If those bees attack my uncle one more time, the old keeper will be dragged away in chains for treason, my cousin whispered as we stood on the portico of Elmwood Manor.
All eyes snapped to the entrance. The silence in the parlor was immediate, absolute.
Dr. Alistair Finch stood framed in the doorway, escorted by two stern-faced federal marshals. He wore a crisp, clean uniform, and in his hand, he held a thick, leather-bound book: the unsealed battlefield toxicology ledger.
It was signed directly by the Surgeon General himself.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Julian’s bandaged face paled further. Major Pryce, seated beside him, visibly flinched.
Simultaneously, a clamor erupted from outside. Shouts echoed across the manor grounds: “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! War Department corruption! Treason at Elmwood!”
Marcus Crane, the war correspondent, strode into the room, a triumphant glint in his eyes. He carried a heavy stack of newspapers. With a flourish, he dumped 500 fresh copies of the *Washington Daily Chronicle*’s morning edition onto the inquiry table.
The front page headline screamed in bold, black letters: “POISON IN THE TEA: OFFICER’S GREED UNMASKED!”
Colonel Harrison, his face a mask of shock, snatched a copy. His eyes flew across the damning exposé.
Dr. Finch stepped forward, his voice calm, clear, and utterly authoritative. “Colonel Harrison, members of the tribunal, I present the official toxicology findings for Brigadier General Silas Montgomery, and a pattern of similar deaths.”
He opened the ledger, his finger tracing an entry. “First, the civil medical report claiming ‘cardiac dropsy’ for General Montgomery was a complete forgery. The supposed signatory, Dr. Thaddeus Thorne, died at Fredericksburg six months ago.”
A murmur of outrage spread through the officers. Julian tried to interrupt, but a marshal’s hand on his shoulder silenced him.
“Second,” Dr. Finch continued, turning to face Julian directly, “we have retrieved from Mr. Montgomery’s personal effects, specifically the velvet lining of his coat, pure extracted monkshood resin. This extract precisely matches the aconitine concentrations found in the dregs of General Montgomery’s daily tea, which I chemically verified.”
He held up the small vial Clara had found, now clearly labeled and sealed. The sheer audacity of Julian’s plot, laid bare, silenced the room.
“And finally,” Dr. Finch concluded, his gaze sweeping to Major Pryce, who was now trembling visibly, “this official ledger also contains documented evidence, corroborated by financial receipts, of Major Donald Pryce receiving a four thousand dollar bribe from Julian Montgomery to falsify supply requisition contracts and enforce fraudulent evictions, including the destruction of Mr. Holloway’s apiary.”
Marcus Crane, standing by the table, pointed to the newspaper. “It’s all here, gentlemen. Every detail. The public is already reading it.”
The tribunal panel, their faces etched with shock and disbelief, looked from the newspaper headlines to Dr. Finch’s ledger, then to the exposed faces of Julian Montgomery and Major Donald Pryce. The truth, meticulously uncovered and publicly broadcast, had delivered its verdict.
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