'Til Death Do Us Part

  “Thank you,” Trent said.

  He put some coins on the table. The proprietor made the money disappear and went back behind the bar.

  Andrew looked at Trent, excitement sparking in his eyes.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” he said. “The man who attacked you with the knife. He must have summoned a doctor after you whacked him with the wreath stand.”

  “It seems likely,” Trent said. “With luck we will find out for certain later tonight.”

  “We’re going to follow him if he leaves?”

  “You are going to follow him at a very discreet, hopefully very safe distance. We are dealing with a killer, Andrew. Our goal is to acquire evidence we can give to the police. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When I get word from you assuring me that Number Six is empty, I’ll go in and have a look around.”

  Andrew nodded wisely. “Good plan. Just the sort of scheme that Clive Stone would concoct.”

  “What an amazing coincidence.” Trent paused. “Listen closely, Andrew. You must make absolutely certain that the lodger in Number Six doesn’t see you. But just in case, be sure that you take your revolver with you.”

  “Of course. I always carry it these days.” Andrew patted the pocket of his overcoat and then turned very serious. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, sir?”

  “Depends on the question.”

  “Do you think there might be a future in this line of work?”

  “What line?”

  “The private inquiry business.”

  “You call this a business?”

  “I am thinking of becoming a private inquiry agent—like Clive Stone.”

  Trent exhaled slowly. “Stone is a consultant. And he has a private income from some rather vague investments, if you will recall.”

  “Properties. He invests in properties.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that I doubt very much that you’d be able to make a good living at the private inquiry business.”

  “It occurs to me that if I worked by referral—the same way that Calista does—I might be able to attract clients who are willing to pay well for a guarantee of very discreet service.”

  “It’s one thing to make discreet inquiries into the backgrounds of your sister’s clients,” Trent said. “It would be quite another to set yourself up as a consultant who is willing to get involved with missing persons or situations such as the one we are in at the moment.”

  “The thing is, I rather like discovering secrets.”

  “I suspect that it would be a rather dangerous career path. In my experience everyone has secrets. Some will go to extreme lengths to protect those secrets. If you will recall we have turned up a number of dead people in our own investigation, and at this very moment we are sitting in a pub a few doors down from a man who quite possibly enjoys cutting ladies’ throats.”

  Andrew gave that some brief consideration. “I admit I don’t like the fact that Calista is in danger. But when this case is resolved and she is safe, I think I might see about going into the private inquiry line. It’s not like I haven’t had some experience.”

  Clearly the prospect of danger was not going to be a deterrent. Trent considered his options. There were not a lot of them.

  “I doubt if your sister would approve of your career plans,” he ventured.

  “I’m sure I can convince her that I would be successful. I told you, I will be very careful when it comes to taking on clients.”

  “Andrew, your future is none of my affair; however, I feel an obligation to advise you. I am a few years older than you and I’ve had some experience. Believe me when I tell you that—”

  “Enough about my future. What about your future with Calista? I think it is time I inquired into your plans.”

  Trent looked at him. “What?”

  “It’s obvious that the two of you are involved in a romantic relationship, sir. I’m all the family that Calista has. It is my duty to see to her best interests.” Andrew squared his shoulders and elevated his chin. “I want to know your intentions.”

  There was a little steel in his voice and more in his eyes.

  “My intentions,” Trent repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “An excellent question,” Trent said. “All I can tell you at the moment is that my intentions will depend entirely on Calista’s intentions.”

  Andrew’s brows scrunched together. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  Trent got to his feet. “It means that, although I respect your desire to protect your sister, in the end she will make her own decisions. Meanwhile, we must tend to the matter at hand. I’m going to leave you here to keep an eye on Number Six. Send word immediately if our suspect leaves the house. That will be my cue to commit another act of burglary.”

  61

  “MR. TAZEWELL EXPRESSED an interest in a tour of my conservatory,” Eudora said. “He said he may be able to offer some advice on the heating system. I have been having problems with it lately. The pipes are old and so is the furnace.”

  Calista sipped some tea and glanced at the clock. She and Eudora were forcing themselves to make casual conversation. Neither of them wanted to be alone and neither of them wanted to talk about their fears.

  Andrew had been gone all afternoon and evening. He had sent a street urchin to the back door of Cranleigh Hall a short time ago with a message informing Trent that the knifeman had left Number Six. Andrew was following him.

  Trent had immediately left the mansion with a lock pick in his pocket.

  “What about Mr. Tazewell’s two daughters?” Calista asked.

  “As I told you, Edward wants them to have a modern education,” Eudora said. “He seems to think that I might be a good influence on the girls. It has occurred to me that I might make a very good teacher. In fact, I am considering the possibility of opening a small day school for girls. What do you think?”

  Calista smiled. “I think it is a brilliant idea.”

  62

  THE HANSOM CARRYING the knifeman halted at the far end of a quiet street. The passenger descended to the pavement and almost immediately faded into the shadows.

  Andrew opened the trapdoor in the roof of his cab.

  “Driver, what street is this?” he asked.

  “Blanchford Street, sir.”

  Alarm jolted through Andrew. He had heard the name somewhere. Then it struck him. Florence Tapp, the medium, lived in Blanchford Street. It was possible that the knifeman planned to attend a séance but it seemed unlikely. It was Friday night, the evening of the appointment that Anna Kettering had scheduled with the medium—the appointment that, in her haste to disappear, she had neglected to cancel.

  “Do you know of a medium in this street?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir. Number Twelve. But she usually holds séances on Wednesday evenings, not Fridays.”

  The knifeman would have no way of knowing that Anna Kettering did not intend to keep her appointment. Perhaps he had come here to murder her. If Mrs. Kettering died in Blanchford Street the finger of blame would point to the medium.

  There was no way to know why the knifeman might want to murder Anna Kettering, but if he was mentally unbalanced, as everyone seemed to believe, no logical reason was required. There was also no predicting what he would do when he discovered that his target had not arrived for her appointment.

  “I understand the medium sometimes books private appointments on other evenings,” Andrew said to the driver.

  “Couldn’t say, sir.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Wait for me.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Andrew handed some money to the driver and got out of the cab.

  The other hansom, now empty, moved off down the street. Evidently the killer had not instructed his driver to wait. Ther
e was no way to know what that indicated but it seemed ominous. The knifeman did not want any potential witnesses.

  Andrew reached into the pocket of his coat and closed his fingers around the handle of the revolver.

  There was no sign of the knifeman on the street but when Andrew got close to Number Twelve a chill shot down his spine. His pulse, already beating quickly, began to pound as he realized what had happened.

  The killer had climbed over the railing that surrounded the front area of the house and descended the steps to the kitchen entrance.

  The door stood partially open. It squeaked on its hinges.

  The killer was already inside.

  Andrew clambered quickly over the wrought-iron railing, trying hard not to make any noise, and went down the steps. Holding the revolver in his right hand, he gently pushed the kitchen door. It swung open a little farther.

  No one leaped out at him.

  He moved cautiously into the darkened kitchen. His nerves were stretched to the limit. He could feel a cold sweat dripping down his sides.

  There was just enough light from the low-burning wall sconce to allow him to make out the large kitchen table in the middle of the room and the narrow staircase that led up to the ground floor.

  He stood still, listening intently. Somewhere overhead a floorboard squeaked. The killer was prowling through the house. By now he must have realized that Anna Kettering was not there, yet he was still on the premises.

  Comprehension slammed through Andrew.

  The knifeman had not come for Anna Kettering. He was there to murder the medium.

  Unable to think of anything else to do, Andrew went up the stairs into the hall, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “Miss Tapp, there’s a killer in the house. Lock your door. Lock your door.”

  There was a beat of silence overhead and then a woman’s scream rent the night. Somewhere a door slammed. Heavy footsteps pounded above.

  Andrew paused at the top of the kitchen stairs. The wall sconces illuminated the narrow corridor that led to the front hall and the staircase to the floor above.

  The knifeman came down the stairs with frightening speed, spun around at the bottom, and charged toward Andrew. The blade of the knife glinted faintly in the low light.

  Andrew pulled the trigger. There was a great roar and a flash of light. The heavy gun kicked up violently in his hand.

  He knew at once he had missed but the effect on the knifeman was dramatic. The killer halted abruptly, evidently shocked. Andrew braced himself for another shot. He could not afford to miss a second time. If he did, all would be lost.

  But the knifeman whirled around and ran for the front door. He got it open and disappeared out into the street.

  Andrew lurched forward, rushed down the hall, and moved cautiously out onto the front step. He was in time to see the killer fleeing toward the single hansom left in the street.

  The hansom driver, evidently concluding that he would be better off trolling for fares in another neighborhood, had already whipped his horse into a panicked gallop. The vehicle raced away from the scene.

  A constable appeared, blowing mightily on his whistle. Bedroom windows were thrown open up and down Blanchford Street. Overhead, Florence Tapp leaned out of her window and continued to scream.

  Andrew scanned the street. There was no sign of the man with the knife.

  63

  TRENT OPENED THE alley gate, crossed the barren patch of ground that had been intended to serve as a garden, and let himself into the killer’s house by way of the kitchen door.

  He stopped just inside the hall and held aloft the shielded lantern he had brought with him.

  There was no way to know how much time he had, so he moved quickly. The kitchen yielded a wedge of cheese and a partially eaten loaf of bread. With the exception of a kettle, there were no cooking utensils. Evidently the killer purchased most of his meals from street vendors.

  He went upstairs and made a sweep of the three small bedrooms. They were all empty of furniture save one. It contained a pallet that was clearly serving as a bed.

  The wardrobe, however, was surprisingly well stocked with clean, neatly folded shirts and undergarments. There were also expensively tailored trousers and a coat. All of the clothing was of excellent quality.

  What sort of man lived like a monk in a nearly empty house while going about his murderous business in fashionable clothes? Trent wondered.

  He was about to leave the bedroom when he noticed that the foot of the neatly made pallet was slightly elevated, as though someone had tucked an object underneath it.

  He went back across the room, raised the end of the pallet, and saw a small box and a little leather-bound book. He removed the lid from the box and saw three jet-and-crystal locket rings. There was a twist of hair inside each.

  The small book looked like a diary.

  He put both the box of rings and the diary into the pocket of his coat.

  He left the bedroom and went back downstairs. He did not expect to find anything of note in the parlor. According to the proprietor of the pub at the end of the street, the knifeman never had visitors, aside from the doctor who had called late one night.

  When he arrived in the doorway he saw that he was only partly correct—there were no furnishings. There was, however, what appeared to be a small altar in one corner.

  An unlit candle was positioned on top of the altar. But it was the framed photograph of an ethereally beautiful lady that filled Trent with a gut-wrenching fear.

  He had got it wrong right from the start and now it might be too late.

  He ran for the door.

  64

  “THE TEA HAS grown cold,” Calista said. She glanced at the clock. “It looks like we will be up awhile longer.”

  It was well past midnight and there had been no word from Trent or Andrew. She and Eudora were both doing their best to conceal their growing anxiety from each other. But really, she thought, one could only discuss efficient filing techniques and cross-referencing for so long.

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Sykes to bring us another pot,” she said. She rose and tugged on the bellpull. “It will give her something to do. She and Mr. Sykes are as anxious as we are.”

  “What can possibly be detaining Trent and Andrew?” Eudora said.

  Calista looked at the coffin bell sitting on the desk. The steel chain attached to it was neatly, tightly coiled. Like a snake, she thought.

  “I have been telling myself that the traffic may have made it difficult to find cabs,” she said.

  Eudora gave her a worried look. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”

  “No.” Calista made herself look away from the coffin bell. “I’m quite terrified.”

  “So am I,” Eudora said. “We should never have let them go through with their dangerous plans.”

  “I do not think we could have stopped them.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Eudora said. “They are both quite stubborn, aren’t they?”

  “I suppose they would say the same about us.”

  “Yes.”

  Eudora rose from her chair and went to the hearth. Picking up a brass poker, she prodded the dying fire.

  Calista moved to stand beside her. She put her hand on Eudora’s shoulder.

  “They will find something that will constitute evidence against the killer,” she said, trying desperately to convince herself. “Perhaps the reason they have been delayed is because they are even now explaining the situation to the police.”

  “Perhaps.” Eudora hesitated. “I wonder what Mr. Tazewell will say when I tell him about this strange adventure. I expect he will be quite shocked. Appalled or even repelled, perhaps.”

  “Surprised, no doubt, but not appalled or repelled,” Calista said.

  “Let us be honest, Calista. We both know that v
ery few gentlemen would approve of a lady who becomes embroiled in an investigation involving murder. Edward Tazewell will likely think me a bad influence on his two little girls.”

  “You said that he was very keen on providing a modern education for his daughters.”

  Eudora managed a weak laugh. “I doubt that he had this sort of an education in mind.”

  “When this is finished there will be no need to tell him what we have been about. You have a right to your secrets, Eudora.”

  “That is true, but I do not want to keep secrets from the man I marry. I want a true partner, one who will accept me for who I am.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know you do.”

  The two of them stood in silence for a time.

  “I meet a great many people in my profession,” Calista said after a while, “and there are some I call friends, but in truth they are acquaintances. You and Trent are in a different category. I trust both of you in ways that I have never been able to trust anyone except Andrew in a very long time.”

  “I, too, value our friendship, Calista. But I think that what you feel for my brother is something more. Love, perhaps?”

  “Yes, but I’m not at all certain that is what he feels for me.”

  “How can you doubt it?”

  “I do not wish to bring up the unhappiness of your past,” Calista said, “but surely you are aware that for years Trent has blamed himself for failing to save your mother from the horrid man she married and for very nearly failing to save you and Harry.”

  Eudora closed her eyes. “I have been afraid of that. We never talked about it, but somehow I knew.”

  “And you blame yourself because you think you are the reason that Trent was scarred.”

  “It’s all very complicated, isn’t it?”

  “The three of you have carried the heavy burden of guilt for some time now. Perhaps you should all set it down and move on with your lives.”