Chapter 7
The doors to the drawing room opened, revealing Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger, both of whom were carrying platters filled with plates and teas. Octavia felt a wave of relief at the sight of the juicy cuts of ham accompanied by pieces of fruit, for she had not eaten that day at all, – much like the others – therefore found that she was dangerously close to nausea from hunger.
Ginevra rose from her seat and neared the two newcomers, closing the door firmly behind them. The pair approached the central coffee table, placing down the trays, Miss Granger looking rather pale. Although, most of the women displayed paleness, given the fact that there were four bodies scattered around the manor house. Little did they know that there were actually five corpses scattered around the manor house.
"No walnut bread?" Octavia quirked her brow, her gaze scanning the trays of dinner plates.
"Unfortunately not," Mr Malfoy replied, seemingly rather put out by the fact as well. "Although we did come across another corpse."
"No," Ginevra breathed, hand on her heart in a demonstration of shock.
"Who, might I ask, is the unfortunate soul this time?" Zabini asked between puffs of his cigarette, reclining casually on the plush sofa alone. But as there was only one person absent from the room, the answer was crystal clear to all.
"Mr Longbottom," Hermione whispered, speaking the name that lingered in everyone's thoughts.
"The butler's lips were sewn together," Mr Malfoy explained, apparently bored of the topic already. As he spoke, he retrieved a plate of ham and fruits before seating himself on an armchair. "Stabbed in the throat, it seems, and 'liar' carved into his chest. It was all very amateurish."
"The two liars," Potter said. "Mr Longbottom, covering up the crime of his wife, and Mr Black, the man who lied on the stand against Lord Parkinson."
"How can that be, sir?" Octavia frowned, pushing herself from the bar to gather a plate of lunch for herself. "How can Mr Longbottom be dead?"
"Well, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy patronised, "I believe Mr Longbottom was taken off guard whilst in the kitchens, stabbed in the throat and left in the cool room."
"Yes, thank you, sir," Octavia sniffed, seating herself beside Mr Zabini as she set to cutting her ham. "My inquiry is in relation to the culprit. As we have all been together, I find the matter rather curious."
"Ah," Mr Zabini interjected, clouded in cigarette smoke, "but we were not all together, were we, Lady Sinclair?"
"Whatever do you mean, sir?" Octavia drawled, an iciness to her tone.
Hermione observed the pair as she seated herself at the chess table, sensing great hostility between them. Predominantly from Lady Sinclair, however. Dismissing the matter, Hermione began to eat her meal, the thought of food churning her stomach, but she was logical enough to realise that she required the strength provided by the nourishment.
"Lady Parkinson," Mr Zabini explained as though it was obvious. "The lady was left to her own devices once yourself and Mr Potter departed her bedroom. That allowed the lady ample time to perform such an attack. Or, perhaps yourself and Mr Potter are behind it, for you were both absent for an estimated twenty minutes. It isn't much, but enough time to perform the deed. Shortly after your return, you and I journeyed to Lady Parkinson's bedroom where we found her dead. That could incriminate either one of us, My Lady, or both. Additionally, Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger have only just returned, after thirty minutes in the kitchens, so it would be reasonable to suspect either one, if not both, to be guilty in the murder of Mr Longbottom."
"Are you accusing all of us, Mr Zabini?" Ginevra asked coolly, ignoring the meals altogether.
"I am merely arguing that, at several intervals, we have not been in the same room together." Mr Zabini smirked. "Mr Wilby and yourself, Miss Weasley, are the only two to have remained in the drawing room since Mrs Longbottom's body was discovered this morning."
"Let us address the theory of Lady Parkinson," Potter said, intoxication evident in his drowsy expression. "After Lady Sinclair and I left Lady Parkinson in her bedroom, she could have gone to enact her revenge on the butler. Her evident anger and distress would be cause for a solid motive to commit such a crime. Furthermore, Mr Longbottom had journeyed down to the kitchens to prepare our meals before we discovered Lady Parkinson's body, so the timeline corresponds."
"And after she took her revenge," Ginevra continued, seemingly agreeing with the police officer, "she then committed suicide to escape the island as well as her hangable offense. Subsequently, Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair discovered her body–"
"Or," Wilby slurred, butting in rudely. "Mr Zabini did it when Lady Sinclair fainted. You were both up there for a while."
"Lady Parkinson would not respond to my arrival," Octavia explained, her plate already half cleared. "We were in the corridor waiting for a response to our knocks, but we quickly discovered the cause of her silence. That is the reason for our delay."
"According to you," Potter countered, his green eyes clouded over with intoxication. "What if you slipped the arsenic into her drink? Then you and Mr Zabini could have murdered Mr Longbottom in the kitchens before setting up Lady Parkinson's corpse to look like a suicide. When Mr Zabini called out for help, you were only pretending to have fainted."
"It is a plausible theory," Mr Malfoy nodded, his plate entirely cleared as he placed it on a side table. "That is, if there is a solid motive that can justify the claims, of course."
"Mr Zabini is a hitman, so he could have been hired by Lady Sinclair." Potter shrugged.
"Yes, very good, Mr Potter," Octavia rolled her eyes in an unladylike fashion. "However, that does not offer a motive of my own."
"Jealousy?" Wilby suggested weakly. "Maybe she is richer than you are? Parkinson was betrothed to your brother, wasn't she?"
"Indeed she was," Octavia nodded, finishing off the rest of her lunch.
"The laws mean that male heirs inherit the fortunes of their estates," Wilby hiccupped, looking a little wobbly on his armchair. "Which means that Lady Parkinson would have inherited the wealth of your parents through her marriage to your brother, while you only got a dowry and, hopefully, a wealthy husband. If you didn't get the husband with money, you would be poor and live off your brother, if he chose to support you. Your friend, Lady Parkinson, would have gotten money that you believed to be yours, Lady Sinclair."
"That would give me motive in regards to Lady Parkinson's death," Octavia agreed, placing her empty plate on the side table. "However, as my brother has passed, I inherit the full estate, so what cause would I have to murder my friend in the present time? If Oscar had not passed, I would have married into a wealthy family without doubt, and even on the slim chance that I didn't, Oscar would most certainly have supported me financially. Additionally, if I truly was the murderer behind this dreadful situation, what reason would I have to target the rest of you?"
"I'll get back to you on that, Lady Sinclair," Wibly grumbled, his brows furrowing as he thought.
"Please do," Octavia sighed, mocking his tedious behaviour.
Silence fell over the assortment of peoples, some relaying suspicion with shifty glances, and others perfectly at ease. Those at ease were, of course, Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy, accompanied by Lady Sinclair who appeared to be quite bored. Sitting in the drawing room for an entire day, discussing never-ending streams of suspicions seemed to be tiring her considerably.
Mr Wilby grunted as he managed to push himself from the armchair, staggering a little before he regained his balance. Octavia watched the drunkard with palpable judgement and disdain as he lurched and stumbled over to the bar. The repulsive red-head slammed his empty bottle of scotch whiskey down on the bar, declaring to all persons in the room with the gesture that he had finished the beverage.
Hermione sighed in distaste before finishing off the last three pieces of ham on her plate, most occupants of the room suddenly bored of Mr Wilby's behaviour. Octavia, however, continued to observe him with narrowed eyes and puckered lips, her sentiments toward the fellow as clear as day. The wretched man stumbled around the bar, making far too much noise as he riffled through the stash of alcohol in search of another bottle to consume himself. It seemed that he had a particular taste for scotch whiskey, for he definitely made a show to searching for one through the wines and brandies.
"Mr Wilby," Octavia drawled pompously. "Perhaps you have indulged in enough whiskey for one day."
The sound of glasses clinking together and liquid swoshing was the lady's only response, Mr Wilby evidently choosing to ignore her. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the drunkard would have preferred to respond crudely to the lady, but the last time he had done so, he had been punched to the ground by Mr Zabini. Although, whether the same fate would meet him now was unknown, for Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair didn't appear to have smoothed over their prevalent hostility toward one another.
However, it seemed that Lady Sinclair desired Mr Zabini's concurrence, for she side glanced at the stoic man, apparently awaiting his vocal support. Mr Zabini did no such thing, and only lit himself another cigarette as he relaxed beside the snooty woman on the lush couch. A haughty expression graced the pretty features of Lady Sinclair, but Hermione suspected that said expression was merely the concealment of her disappointment.
The rattle of the bottles ceased when Mr Wilby procured his desired beverage, pointedly slamming it down on the bar, facing the others. His cloudy blue eyes fixed on Lady Sinclair, the pair entering into a silent stare of sorts as he uncorked the bottle deliberately.
"If you do not perish on this island at the hands of the killer, Mr Wilby," Octavia drawled coolly, "I am certain that the liquor will see to your demise."
"Either way, ma'am, I'll die a happy man," Wilby gruffed, firmly gripping the bottle. "For it would mean that I am lucky enough to not suffer your company any longer."
Hermione's brows raised as her gaze darted to Mr Zabini, but was met with no sight of chivalry. Instead, the gentleman brought the butt of his cigarette to his lips, inhaling long and deep as his stare remained on the wall.
"The feeling is mutual, I assure you, sir," Octavia smiled falsely, but a shimmer of disappointment remained in her hazel eyes.
Hermione, as despicable as it was, had to agree with Lady Sinclair. The man was vile, and by extension, as was his company. The drunkard seemed to be pleased that no acts of violence befell him at the hands of Mr Zabini for insulting the woman, so made a theatrical show of gulping down the whiskey from the bottle, his gaze locked with Lady Sinclair's as he did so.
Curiously, after Wilby had taken his third gulp, he began to sway on the spot, dropping the bottle as he groaned in discomfort. The bottle crashed onto the bar, rolled off and thudded onto the carpeted floor where it spilled to create a mess and putrid stench. Suddenly, Mr Wilby fell forward onto the bar, great big expulsions of vomit spitting out of his mouth.
"Good grief, sir!" Octavia gasped, absolutely horrified. "Have you no shame?!"
"This is most upsetting, Mr Wilby," Hermione agreed, rising from her chair. "Are you not able to control yourself?"
The incredulity of the women, however, quickly gave way to sheer terror and shock. For Wilby no longer retched up the contents of his stomach, but now violently vomited up bright red blood. His face had quickly turned purple, for the man could not breathe through the constant gags and heaves, the bar now crimson in colour. Hermione truly never thought that so much blood could be within a single person.
Immediately, Mr Malfoy pushed himself from his armchair, striding over to Hermione before he spun her around, forcing her gaze to connect with the other side of the room.
"It is best if you do not watch," Mr Malfoy whispered, his voice almost drowned out by the incessant retches of the dying man.
Mr Zabini had also quickly risen from his seat, but approached Mr Wilby by the bar at a leisurely pace. Once he reached the drunk, Zabini grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and turned him around to face him. Zabini then forced the man's eyelids to open, ignoring the sputters of blood that splattered onto his shirt and face, his own gaze assessing the pupils of the dying man.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of horror, but was in fact only a single minute, Mr Wilby coughed one last time before crumbling to the floor in a heap. Mr Zabini knelt by his limp corpse, peeling apart his mouth to inspect inside. His mysterious suspicions piqued from the observation, and the gentleman quickly stood and sauntered around the bar.
In shock, Octavia breathed shakily, her hand clasped over her parted lips as she watched Mr Zabini retrieve the bottle of whiskey from the floor. Mr Zabini inspected the bottle for a moment before he sniffed the rim discreetly, humming to himself as he stood.
"Cyanide," Zabini said, placing the bottle on the bar. "He was poisoned."
"Poisoned?" Octavia breathed, feeling the suspicious eyes of Potter and Ginevra burning into her pale face. "But that was a fresh bottle, sir. I saw him open it with my very own eyes. How could the liquor have been poisoned if it was unopened?"
"A syringe," Mr Malfoy answered automatically, standing with the weeping Miss Granger. The gentleman was not exactly comforting the woman, but seemed to have taken a protective stance beside her. "Or the poison could have been spread onto the rim of the bottle. There are ways."
"You seem to know a lot about it, Mr Malfoy," Potter said.
"Has your intellect failed you already, Mr Potter?" Malfoy smirked. "I was under the impression that you were aware of my profession, therefore the skills I would require to conduct myself accordingly."
Potter narrowed his eyes at the man, but argued his fleeting thought no further. Instead, he turned his suspicions elsewhere.
"Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair," Potter addressed, the tanned man lighting a cigarette as he gazed coolly at the distressed Octavia. "You both seemed to have predicted Mr Wilby's untimely passing, if my memory serves me. Only today, Mr Zabini, you responded to his claim of innocence with the mysterious words, 'time will tell', am I correct?"
"Yes," Mr Zabini said, his gaze unwavering from Octavia as she wiped at her damp cheeks. "There is no mystery to be unravelled there, Mr Potter. Mr Wilby claimed to be the innocent among us, and I merely responded that the truth of the matter will be revealed in time, as it has with all deceased people thus far."
"And Lady Sinclair?" Potter gruffed, fixing his spectacles. "You threatened Mr Wilby only minutes before his death. If I remember correctly, you claimed that the alcohol would be the death of him, did you not?"
"I did," Octavia croaked, wiping at her nose with a handkerchief. "It is a reasonable assessment to make, sir, given his evident reliance on liquor. I did not mean to suggest that the very bottle he retrieved would be his undoing, Mr Potter."
"I do not mean to interrupt your investigations," Ginevra interrupted. "But may I request that we relocate to another room? I do detest remaining in the presence of a corpse."
*.*.*
Mr Potter sat in the corner of the parlour room, speaking in hushed tones Miss Weasley. The pair had very little in common, except they seemed to now share suspicions in the direction of Lady Sinclair. Over this, it was clear they related, and evidently wished to remain as far from the others as possible to discuss said suspicions and theories.
Mr Malfoy sat at the poker table with Miss Granger and Lady Sinclair, the three indulging in respective beverages of the alcoholic variety. Hermione truly harboured a concern that her stay at Durrem island would cause her to sustain an addiction to the liquor, should she survive. Although, the chances of leaving the island were decreasing by the hour, she realised, for bodies were piling up around home at a terribly frightening rate. Only three days at Durrem island, and they had six corpses to show for it. It was most concerning.
"I wonder what is taking so long," Octavia sighed wearily, drumming her fingers anxiously on the felt table top.
"Mr Zabini will return," Mr Malfoy assured, lighting a cigarette. "He has only been absent for a few minutes, Lady Sinclair."
Hermione glanced at the grandfather clock across the room, realising that Mr Malfoy was correct in his time estimation. Mr Zabini had only departed the room four minutes ago to search Mr Wilby's bedroom. As the drunkard had been killed discreetly in front of all other surviving guests, there were no words to describe his offenses at the scene of the crime. Hermione had been the very one to suggest that a clue may lie within the deceased's possessions upstairs – a suggestion that Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy concurred with.
However, as Mr Potter was hardly the trustworthy – or gentlemanly – sort, Mr Malfoy had remained with the ladies whilst Mr Zabini ventured upstairs to search for any clues. It was clear to Hermione that while Lady Sinclair was hardly on speaking terms with the European gentleman, she evidently felt great anxiety at his absence. Anything could happen to any one of them, especially if they wandered around the home alone.
The door to the parlour room swung open, in stepping the very gentleman in question, smoking a cigarette as per usual. The stoic man shook his head to indicate that he had found no clues as he closed the door behind him. Mr Potter and Miss Weasley were visibly dejected at the lack of evidence, and quickly returned to their secretive whispers.
With his shirt and neck still featuring the splatters of blood from Mr Wilby, Mr Zabini joined the poker table, seating himself in the only chair available – across from Lady Sinclair. While the lady had noticeably calmed at the man's return, she had forced an expression of complete indifference onto her haughty features, gazing vacantly at her perfectly manicured nails instead. Hermione almost laughed at the blatant denial of her own sentiments regarding Mr Zabini, purely out of stubbornness. In circumstances such as these, stubbornness was a trait that could not be afforded, for one truly did not know when their life was at an end.
"You found nothing, sir?" Hermione asked, pouring the tanned gentleman a tumbler of brandy.
"Nothing I wish to share with them," Zabini smirked, gesturing his head in the direction of the whispering duo in the corner.
"Whyever not, sir?" Lady Sinclair whispered, meeting his black eyes.
"Mr Potter is precarious at best," Mr Zabini explained, his smirk disappearing as his gaze connected with Octavia's. "I imagine that if he was to learn of the evidence I discovered, his irritation would reach perilous boundaries. This way, we are able to exercise control in the situation."
Mr Zabini discreetly slipped a folded photograph from his trouser pocket and handed it to Mr Malfoy, neither of the two huddled in the corner noticing the exchange. Exercising the same level of subtlety, Mr Malfoy unfolded the photograph and assessed it with hard silver eyes. A moment passed before he placed it on the table beside the deck of cards, thereby displaying it to the two women.
The photograph showed a crushed automobile on the side of a country road, two children and a woman inside, all three evidently dead from choking on their own blood. The crimson liquid pooled around the tangled bodies, whilst a man lay on the road, legs broken, and unconscious.
That man was Mr Potter.
"Oh my," Hermione breathed, horror contorting at her features.
Octavia simply appeared as though she would vomit at any given moment. Instead, she swallowed a hefty gulp of her wine.
"That is Mr Potter, is it not?" Octavia breathed, indicating to the man in the photograph.
"It is," Mr Malfoy nodded once. "It appears that Mr Wilby was the man who crashed into Mr Potter's vehicle that night."
"Mr Wilby could have been the Parkinson's chauffer," Mr Zabini concurred. "I would not be surprised if he drove whilst intoxicated that day, and likely, many nights to follow."
"So Mr Wilby was the man who killed Mr Potter's family," Hermione nodded slowly, piecing everything together. "That could only mean that Mr Potter sentenced an innocent man to hang. Lord Parkinson was found guilty of murdering his wife, which he did not do, for the Longbottoms had killed her. Mr Potter ensured that the Lord met his death by hanging only because he thought that the Lord had killed his family. Mr Potter believed that Lord Parkinson was the man driving the automobile that night. But Lord Parkinson did not commit any crime, and died as an innocent man."
"Which would make Mr Potter incredibly guilty of murder," Mr Malfoy concluded. "He pursued the wrong man and caused him to die for crimes that he did not commit. Mr Potter is the reason for the Lord's death, despite the Lord being innocent on all accounts."
"Where did you discover the photograph, sir?" Octavia asked quietly.
"It was on his pillow," Mr Zabini informed in a quiet tone. "And on the bed were bottles of whiskey, untouched. They were placed accordingly to spell 'killer'. I removed them before I returned."
"We were told to not interfere with the crime scenes," Hermione frowned, unable to tear her eyes away from the horrific image in the photograph.
"Should Mr Potter decide to search Mr Wilby's bedroom himself," Mr Malfoy said as he took the photograph and stuffed it into his trouser pocket, "it would be best if there were no clues left for him to discover."
"Precisely." Mr Zabini said before taking a lengthy inhale of his cigarette, his dark gaze fixed on Octavia, entirely unwavering.
"How did you know?" Hermione whispered, addressing Mr Zabini as he kept his stare on the lady across from him. "You were certain that Mr Wilby was not the innocent, were you not?"
"As I have mentioned," Mr Zabini said. "I possess an adept ability to see beneath the facades of others. My perceptiveness pierces through to one's soul, and Mr Wilby's was guilty.
"None of us are innocent," Octavia breathed shakily. "We are all guilty of our accused crimes, so the innocent must have been Pansy. However, as Pansy is dead – perished at her own hand – we have lost the game."
"Indeed we have," Mr Malfoy nodded once, but didn't seem at all downcast at the realisation.
"Now what?" Hermione asked, her brows furrowed in concern. "We wait to die?"
"I have no such plans, Miss Granger," Malfoy countered.
"What are you saying, Mr Malfoy?"
"I intend to get us off this island." Malfoy said, pausing to sip at his brandy. "Tomorrow."
A fleeting silence fell over the occupants of the poker table, Hermione raising her brows in total shock. There was no way off the island, they all knew that. There was no boat to sail away in, there were no roads to venture down, and the mainland was miles away.
"What do you propose, sir?" Octavia asked, the frown at her brows indicating that she shared Hermione's bafflement.
"I propose," Mr Malfoy began, pausing to puff at his cigarette, "that we wait until the storm passes, which I would estimate to be gone by morning, or perhaps, at most, in a day. When it clears, I will swim to the mainland and retrieve aid."
"Swim to the mainland?" Hermione repeated incredulously. "Sir, I do not intend to offend you or your skills, but that journey is at least ten miles."
"It is eight miles, and I am able to swim a mile in under fifteen minutes, Miss Granger." Mr Malfoy smirked. "Depending on the temperament of the waters, I should return to the island within the day if I begin at sunrise."
"Might I remind you that we are not discussing lakes or lagoons, sir?" Hermione argued. "You expect to swim across sea water in the winter?"
"I do." Mr Malfoy nodded, no fear or apprehension betraying him via his stoic expression. "It would hardly be the first time I have accomplished such a task."
"Is this another precise skill of yours, Mr Malfoy?" Hermione quirked her brow, referring to his unfavourable profession.
"Indeed it is," Malfoy smirked, maintaining her stare as he smoked his cigarette.
"I wonder," Octavia began, finishing off the last of her wine. "How does one enter such a profession? I doubt that it consists of an advertisement in the paper."
Mr Zabini smirked fleetingly before he composed himself, stubbornly maintaining his hostility toward the lady he so clearly fancied. However, the tanned gentleman still retrieved her empty wineglass once she set it down, and filled it with the contents of the bottle on the table. He didn't meet her gaze as she thanked him, but pretended to have not heard her expressed gratitude at all.
"It is a lengthy and dreary tale, ma'am," Mr Malfoy replied, butting out his cigarette on the expensive felt of the table, despite the ashtray placed on a table nearby.
"I believe we have the time to hear such a tale," Hermione countered, sipping at her wine.
"I suppose you are correct," Malfoy smirked, filling his and Mr Zabini's tumblers with brandy. "Where shall I start?"
"From the very beginning," Octavia said, evidently eager for the gossip, both hands clasping onto the full wineglass.
"Well," Mr Malfoy sighed, reclining in his chair casually. "Firstly, I should clarify that I have no judgements or ill wills in regards to whores."
Instantly, the brows of Octavia and Hermione shot up, the tale beginning with a sentence that neither had expected.
"In fact," Mr Malfoy smirked, gripping his tumbler loosely, "they have been companions of mine for the majority of my twenty-five years. My mother was a whore, and I was conceived – along with three others – to men of unknown identities."
"You do not know your father?" Octavia gasped, sympathy glinting in her eyes, accompanied by gossiping thirst.
"I do not, nor do I care to," Mr Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly. "My mother continued in her position, therefore I was raised in a busy London brothel. When I was eight years old, I met Mr Zabini on the streets."
"I had gotten myself into a spot of trouble with the law," Mr Zabini smirked.
"What sort of trouble?" Octavia inquired, not meeting his gaze to maintain her haughtiness toward him.
"Robbery, as it happens," Mr Malfoy replied. "Mr Zabini had burgled a wealthy man on the streets, and had almost gotten away with it too."
"Sir," Octavia gasped, meeting Zabini's cool stare. "What gives you the right to steal from those who have earned their wealth?"
"Perhaps the fact that I was without a home, family or income?" Zabini retorted, his eyes darkening dangerously. "Or, perhaps for the simple reason that I was hungry, My Lady."
"Oh, pardon me," Octavia scoffed delicately. "And here I was under the evidently false impression that there are opportunities of employment in the city of London. How silly of me."
"You truly are the most naïve woman I have ever encountered, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini claimed, his tone low and dangerous.
"A matter of opinion," Octavia sniffed snootily. "An opinion I do not hold in high esteem."
Mr Zabini inhaled from the butt of his cigarette slowly, dangerously dark eyes fixed on the snob across from him. The intensity of their shared bitterness was felt even by Hermione, who found herself fearing that Mr Zabini may strike the Lady at the table. Of course, he did not, but the sheer danger that radiated from the man had sparked that fear regardless.
"Mr Malfoy," Hermione said, shattering the thick silence that had fallen over them. "Please continue."
Mr Malfoy met her stare, having been regarding Lady Sinclair with absolute disdain. He nodded once and sipped at his tumbler before adhering to Hermione's request.
"Mr Zabini, as I mentioned, had almost gotten free of capture for the crime," Mr Malfoy continued, his tone harsher than before. "I was out on the street, in front of the brothel that I called my home. A customer was leaving, saying his goodbyes to me when we saw Mr Zabini running toward us. There were no police officers chasing him, but the customer I was with was a policeman. He was immediately suspicious, so he tackled and restrained Mr Zabini."
Mr Zabini lit himself another cigarette as Mr Malfoy relayed the tale, but didn't seem too interested. In fact, he appeared to be attempting to intimidate Lady Sinclair with his intense stare, but the woman dared not meet his eyes.
"As the police officer was a regular of the brothel, and my mother was his favourite, I was able to persuade him to release Mr Zabini," Mr Malfoy explained. "I do not know why I felt the need to interfere, but I did and the two of us became inseparable following that day. It was only two weeks before Mr Zabini was invited to live at the brothel with us, for he was without a home, as mentioned."
"A year afterwards," Mr Zabini said, continuing the tale as he stared directly at Octavia. "A client became aggressive toward Mr Malfoy's mother. We were both aged nine when it happened, but despite our youth, we dealt with the situation effectively."
"What did you do, sir?" Octavia frowned, keeping her eyes averted from his stare.
"We killed him," Mr Zabini said coolly. "Accidently, of course. We each assaulted his skull with candlesticks. He never woke up."
"The madam of the establishment," Mr Malfoy explained, "saw to the situation, and ensured that the body was removed from the brothel. The police officer who favoured my mother was contacted, and he assisted in concealing the matter."
"We were then offered employment at the brothel as security enforcers," Mr Zabini continued, ignoring the fact that Lady Sinclair's wineglass was empty. "By the time we each aged to fifteen, many customers had asked for our assistance in private matters."
"Private matters, sir?" Hermione interjected.
"A variety of tasks," Mr Malfoy nodded. "Collecting owed money from gamblers, accompanying clients to dishonest appointments, and the sort. However, our tasks took a turn when the police officer presented us with an offer."
"He was unable to gather enough evidence to convict a man of murder," Mr Zabini explained. "But the man had killed his wife and children on a farm, and had blamed it on thieves. He only managed to escape the hangman by coercing his mistress to provide him with a false alibi."
"You were to kill the man," Hermione said.
"Yes." Mr Malfoy agreed. "We accepted the offer, performed the task, and received our payments. Months had passed before another police officer was referred to us, and he extended a similar proposal."
"Eventually," Mr Zabini continued, "we found that several offers a month were being extended to us, and the profession we entered began to pay handsomely, due to our natural talents. We worked as a team, and were always sure to have alibis prepared in case an honest cop decided to investigate us."
"Our profession and discreetness soon leaked into the aristocracy," Mr Malfoy said, side glancing at the stiff Octavia. "We had surpassed small targets, and were assigned to politicians, aristocrats, servants, and eventually, overseas assignments of the same variety."
"Servants?" Octavia frowned, meeting the cool stare of Mr Zabini. "For what reason, sir?"
"The reasons depend on the servant," Mr Zabini said coldly. "Some had threatened to speak out on scandals, others were simply privy to information that could incriminate Lords and Dukes, and others had simply claimed to be with child from indecent affairs."
"With child?" Hermione breathed. "You mean to suggest that … you have ended the life of a woman? A pregnant woman, no less?"
"Allegedly pregnant," Mr Malfoy corrected.
"Just when I thought I could not possibly be anymore repulsed by you," Octavia said shakily, staring Mr Zabini dead in the eye, "you surprise me again, sir."
"You think your kind are so innocent and pure, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini smirked cruelly. "Yet, if that were the case, how is it that I am acquainted with your father?"
"I beg your pardon?" Octavia gasped, utterly offended by the claim.
"On the train, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini explained, "was not the first time I have seen you. It was the first time we have met, yes, but not the first time I have laid eyes on you."
"What are you saying, sir?" Hermione frowned, clearly uncomfortable.
"I have had business with your father," Mr Zabini said, ignoring Hermione as he stared at the aghast Octavia. "I saw you on the grounds of your estate when Mr Malfoy and I were conversing with your father, but of course you did not so much as glance in my direction. Why would you, Lady Sinclair? I am but a mere peasant, am I not?"
"What business would you have with my father, Mr Zabini?" Octavia drawled, but her voice shook noticeably.
"The footman who saved your life in the lake, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy smirked, seemingly a part of the mysterious affair. "When did you last see him?"
"When I expressed my gratitude," Octavia breathed, her eyes widening as realisation dawned on her. "The day after the dreadful event occurred."
"Pardon me, but I am at a loss regarding your implications," Hermione butted in. "For what reason would Lord Sinclair wish to remove a footman? A footman who had saved his daughter's life, no less?"
"That, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy smirked, "is a very good question."
Hermione raised her brows, no closer to the answer she sought as she glanced at Octavia. The lady had paled to impossible measures, her big watery eyes glued to the dark gaze of Mr Zabini. The lady appeared to be beyond a state of shock, her bosom rising and falling shakily, her hands trembling noticeably.
"Forgive me," Octavia whispered, rising slowly from her chair. "I believe I have endured enough excitement for one day. I must retire for the night."
Mr Zabini followed her lead, rising from his chair as he butted out his cigarette on the felt table. "I will see you to your boudoir, Lady Sinclair."
"You will do no such thing, sir," Octavia rasped, on the verge of either fainting or sobbing. "In fact, I would be most grateful if you maintained your distance from me, Mr Zabini. Indefinitely."
Mr Zabini regarded her cruelly for a moment, his dark eyes hardening as he clenched his jaw. After a moment, he shrugged nonchalantly, as though the request made no difference to him whatsoever. But Hermione could see a glimmer of disappointment in his dark eyes, the gentleman evidently displeased by the lady's request. Mr Malfoy stood, silently taking the position of chaperone as Mr Zabini seated himself, aggressively pouring himself another serving of brandy.
"I will escort you, Lady Sinclair," Mr Malfoy said, although didn't appear too excited about the chivalrous task. "It is not safe for a woman to wander the corridors alone."
"May I join you?" Hermione asked, but stood from her seat before receiving a response. "I must concur with Lady Sinclair – the day has been most tiring, and I too would prefer to retire for the night."
"Of course, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy nodded once, a small smile playing on his pink lips.