Read Chapter 17: The Alibi

The gas lamps along Belgrave Square cast long, wavering shadows as Graves climbed the marble steps of Sir Marcus Finch’s residence. He had left his coat unbuttoned, the weight of the revolver in his pocket a familiar comfort. The door opened before he could knock—a butler with a face like polished bone, who wordlessly stepped aside.

The interior was all mahogany and oil paintings, the sort of wealth that announced itself without shouting. Graves was led to a study at the rear of the house, where a fire crackled behind a grate of wrought iron. Finch stood by the window, a glass of brandy in his hand, his silver hair catching the light.

“Inspector Graves,” Finch said, turning. His smile was practiced, warm even. “I confess I did not expect you to come.”

“You sent for me. I assumed you had something to say.”

Finch gestured to a leather chair. “Please. I find confrontations are always more civil when both parties are seated.”

Graves remained standing. “I prefer to keep my feet. Easier to leave.”

Finch chuckled, setting down his glass. “Very well. I understand you have been quite busy since we last spoke. Visiting banks. Tracking down actuarial colleagues. Stirring up trouble in places best left undisturbed.”

“You heard about Ashworth, then.”

Finch’s expression did not change, but something flickered behind his eyes. “I heard he was killed. A tragedy. The man had a family, I believe.”

“He did,” Graves said. “And the men who killed him will answer for it.”

Finch moved toward the fireplace, warming his hands. “I did not summon you here to trade threats, Inspector. I summoned you because I believe you are a reasonable man, and I wished to offer you an opportunity to end this pursuit with your reputation—and your life—intact.”

“That sounds like a threat dressed in a suit.”

“Call it pragmatism.” Finch turned to face him. “You have a ledger. I have connections. We can make an arrangement.”

Graves allowed a thin smile. “I don’t make arrangements with murderers.”

“Murderers?” Finch raised an eyebrow. “I am many things, Inspector. A businessman. A philanthropist. A patron of the arts. But a murderer?” He shook his head slowly. “That is a serious accusation. I assume you have evidence.”

“I have forged death certificates bearing your signature.”

Finch’s smile did not waver. “Do you? How interesting. And yet you are here, speaking to me, rather than taking them to the authorities.”

“The authorities, as you well know, are not always reliable.”

“No,” Finch agreed. “They are not. Which is why I have prepared something for you.” He walked to his desk and retrieved a folded document, extending it toward Graves. “Go on. Read it.”

Graves hesitated, then took the paper. It was a letter, embossed with the crest of a legal firm on Chancery Lane. He scanned the contents, his jaw tightening.

“This is an affidavit,” he said.

“Signed and witnessed,” Finch replied. “It attests that on the evening of Frederick Marsh’s death, I was in the company of Lord Pembroke and his entire household at a private dinner in Richmond. I did not leave until well past midnight. The time of his murder was, I believe, nine o’clock.”

Graves read the document twice. It was detailed, thorough, corroborated by no fewer than six signatures. He looked up. “This proves you were at dinner. It does not prove you did not order the killing.”

“It proves I could not have carried it out myself. And the only witness who might have connected me to the act is dead.” Finch paused, letting the implication settle. “Ashworth was shot, I understand, by a marksman. I am many things, Inspector, but I am not a sharpshooter. My eyes have failed me in my old age.”

“You hired someone.”

“Allegations require proof,” Finch said pleasantly. “And you have none—not anymore.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Your journalist friend is dead. Your actuary is dead. The only woman who claimed to have evidence against me was found floating in the Thames before she could speak. You are alone, Inspector. And what you carry in that ledger is nothing but paper—names, numbers, suspicions.”

Graves felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket, imagined the satisfaction of using it. But that was not why he had come. He had come to see Finch’s face, to read him, to find the crack in the armor.

“You forgot something,” Graves said.

“Oh?”

“Eleanor Whittaker.” Graves watched Finch’s expression carefully. “Her letter. She was writing it when she died. I wonder what she intended to say.”

Finch’s smile flickered—just for a moment, just enough. “A tragedy. Eleanor was a dear friend. I mourned her passing.”

“Did you?” Graves folded the affidavit and tucked it into his coat. “I will keep this. For reference.”

Finch’s eyes narrowed. “That is my document.”

“It is a copy, surely. You would not part with the original so easily.” Graves moved toward the door, then stopped, turning back. “One more thing. The photograph found at the scene of Ashworth’s death—the one with the man wearing the ring.”

Finch’s hand moved instinctively toward his own, then stopped. He tucked his fingers into his waistcoat pocket. “I do not know what you mean.”

“No?” Graves walked toward him, close enough to smell the cologne—something expensive, spiced. “May I see your hand?”

Finch did not move. For a long moment, the two men stood facing each other, the fire crackling between them. Then Finch extended his left hand, palm up, with the theatrical grace of a magician about to reveal a trick.

“Of course. I have nothing to hide.”

Graves looked at the thick gold band on Finch’s middle finger. An intricate crest was engraved into the metal—a serpent coiled around a key. It matched, in every detail, the ring visible in the photograph. The ring worn by a man who had been declared dead three years ago.

Graves felt the air leave his lungs. He forced his expression to remain neutral.

“Lovely piece,” he said. “Family heirloom?”

“A gift,” Finch replied, retracting his hand. “From a business associate. Long since departed.”

Graves nodded slowly. “I see. Well, Sir Marcus, I thank you for your hospitality. And for your affidavit. It will make an excellent exhibit when this matter comes to trial.”

Finch’s smile faltered. “You are out of your depth, Inspector.”

“Perhaps,” Graves said. “But at least I am in the water.” He turned and walked to the door, the butler appearing as if summoned by some silent bell.

As the door closed behind him, Graves heard Finch’s voice, low and hard: “You should have taken the arrangement.”

Graves did not look back. He walked down the marble steps into the cold night air, his mind racing. The ring matched. It was not a copy—he had seen the photograph clearly enough, had studied it for hours. The man in that photograph was supposed to be dead, buried, his estate settled. But the same ring now adorned the hand of Sir Marcus Finch.

Which meant one of two things: either the dead man was alive, or Finch had taken his ring—and his identity—along with the bodies he had buried.

Graves hailed a cab, giving the driver Clara’s address. His thoughts churned. The affidavit was a blow—he could not tie Finch directly to Marsh’s murder. But the ring was another thread, one Finch had not anticipated showing. And threads could be pulled.

He looked down at the folded affidavit in his hand. The ink was fresh, the signatures still sharp. Finch had been confident, arrogant even. But he had made a mistake. He had let Graves see the ring.

And now Graves knew where to look next.