No signs of struggle. Just Lord Walsh, slumped against the wall. Looked like he fell where he stood." He cleared his throat. “Of course, it was not natural. There was blood all over him.”

No cries, no chase. Just silence and sudden death. Julia made no sound, but I saw the faintest tremor in her fingers.

The next witness entered with an air of practiced humility. Her black dress was modest, her hair pinned simply. She folded her hands and kept her eyes downcast—the perfect picture of a respectable widow. But even I could see through it. The court could, too. There was nothing respectable about Mrs. Evangeline Pratt.

"Lord Walsh was a friend of my late husband’s,” she said softly. "He visited from time to time. Out of kindness, you see.”

Kindness. That word clanged in the room like a cracked bell.

"And the night in question?" the coroner asked.

"He came around eight. Stayed for tea. Left around half eleven."

"You shared tea?" the coroner said.

"And conversation. Nothing more."

The way she tried to dress up the truth in clean linen would have been comical if it weren't so tragic. Walsh hadn’t gone to her for conversation. He’d kept her. She was his mistress, veils and tea notwithstanding.

Next came the medical examiner who wasted no time with his testimony. “Single stab wound to the heart," he intoned. "Blade entered cleanly between the ribs. Death was instantaneous."

"Would it require strength?"

"No. Only precision. The sort of placement that suggests familiarity with the anatomy."

Julia did not flinch, but the room seemed to draw tighter around her.

Then came Dodson, smug and iron-backed.

"We have reason to believe Lord Walsh was the victim of a professional killing," he said.

"On what grounds?" the coroner asked.

"The nature of the wound. The lack of struggle. The target's connections to business schemes of questionable legality."

"And do you have a suspect in mind?"

Dodson looked directly at Julia.

"Not at present. But I believe the killer was hired by someone close to him.”

The implication was clear. Murmurs stirred. I felt my jaw clench.

The coroner, to his credit, cut him off. "Chief Inspector, this inquest is to determine cause of death, not speculate on motives or guilt."

"Understood," Dodson said, though his voice oozed satisfaction.

The jury filed back in less than an hour.

"We find that Lord Percival Walsh met his death by a wound inflicted with intent by person or persons unknown."

A neat phrase to wrap a bloody truth.

As we rose, Julia let out a quiet breath, the first she'd allowed herself since the proceedings began. I gently looped my arm through hers and escorted her outside where the wind tugged at her veil.

She did not speak until we were safely within the carriage.

"They all think I did it," she whispered.

I met her gaze. "Then we shall prove you didn’t."

And in my heart, I silently vowed—no matter the cost.