Amity looked down at her folded hands. “I’m sorry, Benedict. I know it is none of my business.”
“Of course it’s your business. We’re engaged.”
She raised her chin. “In the eyes of the world.”
“In my eyes, as well,” he said very deliberately.
“Because of last night.” She waved that aside. “Yes, I understand, but I assure you there is no need to feel honor-bound to actually marry me just because of what happened in the Gilmore stables. Indeed, I will not allow you to marry me for such old-fashioned reasons. I told you, I am not some innocent young woman who cannot take care of herself.”
“I believe I have heard this lecture before. It grows tiresome.”
She tightened her hands together in her lap. “Does it, indeed, sir? Forgive me for boring you.”
“Never mind. This is not the time for an argument. We shall save it for later. What did Marissa tell you about my engagement to Eleanor?”
Amity took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “She merely mentioned that Eleanor was quite young and that she had been pushed into the engagement by her parents, who were rather desperate to repair their finances. Eleanor abandoned you at the altar and ran off with her lover.”
Benedict smiled somewhat ruefully. “That’s about all there was to it.”
“Not quite. Eleanor was a very honest young lady. She left the Stanbridge family necklace behind. And in return you helped the young couple get established financially. It is really a rather endearing tale—except for the bit about your heart having been broken, of course.”
Amusement gleamed in Benedict’s eyes. “Did Marissa tell you that my heart had been broken?”
“No. But I know you well enough to be certain that you would never have asked Eleanor to marry you if you were not in love with her.”
Benedict exhaled deeply. “It was a long time ago and I was so much younger.”
“You are hardly in your dotage now,” Amity said.
“Thank you.” Benedict smiled slowly. “That is good to know. You’re right. At the time I certainly believed myself to be in love. Eleanor was quite pretty, very gentle and sweet. But the young man she loved was far more dashing and reckless and he read poetry.”
Amity blinked. “Poetry?”
“I don’t read much poetry,” Benedict said. “Not if I can avoid it. I prefer the latest copy of the Journal of Engineering and the Inventors Quarterly. I can assure you that whatever I felt for Eleanor went up in smoke when I realized that she did not reciprocate my feelings.”
“I see,” Amity said.
She suddenly felt a good deal more cheerful.
Twenty-three
Dr. Jacob Norcott took the last shirt out of the wardrobe drawer and dropped it into the small traveling trunk. His precious medical satchel was already packed and latched.
He was about to close and lock the trunk when he heard the carriage out in the street. He went to the window and looked down. He was relieved to see that the cab he had sent for a short time ago had arrived. Soon he would be at the railway station and safely on his way to his brother’s house in Scotland.
He turned away from the window and hurried back toward the bed, intending to close up the trunk. It was small enough that he could manage it on the stairs. He did not like to think about all of the plump fees that he would miss by taking this impromptu holiday, but there was no help for it. In any event, the money that he had received for saving the patient’s life and arranging for him to be transported quietly to Cresswell Manor again would keep him in reasonable comfort for at least a year. He would not be a financial burden on his brother.
He was halfway to the bed when his gaze fell on the letter on the nightstand. It had arrived an hour ago and was dated the previous day. Each time he read it, his pulse fluttered and a terrible sensation of dread threatened to shatter his nerves.
Sir:
This is to inform you that the patient whom you referred to Cresswell Manor some three weeks ago and who entered this hospital under an assumed name departed this establishment in the company of his mother today. I tried to discourage the lady from taking him back to London, but my advice went unheeded.
I was informed that upon his return to London, the patient would be under your close supervision. I have nothing but the highest respect for your medical knowledge, as I’m sure you are aware. However, I feel it incumbent upon me to tell you that in spite of the progress the patient made while in my care, I do not feel that he is at all ready to resume his normal routine. Indeed, I am convinced that under certain circumstances, he might prove quite dangerous.
I trust that I have not given offense by offering this warning and that you will take this note in the spirit in which it is intended.
Sincerely,
J. Renwick
Cresswell Manor
“No offense taken, Renwick. I just wish you had sent me a telegram yesterday instead of using the post to warn me that the devil has escaped. I could have used the extra time, damn you.”
Norcott put on his hat, pulled on his gloves and checked his pocket watch. Plenty of time to make it to the station. He took one last look around the bedroom to make certain that he had not left anything of value behind. His medical instruments and supply of drugs were his most important possessions. They were all safely stowed in the satchel. With the tools of his profession he could make a living somewhere other than London should it prove necessary.
Satisfied that he had packed everything he could reasonably carry, he closed and locked the trunk and hauled it off the bed. He hoisted the satchel with his free hand and went out the door.
He could feel his pulse pounding now. He wasn’t accustomed to so much exertion, he thought. He labored to carry the heavy trunk and satchel down the stairs. But he knew it was not just the physical effort that was affecting him. His nerves were jangling wildly. He had to get out of the house as quickly as possible.
If only Renwick had sent a telegram yesterday instead of a letter.
If only I had gone to the authorities instead of agreeing to make arrangements for the bastard to be incarcerated at an asylum.
He consoled himself with the thought that he’d made the only choice he could under the circumstances. The patient’s mother would have protected her precious son from the police. The scandal would have been unbearable for her. Rumors of insanity in the bloodline would have guaranteed that her son never made a respectable marriage. And Norcott knew that his own career as a doctor to the elite of Society would have been ruined.
The chances that the bastard would have been taken up on murder charges were almost nonexistent. Better to have him locked up at Cresswell Manor, Norcott thought. Or so he had told himself at the time.
If only he had let the devil die of his wounds.
He reached the foot of the stairs, went past the closed door of his surgery and paused a moment to catch his breath. He set the satchel down and tried to fumble the key out of his coat pocket so that he could lock the door behind him. His state of near panic made things even more complicated.
He had just got the key in his hand when he heard the door of the surgery open behind him.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Dr. Norcott,” the patient said. “I know that as a modern-thinking man of medicine you’ll be thrilled to learn of my astonishing progress.”
“No,” Norcott whispered. “No.”
He dropped the trunk and started to turn around. Simultaneously, he opened his mouth to scream for help, but it was too late. The cold blade of one of his own scalpels sliced across his throat.
He barely had time to realize that the patient was wearing one of the leather aprons from the surgery. It was now spattered with fresh blood.
My blood, Norcott thought.
And then he knew no more.
Twenty-four
Mr. Stanbridge
suggested that I let you all view the limited evidence we have collected from the murder scenes,” Logan said. “I agreed because in my experience, there is sometimes a great deal to be said for gaining a fresh perspective—in this case a number of fresh perspectives.” He looked at Declan Garraway. “Yours as well, sir. Thank you for coming today.”
“I will be happy to assist in any way I can,” Declan said. He tugged uneasily at his tie and glanced at Benedict. “But I am by no means an authority in such matters. I had the privilege of studying under Dr. Edward Benson, who is a noted authority in the field of psychology, and I have a great personal interest in the criminal mind, but that is the sum total of my credentials. The science of explaining and predicting human behavior is still very much in its infancy.”
“It is your academic background and wide reading in the field that make your opinion so valuable,” Amity said. “In any event, the more observations, the better, as the inspector just observed.”
They were gathered in Penny’s study. Inspector Logan had arrived earlier with a small metal box that now stood open on the desk. Penny, Amity, Benedict, Logan and Declan were gathered around the desk.
Amity had been forced to be quite firm when it came to the issue of inviting Declan. Benedict had not been at all keen on the notion until she had reminded him that Declan possessed some training in the modern theories of psychology. Benedict had reluctantly relented, but he was not going out of his way to conceal his disapproval of Declan.
For his part, Declan was clearly uneasy about Benedict. The two were wary of each other, but Amity could tell that both were intrigued by the possibility of learning something new from the evidence.
“I must warn you that a number of men from the Yard have viewed these objects and come to no useful conclusions,” Logan said.
Penny studied the contents of the trunk. “This is all that has been preserved from the scenes of the murders?”
“I’m afraid so,” Logan said.
Amity considered the items. “Four plain gold rings and three lockets with chains.” She looked at Logan. “You said you believed there was a fourth murder.”
“Yes,” Logan said. “But according to the records, the family kept the locket of the first victim. They wanted it as a memento of their daughter.”
Declan frowned. “Not much to go on here.”
“Hard to believe this is all that was considered worth salvaging from the scenes of such serious crimes,” Benedict said.
Logan’s mouth tightened at the corners. “I agree. Keep in mind that I was assigned to this case only recently after my predecessor failed to identify a suspect. I’m certain that there was more evidence but it was discarded as irrelevant.” He paused. “There were other factors that limited the scope of the investigation, as well.”
Penny nodded. “The families of the victims would have brought a great deal of pressure to bear on the police to keep things quiet.”
“There is always a great fear of scandal in cases of this sort,” Logan said. “The families did not want rumors and titillating accounts of their daughters’ deaths appearing in the press. Not that they were able to prevent that from happening, of course.”
Benedict looked at him. “I assume the lockets were tested for fingerprints?”
“Yes,” Logan said. “But none were found.”
“Presumably the killer wore gloves or wiped the jewelry clean,” Benedict said.
“Most likely.”
Amity looked at Logan. “There does not appear to be anything special about the rings.”
“No,” Logan said. “I was unable to trace them to the shop that sold them.”
“May I open the lockets?” she asked.
“Certainly,” Logan said. “The only items inside are photos of the women dressed in wedding gowns and veils.”
“The lockets are not cheap,” Penny observed. “The silver is good quality but the designs are old-fashioned.”
“I showed them to a couple of jewelers who recognized the hallmarks,” Logan said. “I was told that the lockets are all nearly a decade out of fashion and that they must have been made several years ago. I suspect the killer found them in various pawn shops.”
Amity reached into the box and took out one of the lockets. She opened it with great care and set it on the desk.
They all looked at the photograph. The picture was that of a bride viewed from the waist up. Her veil was thrown back off her face to reveal the features of an attractive young woman with dark hair. There was a bouquet of white lilies in her gloved hands. She stared straight at the camera as though confronting a cobra. Even though the photograph was small, there was no mistaking the fear and dread in the victim’s eyes.
Amity shivered. “Dear heaven,” she whispered.
No one else spoke.
She took out the other two lockets, opened them and set them beside the first. There were definite, obvious similarities about the pictures.
“It appears that these portraits were all taken in the same studio,” she said.
“I agree.” Benedict took a closer look, frowning in concentration. “The lighting is the same in each picture.”
“The flowers are all white lilies but they are slightly different in each photograph,” Penny observed.
“That makes sense,” Amity said. “It would be very difficult to make three bridal bouquets appear exactly the same.”
For a time they all stood in silence, contemplating the photos.
“White,” Amity said suddenly.
They all looked at her.
“She’s right,” Penny said. “The dresses and veils in the photographs are all white. The Queen set the style for white gowns when she was married decades ago, but only the very wealthy follow the fashion.”
Declan looked at her. “Why is that?”
Penny smiled. “White is a very impractical color for a gown. Impossible to clean, you know. Most brides are married in their best dresses. If they do buy a new gown for the ceremony, they usually purchase one in a color and a style that can be worn after the wedding. Only the very wealthy wear white. In these photographs the gowns are all white and the veils are quite elaborate.” She looked at Logan. “But, then, we know that these three young ladies moved in wealthy circles.”
“That is correct,” Logan said.
“Nevertheless, there’s something about these three dresses.” Penny picked up one of the lockets and took a closer look, frowning in concentration. “I think these women are all wearing the same wedding gown and veil.”
“What?” Logan spoke sharply. “I had not noticed.”
“It is a detail that a woman is more likely to observe,” Penny said. “But I’m quite sure this is the same gown and veil in each of the photographs.” She opened a desk drawer and took out a magnifying glass. She examined each of the lockets in turn. “Yes, I’m certain of it. Same gown. Same veil. Take a look, Amity. What do you think?”
Amity took the magnifying glass and studied each of the small photographs. “You’re right. They are all attired in the same bridal gown. It is harder to be certain about the veil, but I think the headband is the same, too.”
“There is something else about the dress,” Penny said. She retrieved the magnifying glass and took another look at all three pictures. “It is, I believe, about two years out of date.”
Benedict looked interested. “How can you tell?”
“This particular sleeve and low neckline were very much in fashion for formal gowns about two years ago,” Penny said with cool authority.
“Interesting,” Logan said. He made a note. “I suppose it makes sense that he used the same gown for all three victims. A man can hardly go to a fashionable dressmaker and start ordering a number of wedding gowns, not without causing comment.”
“So he bought one gown two years ago and reuses it for each vict
im?” Amity mused.
Declan cleared his throat. They all looked at him. He turned red under the scrutiny.
“What is it?” Benedict said. “Speak up, man.”
“It just occurred to me that perhaps the gown has some special significance,” Declan said.
“It’s a wedding gown,” Logan said. “In and of itself, that fact implies a great deal of significance.”
“No, I mean, perhaps that particular gown has some personal meaning for him,” Declan said.
“Yes, of course,” Amity said softly. “What if the gown was made for his own bride?”
Logan flipped through his notes and paused at a page of names. “Five of the men on this list that Mr. Stanbridge and his brother drew up are married. The other three are not.”
“I have a feeling that we are looking for one of those who is not married,” Declan said quietly. “At least not any longer.”
A short, stark silence fell on the room. Amity was aware of a chill on the nape of her neck.
Benedict looked at Logan. “Are there any widowers on our list? Or men who remarried after losing their first wives?”
“I don’t know,” Logan said. “But it shouldn’t be difficult to find out.” He turned back to Declan. “What makes you think that the first bride to wear that gown is dead?”
“Because there is a horrible kind of twisted logic to the thing,” Declan said. “I remember Dr. Benson lecturing on the subject of murderers who killed again and again. He believes that there is always a pattern—a ritual—involved. If he’s right, I would not be astonished to discover that the first murdered bride was the wife of the killer.”
Benedict looked at Logan. “You said the body of the first victim was found about a year ago. She was engaged to be married but not yet a bride.”
“That’s right,” Logan said. “None of the young women was ever married.”
Declan exhaled slowly and shook his head. “I was just speculating. I’ve never done anything like this before.”