While William was being grilled in the library, Alistair found Lady Beatrice in the solarium. She was trembling, watching the police cars through the glass walls.
“You have to stop this, Alistair,” Beatrice pleaded. “He is your son.”
“And you are my accomplice,” Alistair replied smoothly, closing the glass door. He pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket–an antique device from a decade ago.
He pressed play.
Beatrice’s own voice, ten years younger and thick with panic, filled the room: *”I have the syringe, Alistair. The coroner is paid. Just tell me what to do with the body.”*
Beatrice gasped, clapping her hands over her ears.
“The statute of limitations on fraud and conspiracy hasn’t run out, my dear,” Alistair whispered, leaning close to her ear. “If I go down for faking my death, you go down for helping me. Prison is not kind to women of your age, Beatrice.”
He placed the recorder in her hand.
“The Board is convening via video link in ten minutes. You will tell them you saw William hiding the drive. Do this, and you remain the Matriarch. Refuse, and you die in a cell.”