Violet leaps to her feet in the hot and airless room and turns to Jane. “You? You killed him?”
“Ah.” The blond man squares his papers. “You are perhaps acquainted with the unfortunate Dr. Grant, Mrs. Brown?”
Violet opens her mouth. Every eye is fixed upon her. Jane is impassive; Henry, leaning forward in the chair next to his mother, looks flushed. She can only imagine the expression on Lionel’s face. This, after all he’s done, after all his careful preparations. Naive Violet tumbles without a bump into the most elementary of traps, clumsily set.
A chair leg scrapes briefly against the wooden floor.
“Yes.” Violet hides her shameful damp palms in her skirt. “We know Dr. Grant. What shocking news. I believe we met the man at some party or another. At Jane’s apartment, isn’t that right, darling?”
“Why, I guess you’re right,” says Lionel. “Or maybe it was that evening with the baroness. Poor old fellow. You say he was murdered?” Lionel makes a tsking sound.
“Yes, he was. A most bloody crime, wasn’t it, Madame de Saint-Honoré?” says the blond man.
“This is nonsense,” says Lionel. “Jane wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
The blond man smiles at Violet. “And of course you must have met Dr. Grant’s lovely wife, Mrs. Brown. American, too, by a happy coincidence.”
Violet resumes her seat. “I think so. I don’t remember exactly.”
His head dips once more to the papers before him. He sifts through them, one by one. “Perhaps this will help your memory. She is of above average height, with reddish hair and blue eyes. A pretty young woman, about twenty-two years of age.” He looks up. “Rather like yourself, in fact.”
“This is nonsense,” Lionel says again. “What exactly are you trying to imply? That my wife is also married to this Dr. Grant? That she’s somehow involved in his murder?”
The blond man smiles at him. “Your words, sir. Not mine.”
Lionel’s voice gains urgency. “Now look. You’ve detained a group of tourists on suspicion of capital murder—capital murder!—without a single shred of proof, let alone evidence. In America we have a little saying, sir. Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Naturally, the system of American justice is the wonder of the world.” The blond man’s lip makes a little curl. “But, alas. I’m afraid we in Germany are in a declared state of preparedness for war, which allows the police a little more freedom to perform our duties. And I do”—here he patted the papers before him—“have a number of eyewitness accounts, of a man and a woman matching your descriptions, both entering and leaving the apartment of Dr. Grant around the day of the murder. Leaving the city hastily together that night, I regret to add. And there is the question of Mrs. Grant.” He turns to Violet, and the curl in his lip becomes a full-fledged smile, the cat who happened upon the unguarded canary.
“What question is that, sir? What are you implying?” says Lionel.
“I am implying, my good fellow, that you are not Edward and Sylvia Brown of New York City. I am implying that you are the Englishman Lionel Richardson and his lover, Mrs. Violet Grant. That you are fleeing Berlin with Madame de Saint-Honoré, Dr. Grant’s known mistress, having murdered him in cold blood in his own library.” The blond man speaks passionately now, building to his thrilling climax. He rises to his feet. “And that you are now trying to escape German justice by entering Switzerland. And I promise you, Mr. Richardson, that will not happen!” His fist rams his point home on the table.
Violet cannot speak. This is out of her universe, beyond her experience. What did you say, in the face of accusation? What did you say, when caught in a trap, staring up at the poacher who planned to make a meal of you?
And they had been inches away. A few steps only, before the gate thudded down.
Lionel sits exquisitely still, watching the blond man without blinking. His quietude contrasts with the blistering passion that continues to echo in Violet’s ears: fleeing Berlin, known lover, murdered him in cold blood. And the clock, ticking softly, somewhere.
Henry clears his throat. Lionel holds up his hand.
“Very well, Herr—”
“Von Engel.” A look, meaning as you know very well.
“Herr von Engel. I am prepared to make a full confession, to cooperate fully with the police in this unfortunate affair.”
“You admit you murdered Dr. Grant?”
“I am prepared to confess that I acted, and acted alone. I put myself in your custody. I do so, however, under a single condition.”