Double Jeopardy

Four

Four“You can’t mean that!”

Isabella Wilmington stood, arms folded, chin thrust forward, hips angled in a fighting stance, and glared at Sebastian.

“It’s self-evident,” he said in a strong, deep voice. “I can’t see how you could think anything else.”

She felt her face flush with annoyance. Sure, this man was a lot older than her — what was he, thirty or something? And she was nineteen, well, nearly twenty, but that didn’t excuse him dismissing her so lightly.

“Just how can you be so sure that Alycia’s death had nothing to do with our search for my brother? She was pouring a lot of time and money into finding him. Maybe someone took exception.”

“What? And hired some clapped-out, crazy rebel to assassinate her?” His laugh had a derisive edge. “You’re confused. She wasn’t Abraham Lincoln.”

She moved her hands to her hips and her voice rose a register.

“Maybe the ‘clapped-out rebel’ wasn’t as crazy as he led you to believe. He got the job done, didn’t he?”

They were standing either side of the dining table in Basil Stockton’s hotel suite, several hours after Alycia’s funeral. The mourners had all departed, her mother had retired to her room, and Basil had collapsed into exhausted sleep. It had seemed like the best possible time to get Sebastian Russell to one side and explain why it was important to keep up the search that Alycia had so strongly supported.

Except the conversation was not going how she had planned. Sebastian was being difficult. She stood back and coolly regarded him. Lightly freckled face, framed by short, copper-colored hair and matching trimmed mustache and beard, deep brown eyes and thick, reddish-brown eyebrows.

Sebastian Russell was what her mother called a “fine figure of a man”. Tall and strong-shouldered, with a confidence that didn’t need to draw attention to itself. Quiet and deep, this one. Pity he was so dogmatic. And staring back at her as though she was some spoiled brat who needed to be brought into line.

“Maybe he’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for. Tell me if I’m wrong, but you don’t know a thing more about him now than you did two minutes after he fired that pistol at Alycia. Would I be right in that?”

She didn’t much like the triumphant note her voice had taken, but heck, he deserved it.

He sighed. “Polk. We know his name. It’s Polk.” He flashed her a brief, self-deprecating grin. “That’s if he’s telling us the truth, mind you. Maybe he’s got us all outfoxed.”

He gestured to one of the dining table chairs. “Look, let’s sit down, Isabella. I don’t want to fight about this. Let’s try and sort out a plan that suits us both.”

She dropped into the chair on her side of the table, and he sank into the one on the opposite side.

“So tell me.” Her voice was crisp and businesslike. “How do you see things progressing from here?”

He cleared his throat and spoke more softly. “I have promised Basil I will do all I can to find out what led this man to carry out this act. I agree with you it all seems more than strange. Basil isn’t convinced it was the random act of a crazy man, and I tend to agree. Too much doesn’t add up.”

She nodded and took a deep breath before she spoke. When she did, she struggled to sound conciliatory. “I don’t have a problem with that. I want Alycia’s killer to be fully identified as much as you and Basil do. Well, there’s no doubt who pulled the trigger. We just don’t have a clue what led him to do it.”

Seb nodded. “But I can’t see how it’s got anything to do with your brother. I mean, he’s been missing for seventeen years. We’ve no clue if he’s even alive. My apologies for speaking plainly, but what possible connection could there be?”

Isabella felt her temper rising again. Heat flushed through her, and it took all her self-control to speak slowly and moderately. “I’m not saying there is a connection. Or that there isn’t. I am saying that Alycia and Basil were generous enough to pay for a private investigator to search for any clues to him — and that now Alycia is gone, Basil is still willing for that to continue. I would simply appreciate that you, as Basil’s man here in California, give your support to that and don’t undermine it.”

Sebastian frowned. “Isabella, you’re a smart girl. You know that in the last decade, hundreds of thousands of young men — many your brother’s age, and some younger — died. Some in battle, many more from disease. It just seems like a fool’s errand to spend money on trying to find someone who — if he did live, and we’ve got no reason to believe he did — probably ended up marching off to war with the rest of his generation, to die unnoticed in the mud of some equally unknown field. It’s what’s happened to thousands of families. I’m sorry, but that’s how life goes. Maybe being out here in California it wasn’t so obvious as it was back East.”

Her head jerked up and she held herself tight as tears threatened to flood her. She would not let this curmudgeon see he’d upset her. Her throat blocked, teeth gritted, solar plexus locked down, as the wave of intense grief passed and she held fast. She was not going to let him kill her hope, slim as it may be. A long silence ensued as she deflected her gaze to the floor and took some deep breaths. When she felt ready, she raised her eyes and leveled her gaze back to his implacable brown eyes. Ready, aim, fire.

“Sebastian, I can’t pretend to understand what you experienced as a Union man. I know that, so please don’t take offense. What you’ve seen and done — it’s beyond my ken. I get that. But the war is over. We’re into the next act. And this is where things do get better — families are reconciled, the lost are found. Maybe you’ve lost sight of that. God forbid that you’re not just as mired in the past as Johnny Reb Polk in the county prison.”

She saw his eyes flicker in surprise. They sat, both looking at the table top rather than each other, for what seemed like a long time.

Sebastian coughed. “I stand rebuked.” He flashed her another wry smile. “I deserved that. I’m letting my disenchantment show. You probably consider it insufferable cynicism. It’s not something I’m proud of.”

His tone put a full stop on the conversation, and neither of them seemed to be capable of starting the next sentence. They were sitting in painful silence when they were startled by an urgent rapping on the door. They turned as one, and Seb half-rose, calling permission for the visitor to enter as he stood.

The police sergeant who had been in the theater box when Alycia was killed stepped into the room. “Mr Russell—” He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Isabella.

Seb cleared his throat. “Continue, Sergeant. Miss Wilmington is aware of all the circumstances here.”

“I see, sir. I just thought you should know … I mean to say, I have something I need to tell you.” Again he looked uncertainly towards Isabella, and then to Sebastian.

“Go ahead, Sergeant, please. You obviously consider it important.”

“The thing is, sir, the prisoner Polk, well, he’s died by his own hand. Hanged himself in his cell, he has. Just a couple of hours ago.”

Sebastian’s tanned face drained to chalky white. He sank back down in the chair he had just risen from. The iciness Isabella had felt when Alycia died gripped her core, and she guessed her own face was also fading to a sickly pallor.

“Hanged himself?” Sebastian’s query was a faint echo of the sergeant’s announcement. “How? There wasn’t anything in that cell he could use when I was there.”

The sergeant tapped his foot and reddened. “We don’t know, sir. Someone must have supplied him with a rope. We just don’t know who or how.”