*
Two hours later, when Mr. Kent, a disguised Sebastian, and I entered the office of the Daily Telegraph, we found ourselves stopped at the front by an assistant. He wouldn’t let us speak to the editor, despite our use of the magic words: “We have information about Sebastian Braddock.”
“So do ten others this morning,” he told us. “You can tell me first, and I’ll bring it to Mr. Warren when he’s not quite so busy.”
Mr. Kent tried another set of magic words. “But if you take us to him now, then we won’t tell Mr. Warren about … what was that awful thing you did?”
Suddenly, Mr. Warren was no longer busy.
We were let into his cluttered office. He was a slight man with spectacles and a thin mustache. He looked buried by the amount of stacked books and papers around him.
“What is it?” Mr. Warren barked without even the politeness to look up. “We’re very busy here, there’s a great deal—”
“We have the truth about Sebastian Braddock for you,” I said. “And it’s not that ridiculous story portraying him as a vampire.”
Mr. Warren finally gave me his attention. His disdainful attention. “There have been many ridiculous stories that have been proven true this past week,” he said. “What is your rational explanation then for the horrible murders?”
“He was framed for the murder,” I said. “Because he is already wanted by the police, he is being blamed while the true murderer goes unnamed.”
“And who is the true murderer?”
“His name is Mr. Jarsdel. He was brought to the Brunswick Square police station yesterday and provided a full confession of his involvement in the murder, and not a single report has been made about it.”
Now Mr. Warren looked at us with actual interest. “And you know this because you were the three who brought him in and left.”
“So the police would actually do their job.”
Mr. Warren put his pen down and folded his hands. “From what I’ve heard, they did. They questioned him extensively and found he’d been threatened and coerced into making these confessions. At the end of the day, an order was sent down to let him go due to insufficient evidence.”
I felt my rage grow, and I resisted the impulse to destroy the editor’s office. Not that it could be made messier. “They what? He just lied to them, and they let him go?”
“Do you have any proof that he did what you say he did?”
I glanced at Mr. Kent.
He took his cue. “Mr. Warren, do you believe in the existence of the ridiculous powers that Captain Goode has so recently informed the world of?”
“I believe so.”
“Have you ever cried because someone didn’t love you back?”
“Yes,” Mr. Warren answered, disconcerted.
“Did you want to answer that last question?”
“No.”
“Why do you think you did?”
Mr. Warren’s eyes widened as he realized it. “You have a power.”
Mr. Kent nodded in approval. “I do, indeed. The power to ask a question and receive an honest answer. Which is what I used to question Mr. Jarsdel when we brought him to the police after cornering him at the British Museum. Anything that I asked him was his true confession. Anything he said to the police after was likely a lie.”
Mr. Warren took a heavy breath and leaned back in his chair, taking in everything that we had said. He looked between the three of us as if he might figure out what we were thinking.
“You know, before Captain Goode made his announcement, I heard a strange story about a man who managed to extract secrets from three policemen in C Division and blackmail them to help Sebastian Braddock and an unnamed woman escape arrest.”
Mr. Kent’s face remained impassive. “That does sound rather strange.”
Mr. Warren looked at Sebastian closely, seeing through his disguise. “Can you ask Mr. Braddock whether he murdered Sir Thomas Cox?”
Mr. Kent chuckled. “Oh, we didn’t introduce ourselves. This is Mr. Haddock—”
“Just do it,” I said.
He frowned at me for not playing along, as if changing to a rhyming name would completely fool everyone. “Fine, Mr. Braddock, did you kill the baronet two nights before?”
“No,” Sebastian answered.
“Now ask him if he attacked the Queen at Westminster Abbey.”
Mr. Kent rolled his eyes. “Did you attack the Queen at Westminster Abbey?”
“No.”
Mr. Warren sniffed, still looking stern. “I see. One last question. Ask him if he killed those people at the Belgrave Ball.”
Oh dear. That was not a question I wanted him to answer. “We told you he did not,” I said.
“Then allow me this one question, otherwise I will call for the police right now.”
A moment of silence reigned.
Mr. Kent sucked on his teeth and cleared his throat. “Fine. Mr. Braddock, were you responsible for the deaths at the Belgrave Ball?”
“Yes,” Sebastian said, his voice a broken whisper, his face wretched.
Dammit. Even with the slightly rephrased question. “It’s more complicated than that,” I said. “Captain Goode is the one who orchestrated it—”
But Mr. Warren was already up and out of his chair.
“I’ll handle this,” Mr. Kent said, blocking Mr. Warren’s path to the door. “Mr. Warren, what is the worst thing you’ve done?”
“I’ve missed church several times because I wanted to sleep longer,” he said.
Mr. Kent scoffed. “Fine, what is your deepest secret?”
“I wish I’d had more fun in my youth rather than work so much,” Mr. Warren sputtered out.
“Yes, you really should have. Bad choice there. Is there anything at all that I can blackmail you with?”
“No.” The answer hung in the air as Mr. Warren sneered at us. “Do you realize you’re not even the first person to attempt to blackmail me today? I run a newspaper.”
Mr. Kent looked at us sheepishly. “I must admit, I don’t know what to do next. This hasn’t happened before.” His eyes lit up with an idea, and he turned back to Mr. Warren. “Oh, do you take bribes?”
“I do not!” Mr. Warren declared. “So I will tell you what we will do next. I will write the story of your arrest right after the police arrive.”
He tried to rush to the door, but Mr. Kent was expecting it. He seized him by the arm and asked Mr. Warren for his eighty favorite foods, interrupting his shout for help.
“Call the—porridge! Mincemeat pie! Strawberries!”
“We should probably let Mr. Warren get his lunch. He sounds hungry,” Mr. Kent said, hurrying us out of the office.
Mr. Warren’s shouts got louder and more frantic behind us as he grabbed members of his staff and pointed at us, cursing us with various food names. “Pork roast! Cucumber sandwiches! Milk!”
Mr. Kent paused for a moment. “I don’t think milk qualifies as a food—”
I shoved him forward. “We’ll write a letter to the editor later.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said politely to the assistant by the front.
As we left the building, the last thing I saw was Mr. Warren by the window, frantically writing a message even as his mouth continued to move against his will.
Then we were outside and safely in our carriage, our breaths heavy and the only sounds the fading exclamations of a man sharing his appreciation for various types of tarts.
Chapter Ten
“IT COULD BE WORSE,” Miss Chen said as we stared at the next morning’s Daily Telegraph headline.
BRADDOCK & COMPANIONS: BLACKMAILING CRIMINALS, it read.
“At least he didn’t know who you were,” Catherine said.
“Underneath their poor disguises, I could see they matched the witness descriptions of the three assailants at the Queen’s speech,” I read aloud.
“But he must admit you did some good, too,” Mr. Adeoti said hopefully.
“In their attempt to convince me of their innocence, they all but admitted to setting the British Museum on fire in an effort to capture the man they claimed to be the real culprit.”
“That’s … a little of your side of the story,” Rose offered.
“Given this pattern, it is very likely that they had some involvement in the two fires last night that each claimed a victim.”