Otherwise Engaged

by Amanda Quick

  “If he murdered his first wife,” Benedict said slowly, “then that narrows the suspects on our list to a man who was married approximately two years ago and who was widowed.”

  “It’s worth pursuing that angle,” Logan agreed.

  “And don’t forget, we also know that the killer indulges in cigarettes that are scented with spices,” Amity added. “That should help narrow the list a bit.”

  “So he smokes coffin nails, does he?” Declan said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Amity said.

  “That’s what we call cigarettes in America,” Declan explained. “Coffin nails. Not that it stops anyone from smoking them, mind you.”

  Logan glanced at him. “I heard cigarettes were good for the nerves.”

  “Not according to Dr. Benson,” Declan said.

  Penny stirred. “I may be able to help you narrow the list a bit more.”

  Logan watched her with close attention. “How will you do that?”

  Penny glanced at Amity. “By consulting an expert.”

  Amity smiled. “Madame La Fontaine, your dressmaker.”

  “She is an authority on all things relating to fashion,” Penny said. “Amity and I will pay a visit to her this very afternoon and see what we can discover.”

  “Excellent.” Logan slipped his notebook and pencil back into the pocket of his coat. “I appreciate all of the help you four have provided today. I feel as if I know considerably more about this killer than I did before I arrived here.”

  Benedict gave Declan a speculative look. “I must admit that I am quite intrigued by your observations. Maybe you should consider a career as a consultant to the police.”

  “My father would be furious,” Declan said. He made a face. “The future is in oil, you know.”

  “Yes, you did mention that,” Benedict said.

  Twenty-five

  Madame La Fontaine used Penny’s magnifying glass to study the photographs in the lockets arrayed on the counter. Amity and Penny waited, tense and silent. The dressmaker muttered to herself as she moved from one picture to the next. When she reached the last one, she nodded emphatically and put down the lens.

  “Oui, Mrs. Marsden, you and your sister are correct,” she announced in her fake French accent. “There is no doubt but that it is the same gown in all three pictures and it is most certainly a design from the fall season two years ago. The truth is all there in the details of the sleeve, the neckline and the beading on the headpiece of the veil.”

  “Thank you,” Penny said. “We thought as much but we wanted to be certain.”

  Madame La Fontaine eyed her with a shrewd expression. “It is a very expensive gown. And in white satin, no less. So impractical. But perhaps the three young ladies in the pictures are sisters who decided to share the dress to save money?”

  “No,” Amity said. She scooped up the lockets and tucked them into the small velvet bag she had brought with her. “They were not sisters.”

  “Friends of yours, perhaps?” Madame La Fontaine asked.

  Amity tugged on the strings to cinch up the bag. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I am aware that you are engaged to be married and will soon be in the market for a wedding gown yourself,” Madame La Fontaine said smoothly. “I merely wondered if perhaps one of these brides had offered to sell you that white satin gown and veil at a reduced price.”

  “Oh.” Amity managed to regain her composure. “No, absolutely not. Trust me when I say that this particular gown is the very last dress I would want to wear for any reason whatsoever—especially not my own wedding.”

  “Ah, you show exquisite taste in fashion, Miss Doncaster.” Madame La Fontaine’s voice warmed with approval. “That dress is sadly out-of-date. No self-respecting bride would want to be caught dead in it.”

  There was a short silence. Amity cleared her throat.

  Penny fixed Madame La Fontaine with a polite smile infused with charm and respect. “You are the most knowledgeable dressmaker I know, madam. That is why I would not patronize any other modiste. Naturally my sister will come to you for her wedding gown when the time arrives.”

  Madame La Fontaine beamed. “I will be delighted to design your gown and your veil, as well, Miss Doncaster.”

  “Yes, well, thank you,” Amity said. She knew she was blushing furiously.

  “Very gracious of you, madam,” Penny said smoothly. “But to return to the subject of this particular wedding gown, is there anything else you can tell us about it?”

  Madame La Fontaine’s brows shot upward. “I can’t imagine why you are interested in it. I told you, it is not at all in the current fashion.”

  Penny gave her a bland smile. “We found the lockets quite by accident. They appear to be rather valuable. We are trying to track down the three women in the pictures so that we can return their jewelry to them. As we do not recognize the young ladies, we thought we might start by identifying the dressmaker who created the gown they all shared.”

  “I see.” Madame La Fontaine relaxed somewhat. Evidently any suspicions that her clients might be seeking a replacement for her services had been allayed. “Very kind of you to go to the effort. I can tell you with absolute certainty that both the dress and the veil were made by Mrs. Judkins. Calls herself Madame Dubois, but between you and me she’s no more French than that streetlamp out in front of my shop.”

  Amity looked at Penny. “Isn’t it amazing how many people attempt to pass themselves off as something other than what they are?”

  “Astonishing,” Penny said.

  Some twenty minutes later Amity stood with Penny at the sales counter of Madame Dubois, also known as Mrs. Judkins. The dressmaker examined the three images in the lockets with an air of confusion mingled with dismay.

  “Yes, I made that dress,” she said. “But this is all very odd.”

  Her accent was somewhat more refined than Madame La Fontaine’s but equally false.

  “What is strange about the gown?” Amity prompted.

  Madame Dubois looked up, brow wrinkled in bewilderment. “I did not make it for any of these young ladies. I suppose it’s possible that they all borrowed or purchased the dress secondhand, but I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a thing.”

  “You mean because it’s out of style?” Penny asked.

  “No,” Madame Dubois said. She removed her reading glasses and dropped the French accent, instantly transforming into Mrs. Judkins. “It easily could have been remade in the current style. I meant I can’t imagine why any young lady would want to be married in a gown that had such a tragedy attached to it. Very bad luck.”

  Amity knew that she and Penny were both holding their breath now.

  “What is the story behind this gown?” Amity asked. “It is very important that you tell us.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Judkins inclined her head in a knowing way. “I see you were thinking of purchasing the dress for your own wedding.”

  “Well—” Amity began.

  “I strongly advise against it, Miss Doncaster. No good can come of wearing that gown. The bride for whom it was made died a tragic death within weeks of her wedding. She was still on her honeymoon, as a matter of fact.”

  “That would have been two years ago, correct?” Penny said.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Judkins made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound with her teeth and tongue and shook her head. “So very sad.”

  “Who was the bride?” Amity asked, hardly daring to believe they were closing in on the answers to the questions she and the others had been asking.

  “Adelaide Briar,” Mrs. Judkins said. “I have the details in my files but I don’t need to look them up. I remember the whole business quite clearly, not only because the bride was very lovely and the gown was so expensive but also because it was such a hurried affair. My seamstresses had to work night and day to complete the dress
in time. Just between the three of us, I’m quite sure the bride was pregnant or, at the very least, concerned about the possibility, if you take my meaning.”

  “She had been compromised,” Penny said.

  “I suspect that was the situation,” Mrs. Judkins said. “It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been asked to produce a gown in a great rush. But that hurried wedding cost the young lady her life.”

  Amity instinctively touched the tessen blade on her chatelaine. “What happened to her?”

  “I’m not certain, exactly. The papers said something about a terrible accident. The couple went to the continent for their honeymoon. They stayed at an old castle that had been turned into a very exclusive hotel. In the middle of the night she somehow fell from an upstairs window. The fall broke her neck, but in addition she must have been cut up quite badly by the broken glass. According to the accounts, there was a great deal of blood. No, Miss Doncaster, you do not want to be married in that gown.”

  Amity swallowed hard. “I believe you.”

  Penny watched Mrs. Judkins very steadily. “Do you remember the name of the groom?”

  “How could I forget?” Mrs. Judkins said.

  Twenty-six

  His name was Virgil Warwick,” Amity said.

  “Damnation.” Benedict flattened his palms on Penny’s desk and glared at the names on the sheet of paper in front of him. “He’s not even on the guest list. No wonder we weren’t getting anywhere with our inquiries.”

  An icy rage threatened to override his self-control. They had been chasing the wrong quarry. So much time wasted.

  “We had to start somewhere,” Amity said gently. “It was logical to begin with the Channing ball connection. After all, the gossip about me started the day after that event. That could not have been a coincidence.”

  It was as if she had read his mind, Benedict thought. And not for the first time. He straightened away from the desk.

  “I know,” he said. “But when I think of all the time Cornelius and Richard spent interrogating men in their clubs about suspects who have proven to be of no interest—”

  “As an engineer, I’m sure you’re accustomed to the necessity of having to perform any number of experiments that fail before one gets it right,” Amity said.

  Logan looked amused. “That’s certainly how it works in my profession. We needed a starting point, one that got us into the Polite World. The guest list from the ball provided that. And by the way, do not discount the value of those interviews your brother and your uncle conducted. They helped us discard a number of suspects.”

  “You’re correct, of course,” Benedict said.

  He went to stand at the window. The sensation that time was running out clawed at him. Part of him was certain that the monster was out there, somewhere, and he was stalking Amity.

  “I would also point out that the fact Virgil Warwick’s name is not on the list does not mean he did not hear the rumors about Amity from someone at the ball,” Logan said. “That possibility still holds.”

  “I think that is very likely,” Penny said. “But we no longer need to search for the connection between the guest who attended the ball and the killer. We have Virgil Warwick’s name.”

  “Thanks to you, Penny—Mrs. Marsden,” Logan said, hastily correcting himself. “And you, Miss Doncaster.”

  “It was Penny who recognized the significance of the gown,” Amity said proudly. “It was a brilliant notion.”

  “Thank you,” Penny said. She blushed. “I’m glad it worked out well.”

  “I don’t care to contemplate what else in the way of evidence was lost or discarded before I was assigned the case,” Logan said grimly.

  “We still don’t know for certain that Virgil Warwick is the killer,” Amity said.

  “No,” Logan agreed. “But I must tell you, Miss Doncaster, that I have noticed a pattern over the years. Whenever a wife is found dead under mysterious circumstances, it is often the husband who is guilty.” He paused before adding dryly, “And vice versa, although women tend to be more subtle about the crime. Poison is usually the weapon of choice.”

  Benedict turned back to face the others. He thought he saw Penny and Amity exchange glances, but they both looked away so quickly he could not be certain.

  “I assume the next step is to interview Virgil Warwick?” Amity asked.

  Penny put down the guest list and looked at Logan. “Will you do that, Inspector?”

  “In a perfect world, yes,” Logan said. “But we all know that it is unlikely that Warwick will see me, even if he happens to be innocent of any crime.”

  “He’s not innocent,” Benedict said. “I can feel it.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot arrest a gentleman of his rank without something more in the way of proof,” Logan said.

  “He’ll talk to me,” Benedict said.

  “Are you acquainted with him?” Logan asked, his tone sharpening.

  “Not personally,” Benedict said. “I don’t spend much time in social circles. But I promise you, I can and will get past his front door.”

  Logan raised his brows but he did not say anything.

  “What good will it do to speak with Warwick if you don’t take me with you?” Amity asked.

  “No,” Benedict said automatically. “I’m not putting you within arm’s reach of that bastard.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Amity said. “But as we all know, I am the only one who might be able to identify him. I need to hear his voice, see his hands and smell the scent of his cigarettes.”

  “No,” Benedict said again.

  Logan and Penny remained quiet. Benedict knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

  “Keep in mind,” Amity said, “that he does not know that I might be able to recognize him. He wore a mask. I’m sure he considers his secret safe.”

  Benedict closed one hand into a fist and then forced himself to relax his fingers.

  “Damn it to hell,” he said very, very softly.

  She was right. There was no other option.

  Less than an hour later, Benedict stood with Amity on the front steps of Virgil Warwick’s town house. The drapes were closed on all of the windows. No one responded to a knock on the door.

  “The bastard is gone,” Benedict said.

  The door of the neighboring house opened. The housekeeper, a middle-aged, sour-looking woman in a grimy apron peered out at them.

  “Mr. Warwick ain’t home,” she announced. “Heard he left for Scotland nearly a month ago. Got a hunting lodge there, someone said.”

  “Is that so?” Amity said politely. “How did you discover that?”

  “The housekeeper mentioned it. She was let go, you know. She was told that she would be notified when it was time to open up the house again. Expect she’ll find a new post before he comes back, though, just like the last housekeeper did when he disappeared for months on end.”

  Benedict took Amity’s arm. They went down the steps and walked toward the housekeeper.

  “When do you expect him to return?” Benedict asked, taking some coins out of his pocket.

  The housekeeper eyed the money with acute interest.

  “Got no notion,” she said. “Last time he went off to Scotland, he was gone some six months. Real fond of Scotland, he is. Can’t imagine why.”

  “When did he leave on that first trip?” Benedict asked.

  “About a year ago.”

  Amity smiled. “Did you happen to notice if he took a lot of luggage with him this time?”

  “Never saw him leave, not this time or the last time, for that matter.” The housekeeper snorted. “On both occasions he just went out one night and never bothered to come home.”

  “Thank you,” Benedict said. He dropped the coins into the housekeeper’s outstretched hand. “You’ve been very
helpful.”

  The woman closed the door and shot the bolt.

  Benedict looked at Amity. He could see the excitement in her eyes. He had a hunch there was a very similar gleam in his own expression. Neither of them spoke, however, until they were back in the cab.

  “Mr. Warwick was gone for some six months the last time he disappeared to Scotland,” Amity said.

  “And now he has disappeared again,” Benedict said. “The timing certainly fits Logan’s theory that the killer was out of town between the first killing and the more recent murders.”

  “Do you suppose he actually is in Scotland?”

  “Perhaps he went there the first time,” Benedict said. “But it strikes me that a man who was badly injured would not be in any condition to undertake a long journey by train or private carriage. It seems likely he would select a closer lair in which to recuperate.”

  An excited Mrs. Houston opened the front door before Amity could take out her key. But one look at their faces and the housekeeper’s initial anticipation transformed into a look of dismay.

  “He wasn’t the right man, then?” she asked.

  “I think that Warwick may, indeed, be the killer,” Benedict said. He followed Amity through the door. “But he’s disappeared again.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Houston said. She closed the door.

  Logan and Penny were waiting in the doorway of the study.

  “What do you mean, he’s disappeared?” Logan asked.

  Before Benedict could respond, he was interrupted by a frantic banging on the front door.

  “What on earth?” Mrs. Houston opened the door again.

  A young out-of-breath policeman was on the front step.

  Mrs. Houston beamed. “It’s you, Constable Wiggins. Nice to see you in the daylight. Did you get some sleep this morning?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Houston, thank you.” Wiggins looked at Logan. “I’ve got good news, sir. Constable Harkins found the driver.”

  “What driver?” Amity asked. Then her eyes widened. “Good heavens, do you mean the driver of the killer’s carriage?”