Apollo blinked, pushing back the images, the terrible memories, and looked at Trevillion.
The soldier stared back, his spine straight, his expression grim and resolute. “This is an injustice that must be righted—that I must right. I’m going to help you find the real murderer.”
Apollo grinned—though not in mirth. He took up his pencil and wrote, his words so angry that the point gouged the paper in places: How? I was in Bedlam four years and in that time no one doubted my guilt. You yourself thought me guilty when you attacked me just now. Where will you find the man or men who actually did the crime?
Trevillion read that and said drily, “In point of fact, you attacked me.”
Apollo snorted and waved aside the other’s reply. Besides, won’t your superiors resent your time spent away from the dragoons?
The other man’s face went blank. “I am no longer a dragoon.”
Apollo stared at that. Even in his unrelieved black, Trevillion looked every inch the dragoon captain. He glanced at the leg and wondered when the injury had happened. In his hazy memory of that awful morning, he didn’t recollect the other man’s being so badly lamed. He had a feeling, though, that any questions would not be welcome.
Instead he wrote, My point remains: how do you expect to find the murderer after so long?
The former soldier looked at him. “You must have some idea, some suspicion, about who could’ve killed your friends?”
Apollo’s eyes narrowed. He had, in fact, spent hours—days—meditating on this very subject. He wrote cautiously, Our purses were taken.
“A large amount?”
Apollo twisted his mouth. Not on my part—I’d already paid for the room and wine. I doubt the others had more than a guinea or two between them. Tate had a rather fine gold watch, though—his late father’s. That was stolen.
“Not a large haul for three men dead,” Trevillion said softly.
Men have been killed for less.
“True,” the soldier replied, “but not usually so methodically.” He stared for a moment at nothing, absently rubbing his calf. Then his gaze sharpened. “Who were they, the men who were killed? I was told at the time, but I’ve forgotten since.”
Apollo listed the names.
Trevillion pursed his lips over the notebook. “How well did you know them?”
They were men I liked, men I drank with, but I was not especially close to any of them. Smithers I had only met that night.
And yet his boyish face was now imprinted on Apollo’s mind forever.
“Were they rich? Had they enemies?”
Apollo shrugged. Maubry was the third son of a baron and doomed to the church. Tate was his uncle’s heir, I believe, and would’ve come into a comfortable sum—or so the rumors went at school. Whether they were correct or not, I cannot say. Smithers seemed to have no blunt at all, but he was dressed well enough, certainly. As to enemies, I do not know.
Trevillion read carefully before looking up, his eyes intent. “Had you enemies?”
He wrote with a wry twist to his mouth, Until that night I would have said no.
Trevillion glanced at his words and nodded sharply. “Very well, then. I shall investigate the matter and return when I can to consult with you.”
The man got laboriously to his feet. Apollo moved to help him once and was met with a furious scowl.
He didn’t again.
When Trevillion was at last upright, his face was reddened and shone with sweat.
“Be careful, my lord,” the former soldier said, for the first time giving him the courtesy of his title. “If I could find you, others might do so as well.”
h;From The Minotaur
Trevillion stared up into Kilbourne’s bloodied face and knew he was about to die of hubris.