“You are wrong. You see, if I get away, all the recent events can be blamed on me. You can say that I killed Fairfax for my own reasons, and Quiller because he was going to take back my alibi. Lord Chingford and Mr. Darling will be exonerated, and the Secretan name will be preserved. That is far better for you than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

Knowle gave a wintry smile. “If I am arrested, I shall deny Fairfax’s murder to my last breath. I shall confess to encouraging Lord Chingford to commit the crime, as well as to the killings of more than one of my former colleagues under the departed Lord Waring”—he nodded at Phoebe—“and any amount of crime, depravity, and viciousness. But not to Fairfax. I will stand in the witness box and admit everything but that. I will tell the jury—the world—precisely what Fairfax had on Lord Chingford, and you know with what sentimental outrage that will be received.” His eyes were gleaming. “His fingerprints are on the murder weapon; there is the handkerchief, and Quiller’s evidence that I was with him at the time of the killing—”

“A lie,” Kim said.

“Prove it. I will see him swing. I will kill your heir, Lord Flitby, and destroy your name when the world finds out what he did in the war, and saddle you in his place with a degenerate cowardly gaolbird that you will be ashamed to acknowledge—”

“Gaolbird?” Will said. “Since when?”

Kim flicked a finger towards his father. “He’s got the book.”

Will hadn’t noticed. But there it was, held loosely in Flitby’s hand. White Stains, with its illegal, obscene poetry, and that bloody inscription in Kim’s own writing.

“That’s mine,” he said.

“That much is obvious, Mr. Darling. Quite an extraordinary message for Lord Arthur Secretan to write to another man, wouldn’t you say? One that would mightily interest the police. Were you not raided once already on suspicion of indecent behaviour with him?”

“The sergeant in question is currently serving a four-year sentence for corruption,” Kim said. “That kite won’t fly. And you will struggle to destroy my reputation when I don’t have one.”

Knowle smirked. “You may not care what’s said about you, Lord Arthur, though in fact I think you do. But your father cares. He doesn’t want you proclaimed all over London as the Oscar Wilde sort, any more than he wants Lord Chingford disgraced. And I expect Mr. Darling feels the same.” He looked to Will. “You wouldn’t like your friends and family knowing you keep Lord Arthur’s bed warm, would you?”

“Don’t tell me what I think,” Will said. “And go fuck yourself. Excuse my French, ladies.”

Phoebe waved a hand. “Not at all, darling.”