Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
‘What advice?’
Frederick smiles as my brother slams the door of Lymington’s carriage shut. ‘I’d prefer to hear the Duke of Chester’s take,’ Frank says.
‘What the hell is happening?’ Lymington barks. That’s a damn fine question, and I would be grateful if someone would please enlighten me.
‘I believe we might be witnessing your demise,’ Frank chirps, all too happily.
‘I am thoroughly confused,’ I confess.
‘I was feeling somewhat that way myself,’ Frederick says. ‘Until Winters explained.’
‘Explained what?’
‘I feel it only right the man himself gets to enlighten the crowds,’ Frederick muses, rocking back on his heels, like he is settling in for quite a show.
Out of patience and feeling my hope soar – hope that I am unsure is wasted – I march to Johnny. ‘I demand answers.’
‘Make your demands in the bedroom, my darling,’ he whispers, loud enough for only me to hear. My mouth falls open. My God, he’s crazy. I look at my father who looks… happy? And to my mother, who has moved to her husband’s side and is looking up at him in question. Papa pats her forearm, his smile growing.
‘Arrest him!’ Lymington barks again.
‘Oh, do shut up,’ Johnny mutters, opening up the newspaper as he starts a leisurely pace up and down the cobbles.
‘He murdered his family! Burned them alive in a fit of fury for bringing shame upon his name.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what this report says, Lymington. The one written by Porter some months ago. Do you recall it?’
‘I… I… I…’
‘You… you… you? You must recall, since it was you who fed Porter the facts. I use the word loosely.’ Johnny snarls, moving in, and Lymington leans back. ‘Are you afraid, Lymington? Because you should be. You murdered my family.’
‘What?’ I whisper.
‘Well,’ Johnny says, his jaw uncomfortably tight, ‘my father, at least.’
‘You’re talking rubbish!’
‘Am I?’ Johnny frees Lymington from his deadly glare for just a second and pulls a piece of parchment from his trousers, holding it up. ‘A letter written from Porter to Burt Melrose. Lymington here ended Porter when he returned from visiting a friend in York. A friend who confirmed Lymington was close to bankruptcy not too long ago.’ Johnny waves the letter. ‘His wife found this letter addressed to Melrose in his desk spilling every detail.’
‘Arrest that man,’ Father orders with grit, pointing at Lymington. ‘He murdered the Duke of Chester in cold blood.’
That is well and good, but we still do not know why.
‘I will have you all banished!’ Lymington protests. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘You,’ Johnny says, sounding as accusing as he appears, ‘knew my father was about to revolutionise printing with his invention. You saw an opportunity, so you stole his idea and murdered him. Then you sold his invention to the Germans, claiming it as your own, but you didn’t want the credit, did you? Because to take the credit would have raised suspicion. So in exchange, you took a machine and gave it to Melrose in a dirty deal that would see your bank account go from empty to bulging. And as a bonus, you got to control the press too. Spill your lies about my family. Make sure the Winters could never return and claim what is rightfully theirs.’
‘My God,’ I whisper as the constable moves in and seizes Lymington. ‘Frederick, do something!’ he wails, but Frederick simply shakes his head, in disappointment, I suppose. ‘Frederick?’
‘Goodbye, Father.’ Looking at me, Frederick bows his head, a small smile tickling the corner of his mouth, and I know, I just know, where he is heading. I nod in return, sending him on his way with my silent blessing and best wishes.
‘Ah, finally they have arrived.’ Johnny says as the sound of horses’ hooves clip-clop into the square.
‘What? Who?’ I turn, along with everyone else, to see two black stallions pulling a carriage into the street.
The carriage rumbles to a stop, and the silent anticipation is palpable as we wait with bated breath for whoever is inside to emerge.
The door swings open with force and a man appears. A man, make no mistake, that could only be Johnny’s brother. ‘God, it’s good to be back,’ he declares, hopping down, his smile stretched wide across his handsome face.
‘Brother,’ Johnny murmurs, going to him. They hug fondly. ‘You must be weary after your travels.’
He smirks, smacking Johnny on the shoulder. ‘Yes, indeed, so weary.’ He does not look in the least bit weary.
I stare on, shocked, which is quite a feat on my part, for I knew the rumours to be untrue. They were never murdered, but that is not my issue in this moment of clarity. Yet regardless of my silent conclusions, I cannot fathom how the rest of Belmore Square must feel to see a member of the Winters family, who is supposed to be dead. Dead! But as I cast a look around, I suddenly can. Shocked would describe it well.