The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(16)
Fletcher saw Othello’s clenched fists, and he gave Fletcher a wide-eyed look. It was a terrible death, one that did not bear thinking about. Fletcher changed his mind. Imprisonment didn’t seem so bad after all.
‘Captain Arcturus, do you have any evidence, or witnesses, to call upon?’ Charles inquired innocently, his eyes sparkling with malice.
‘Since the charges were only brought against Fletcher an hour ago and I was unaware of Othello’s arrest, I don’t think you’ll be surprised that I find myself unprepared,’ Arcturus said, sarcasm dripping from his words.
‘If I remember correctly, you were petitioning King Harold himself for Fletcher to have a swift trial. I thought you would be happy!’ Charles said, equally sarcastic.
‘There is a big difference between a year and an hour, as you well know, Charles. Fortunately, witnesses and friends are flying in, and they are not too far away.’ Arcturus glared up at him. ‘At least one of them shall speak on Fletcher and Othello’s behalf, if they received my message in time.’
‘Excellent!’ Charles said, clapping his hands together. ‘Then you won’t mind the prosecution giving evidence first. Before we begin, I would like to pay my respects to King Harold.’
There was a smattering of applause, and Fletcher’s ears pricked up. Charles smiled and continued:
‘And of course, I cannot forget his illustrious father, the founder of the Inquisition, leader of the Pinkertons and overseer of the Judges – old King Alfric.’
Fletcher turned around to see two men in the crowd, sitting beside the Triumvirate. He had barely noticed them before, for they were dressed in much the same way as the other nobles in the crowd, but now he understood the meaning of the circlets resting on their heads.
‘Less of the old,’ Alfric called out in a cracked voice, eliciting an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.
Alfric’s son, King Harold, looked to be in his thirties, the same age as Arcturus. The gold circlet he wore rested on a mantle of wavy blond hair, above a handsome face and piercing grey eyes. In contrast, old King Alfric wore a silver circlet, with a long mane of white hair and an aquiline nose. He stared impassively around the room, though his eyes narrowed when they settled on Fletcher.
‘Now, I will call upon Sergeants Murphy and Turner, the lead investigators, to bring in the first piece of evidence,’ Charles announced, accompanied by a barked order from Rook.
Othello growled beneath his gag as the two Pinkertons came into the room, brandishing a small object wrapped in a white cloth. They handed it to Charles, flashing Othello and Fletcher a nasty smile. They did not linger long, instead doffing their peaked caps to the jury and strolling back out through the side door.
Charles waited until they had left the room, then pinched the white cloth between two fingers.
‘Our first piece of evidence,’ Charles cried, removing the cover with a flourish. ‘A tomahawk, belonging to Othello Thorsager!’
8
The room descended into smattered conversations and the front row leaned closer for a better look. Othello was yelling through his gag, his beard and moustache trembling as he tried to tear it through with his teeth.
‘That’s a lie!’ Fletcher shouted on his behalf, despite Arcturus’s attempts to quiet him. ‘That was stolen from us weeks before, when those two monsters broke Othello’s ribs.’
‘Weeks before what?’ Rook asked, holding his hand up for quiet. The chatter silenced almost immediately, and Fletcher found himself under the scrutiny of the entire room.
‘Weeks. Before. What?’ Charles repeated.
‘Before … the attack happened,’ Fletcher replied, his mind racing. What had he just done?
‘So you know when the attack happened? You admit you were there?’ Charles demanded, sensing weakness.
‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ Fletcher answered lamely.
Arcturus lay a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and gripped him so hard that he had to force himself not to wince.
‘I told Fletcher when and where the incident allegedly happened. Does that answer your question?’ Arcturus said, staring Charles down. They stood there for a moment, like two wolves vying for supremacy. It was Charles who broke eye-contact first, though he went on the attack as soon as he did.
‘The murder weapon bears the emblem of the Thorsagers, so it could only belong to a male member of the family. Both Othello’s father, Uhtred, and his brother, Atilla, provided alibis for where they were on the night in question. Although Othello is a student at Vocans, the staff there could do no such thing for him. As such, it is quite clear that it was Othello who slaughtered the soldiers.’
The jury examined the object with interest, some whispering to one another. Fletcher knew this wasn’t good.
‘Thank you, Inquisitor Faversham, very compelling. Please bring out the next piece of evidence,’ Rook said, scribbling something down on the paper in front of him.
This time, Charles did not call anyone in. He removed a simple card from a pocket in his uniform, brandishing it high for all to see.
‘This is a membership card for the Anvils. It was found among Fletcher’s belongings after his arrest. We were lucky to find it – his room had been ransacked by a mysterious benefactor,’ Charles said, raising his eyebrows at Arcturus. ‘After watching the last trial and seeing the scroll in the defence’s possession, I think it’s safe to say we know who did it.’