The tea was brought in, and Violet looked at it queasily. Cook had seen fit to include some cream cakes oozing a pink filling, which under the circumstances were quite disgusting.

George ignored the tea. “Violet, this is very important. You are sure it was three nights before the morning I left that she is thought to have been killed?”

“Mmm.” Violet swallowed and dragged her eyes from the ghastly cream cakes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Thank the Lord.” George closed her eyes.

“Georgie, I know you care for him, but you can’t.” Oscar’s voice held a warning. “You simply can’t.”

“His life is at stake.” George leaned toward her brother as if she could infuse him with her passion. “What sort of a woman would I be if I ignored that?”

“What?” Violet looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple.” George finally seemed to notice the steaming teapot and reached to pour. “Harry couldn’t have killed Mistress Pollard on that night.” She handed a cup to Violet and met her eyes. “He spent it with me.”

HARRY WAS DREAMING.

In the dream there was an argument going on between an ugly ogre, a young king, and a beautiful princess. The ugly ogre and the young king looked more or less as they should, considering it was a dream. But the princess didn’t have ruby lips or raven black hair. She had ginger hair and Lady Georgina’s lips. Which was just as well. It was his dream after all, and he had a right to make his princess look like anyone he wanted. In his opinion, springy ginger hair was far more beautiful than smooth raven locks any day of the week.

The young king was nattering on about the law and evidence and such in an upper-crust accent so refined it made your teeth ache. Harry could quite understand why the ogre was bellowing in reply, trying to drown out the young king’s monologue. He’d bellow at the blighter if he could. The young king seemed to want the ogre’s tin stag. Harry suppressed a laugh. He wished he could tell the young king that the tin stag wasn’t worth anything.

The stag had long ago lost the better part of its rack and stood on only three legs. And besides, the animal wasn’t magic. It couldn’t talk and never had.

But the young king was stubborn. He wanted the stag, and he was going to have the stag, by God. To that end, he was badgering the ogre in that overbearing way the aristocracy had, as if everyone else was put on this earth merely for the joy of licking his lordship’s boots clean. Thank you, m’lord. It’s been a pleasure, it really has.