Page 32 of Cross Me

“We don’t meet over the holidays,” Alistair May, an aging member of the House of Lords shouted. “It’s a mockery to arrest a man over Christmas.”

“It’s treason to kill a king, but we aren’t keeping score.” I trained my eyes on him, wondering if he’d rise to my challenge. He was older than the others and the most likely to take offense to my youth. But he fell silent, his beady, black stare meeting mine. He’d been a thorn in my father’s side during his reign. With any luck he would die during mine. He had to be nearing a hundred.

“This won’t stand.” A fist belonging to an overly boisterous sixty-something MP named Edgar Byrd hit the oak council table. A few of his colleagues had the manners to look offended by the dramatic gesture, but I simply folded my hands and waited patiently. To the others, it was undignified. It wasn’t British to lose one’s temper, especially in mixed company—and there was no more mixed company than the crown and Parliament.

I, on the other hand, had enough Greek blood in me to appreciate him losing it, because it was about time one of them did. Why had they come, for fuck’s sake, if not to shout?

“I assure you that you’ll know more when our investigation concludes,” I said, speaking at a normal volume. I might appreciate his anger, but I wasn’t about to rise to it.

Next to me, the Prime Minister tugged his tie nervously. This was what he had tried to warn me about. They didn’t want to talk to me. They were coming for me. Let them try.

“Oliver Jacobson is a member of the House of Commons and a British citizen. He has rights.”

“Rights he forfeited when he plotted against the crown,” I told him. I leaned back in my seat, studying him closer. Perhaps I needed to be looking into Byrd. “I’m surprised that your sympathy lies with the traitor.”

I allowed the implication of my words to sink in.

“I don’t think that’s what Clark is trying to s-s-suggest,” the Prime Minister stuttered. It was too late to defuse the situation. He had already let it get too far. Parliament seemed to be under the impression that they held sway over my decisions. I knew now they’d believed they would come in here, level a few threats, and get what they wanted.

But if they thought they could come in here and intimidate me, they had another think coming.

“We have definitive proof and a confession from Jacobson that he plotted against the crown and took part in the assassination of my father,” I said with deadly calm. I almost hoped one of them would challenge what I said. Instead, eyes widened at this announcement, so I continued, “Furthermore, Mr. Jacobson has led us to believe that he did not act alone.”

No one so much as breathed. I looked to each of them in turn, wondering if I might spot guilt on one of their faces.

“The man who shot your father died that day,” Clark interrupted.

“Yes, he did. But someone supplied the weapon. Someone gave him the security plans. He wasn’t smart enough to do it on his own.”

“And what proof do you have?” May demanded.

“A couple more dead bodies. A few attempted murders. We sent someone in undercover to find out who was behind this.”

“Who?”

“A woman, of course.” He didn’t need to know more, and I wasn’t going to out Georgia Kincaid as my source. I propped my arms onto the edge of my chair, wondering when the interrogation would end. I couldn’t tell if disbelief drove his questions or if he was testing me. “She eventually led us to Jacobson.”

“And the trail ended with him?” The Prime Minister prompted, sweat beading on his forehead. He sounded hopeful and anxious at the same time.

I didn’t blame him for being nervous. Until now, we hadn’t shared the full breadth of the investigation’s findings with anyone in the government, including the Prime Minister. He had to be doing the math. If we had proof—a confession even—that implicated his government in a way that might permanently damage his reputation. A few of the other MPs seemed to be thinking the same thing. More than a couple had turned their attention to the papers in front of them.

May, however, hadn’t backed down.

“Does it matter? Do you seriously believe more of Parliament was involved? This could become a witch hunt,” he accused.

“Have you ever studied a witch hunt? Read the findings? Checked the history books?” I asked him coldly. I sat forward, leaning towards him across the table. “A lot of witches burned before anyone realized they were innocent. You would do well to keep that in mind.”

“Is that a threat?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Just an observation.” I settled into my seat again. “This investigation will continue. Jacobson will continue to be held.”

“When will charges be pressed?” the Prime Minister asked. “You can’t hold him indefinitely.”

“I don’t plan to. We’re within the confines of the law. As for charges, we will levy them when I feel we have explored every possible crime he committed.”

“But why keep him longer? Why not charge him now?” A woman piped up from the back. She spun a pencil in her fingers absently. I almost wondered if she was thinking out loud. Of all of the people here, she seemed the least ruffled by this news. If it bothered her that I was holding one of her colleagues on treason charges, she didn’t show it.

“As Mr. May pointed out, it was Christmas. I spent it with family. After the attack in Chelsea, we wanted to be certain he wasn’t involved.”