R.WYATT WILL see you in a few minutes,” Cecil’s butler told Gray. It was sleeting, and a fine sheen of icy droplets clung to Gray’s cashmere coat as the butler helped him off with it and carried it toward the hall closet.

Cecil received him in his study, seated behind a baronial desk and surrounded by portraits of his illustrious ancestors. “How are your parents, Gray?”

“They’re fine, thank you.”

The old man studied his features as Gray sat down in front of his desk. “I take it this isn’t a social call?” he concluded.

“I’m afraid not.”

He nodded, turned his head toward the departing butler, and said, “Get Henry Bartlett on the phone immediately.”

“There’s a detective waiting in front to take you down to the station house. Henry can meet you there.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“That depends on how cooperative you are in the next few minutes. Billy has just given us a statement regarding William’s death.”

“What did he tell you?”

Gray saw no reason not to answer, since he knew Henry Bartlett would be able to obtain Billy’s statement within a matter of hours. He gave Cecil the high points of Billy’s confession, and when he was finished, Cecil said coolly, “And you believe the boy’s story that I was involved?”

“Absolutely. It has bothered me all along that you kept Mitchell’s existence a secret until January. You met him for the first time in August, and the following month, Edward supposedly fell off his balcony to his death. In November, William vanished. And yet, Cecil, you were unconcerned with the fact that your newfound grandson’s return to the family fold coincided with both these occurrences. In fact, you kept his existence a secret from the police who were investigating both instances. Do you know what that told me?”

“That I was a sentimental, trusting old man who was blinded by guilt for denying Mitchell his heritage in the past?” Cecil suggested sarcastically.

“No, that you were a devious, arrogant, manipulative old man who had a need for a new heir apparent you could depend on, but you did not want the police or anyone else to know where he’d been for the last thirty-four years.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, but sincerely, “you are quite right. You have always been a rather bright young man.”

“Since we both know you aren’t sentimental or trusting, there’s only one reason left for you not to have suspected Mitchell was responsible for Edward’s death or William’s disappearance.”

“And that reason would be?”

“That you already knew what happened to both men, and that Mitchell hadn’t been involved. With that suspicion in mind, I had already reopened the investigation into William’s disappearance—with you as a target of the investigation—when Billy suddenly came to my office.”

“And told you what?”

“He told me he’d heard Mitchell tell Caroline that he’d never been to the farm, which Billy said was a lie. That focused us on Mitchell. Now you tell me something, Cecil: When did you find out what Billy had done? When did you discover he’d planted a button from Mitchell’s coat at the well?”

“Caroline came here right after you had Billy call Mitchell down in St. Maarten. She told me what was going on. She was beside herself thinking that she and I were harboring a murderer in our midst. I told her I felt sure there was some mistake.”

“You knew Billy had planted the button?”

“Are we talking off the record?”

Gray hesitated; then he nodded. “Off the record.”

“I realized at once that it had to be Billy. Who else would have done such a thing? Besides that, he was sitting right in front of me when Caroline told me about the button you’d found, and your suspicions about Mitchell, and the phone call you had Billy make. I could tell from Billy’s face that he was responsible for everything. He smiled at me. He was quite proud of his cunning, actually.”

Gray nodded, thinking things over, surprised that Cecil was so forthcoming, even off the record. “If Mitchell’s coat had been delivered to him any time before William’s disappearance, we would have arrested him and tried him for William’s murder. Were you going to let him be convicted, just to save Billy’s hide?”

Leaning forward, Cecil folded his hands on his desk, and said proudly and emphatically, “Mitchell would never have let that happen. He is a survivor, like me, and like them—” Lifting his chin, he indicated the ancestral portraits on the wall across from him.

Rather than pointlessly debate Cecil’s logic, Gray got down to the real purpose for his visit. “In helping Billy, you’ve committed a variety of crimes yourself—”

“We don’t need to discuss that today, and you aren’t going to arrest me, either. Henry and Evan Bartlett have already assured me you have no jurisdiction in this case. Furthermore, Billy’s confession is worthless because he wasn’t represented by an attorney. You had no right to question him without the presence of the family’s attorneys.”

“His mother was present, and she gave her consent.”

“Caroline is in no mental condition to make sound judgments for herself, let alone for Billy in this situation. You’re wasting your time by—”

“I have one more minute to waste,” Gray said icily, looking meaningfully at the walnut clock on Cecil’s desk. “You’d be wise to let me waste it and to listen to me very carefully, because I can and will have you hauled out of here in handcuffs.”

Cecil leaned back in his chair, brows drawn together in cold affront, but he was listening.

“Henry Bartlett is telling you what you want to hear. I am taking the position that when Billy left home with his father that weekend, he fully intended to kill him at the farm, which means the crime originated in Cook County. Henry can tie this case up for a year or more with motions for a change of venue and motions to have Billy’s confession thrown out, but in the end I’ll win, and you will stand trial with Billy as his accomplice. During that time, the media will have a feeding frenzy, digging up every skeleton this family has buried and hidden for the past one hundred years.”

Cecil’s face was expressionless, but his thin fingers were clenching and unclenching on the desk.

“If you do Henry a favor by dying before the case finally goes to trial, Henry can—and probably would—advise Billy to change his story and claim that you murdered William and persuaded that poor young boy to take the rap for it. After all, you’d be dead, and Billy would be paying Henry’s fees, so why would Henry want to protect your reputation any longer?” Finished, he waited for Cecil to react, watching the little pendulum on the antique desk clock swing back and forth.

“What are you suggesting as an alternative?”

“I won’t charge you as an accomplice, and you will let the Cook County justice system deal fairly with Billy. He’s a juvenile, so he’s already going to get off lighter than he should.”

“I will not let him stand trial without the best defense we can provide.”

“I’m not asking you to forgo that. I’m asking you to let him face up to what he’s done, now, not two years from now.”

Cecil hesitated again, and then he finally nodded.

“One more thing,” Gray said as he stood up. “How did Edward die? He called you an hour before he went off the balcony. You said you talked about a meeting that you were both supposed to attend the next morning. But that’s not what happened, or you’d have wondered if Mitchell ‘helped’ him over the railing.”

Standing up, Cecil put an end to the unpleasant confrontation. “He was drunk, as usual, and he told me he wanted to say good-bye, that he couldn’t bear his life another day. I told him what I always said when he called me like that. I told him to get a grip on himself. I didn’t know he was serious this time. I’d been listening to his disgusting whining for so long I’d ceased paying attention to it.”