Otherwise Engaged

by Amanda Quick

  “Yes, ma’am,” the constable said. He grinned. “We’re getting somewhere now, aren’t we?”

  “Maybe,” Logan said. “Where is the driver?”

  “According to Harkins, he spends his free time in the Green Dog. It’s a tavern near the docks.”

  “Summon a cab, Constable,” Logan ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The constable took out a whistle and hurried off toward the far end of the street.

  Benedict looked at Logan. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Glad to have you along,” Logan said.

  Twenty-seven

  His name was Nick Tobin. He reminded Benedict of a terrier—small, wiry and probably very fleet of foot. But he wasn’t running now. He was more than pleased to talk to Benedict and Logan—for a price. He pocketed the money that Benedict placed on the table, took a long pull on his ale and told his story. It was not a long tale.

  “Aye, a gennelman ’ired me to drive his carriage for him,” Nick said. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his well-worn coat. “Said he was meeting a lady who didn’t want to be seen in public with him. That’s the way it is with some of them high-class whores. But I expect you gennelmen know that.”

  Benedict tamped down his anger. “The lady mistook the carriage for a cab.”

  “Well that’s ’ow it was supposed to work,” Nick said patiently. “I was to make it look like she was getting into a cab. How was I to know she was a lunatic?”

  “What made you think she was mad?” Benedict asked.

  “Cut me customer up somethin’ terrible, she did.” Nick shook his shaggy head. “Never saw the like. Blood all over those fine cushions. A real shame. Then she jumped out and ran off hollerin’ like a madwoman.”

  “What happened to your fare?” Logan asked.

  “When the bint ran off the customer flew into a right panic, I can tell ye that much. He screamed at me to get him away from that street. Naturally I did what he said to do. Not like I wanted to hang about, either.”

  “Where did you take him?”

  “As soon as we was away from the madwoman I opened the trapdoor in the roof and asked him where he wanted to go next. Imagine my surprise when I saw all that blood.”

  “Did he instruct you to take him to his address?”

  Nick appeared surprised by the question. “No, sir. He never said where he lived, sir. He ordered me to take him to an address in Crocker Lane and that’s what I did. When we got there I ’ad to help him up the front steps. He pounded on the door. Bleeding all over the steps, he was. Someone opened the door. Me customer went inside. That was the end of it.”

  “Not quite,” Benedict said. “What about the carriage?”

  “A man came out of the house and gave me some money. He said it was to pay me for my time. He said he would deal with the horse and that strange carriage. I was to take myself off and forget what had happened. And that’s exactly what I did. Next thing I know, I ’eard that two gennelmen wanted to talk to me and would make it worth my while.” Nick squinted at Logan. “Course, I didn’t know that one of the so-called gennelman was from the Yard.”

  Logan gave him a cold smile. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Always pleased to do a favor for the Yard,” Nick said.

  “It won’t be forgotten,” Logan promised.

  Nick nodded, satisfied.

  Benedict studied him. “You do realize that the carriage you drove that day belonged to the killer they call the Bridegroom?”

  Nick stared at him, deeply offended. “No, sir, that’s not possible. That was a gennelman’s carriage, I tell ye. Real fine vehicle it was, even if it was odd inside. Not the kind of vehicle a crazed killer like the Bridegroom would go about in now, is it?”

  “I want the address of the house in Crocker Lane,” Logan said.

  Nick turned wily. “Well, now, that’ll cost you a bit more, sir.”

  Logan looked as if he was about to argue the point. Benedict shook his head ever so slightly and took out more money.

  “The answer had better be correct,” Benedict said.

  “It’s not like I’d forget a fare like that,” Nick said cheerfully. He rattled off a number.

  Logan narrowed his eyes. “Where were you going to take them?”

  Nick’s bushy brows scrunched together. “Take who, sir?”

  “The gentleman and the lady who did not want to be seen getting into the carriage,” Logan said evenly. “Where were you supposed to take them?”

  “Can’t help ye there, sir. Never did find out exactly where we was headed on account of the little whore going crazy like she did. I was supposed to get my instructions after we picked her up.”

  Logan and Benedict got to their feet.

  “One more thing,” Benedict said.

  Nick looked up. “What’s that, sir?”

  “What was it about the carriage that struck you as odd?”

  “The way it was all sealed up inside. Reminded me of one of those wagons they use to transport prisoners. The windows were covered with wooden shutters. There were even bars in the trapdoor in the roof. The door could be locked from the outside so no one could break in, I reckon.”

  “Or escape from the vehicle, perhaps?” Logan suggested.

  “Aye, if ye locked it from the outside, the person inside would be trapped, right enough,” Nick said. “Hadn’t thought about that bit. My client allowed as to how he was afraid of being attacked by robbers when he traveled around London.”

  “He had a point,” Benedict said. “The streets are dangerous.”

  “Aye, sir, that’s the truth, it is.”

  Twenty-eight

  Twilight and fog were descending by the time they arrived at the house in Crocker Lane. Benedict stepped down from the hansom cab. Logan followed him. They went up the front steps. The light of a nearby gas lamp made it just barely possible to read the small plaque on the front door. Dr. J. M. Norcott, By Appointment Only.

  “Norcott is a doctor,” Benedict said. “That certainly explains why Warwick ordered the driver to bring him here.”

  “Warwick knew the address of this house well enough to be able to summon it from memory in a moment of panic when he must have been in some fear of bleeding to death,” Logan observed.

  “In other words, Warwick may well have a long-standing acquaintanceship with Dr. Norcott.”

  “I think so, yes,” Logan said.

  Benedict studied the dark windows. “Doesn’t look like anyone is home.”

  “Perhaps Norcott has been called out to treat a patient,” Logan said.

  He raised the knocker and clanged it with some force. They could hear the muffled echo from deep inside the front hall but no one responded.

  “I suggest we try the kitchen door,” Benedict said.

  “I could point out that we don’t have a key, let alone a warrant,” Logan said, his tone perfectly neutral.

  “I could point out that there are other ways to gain entry into a house. I might also mention that there is a considerable amount of fog tonight.”

  Logan looked thoughtful. “Excellent points, all of them. Let’s try the kitchen door.”

  Benedict raised a hand to wave the hansom on its way. When the cab was out of sight, he followed Logan around to the rear of the house.

  They went into the small garden. At the kitchen door Benedict struck a light and held it steady while Logan made short work of the lock.

  The smell of death wafted out of the house the moment they opened the door. No longer concerned with the neighbors, Benedict turned up a lamp.

  The body was in the front hall. A shiny length of sharpened steel gleamed in the middle of the dry blood pool.

  “That must be Norcott,” Benedict said.

  Logan crouched beside the body and examined it wit
h a professional eye. “I think this was done sometime yesterday. The killer used one of the doctor’s own scalpels.”

  “It would seem that Virgil Warwick has returned from Scotland,” Benedict said. “He came back to murder the one man who could testify to the nature of his wounds.”

  Logan got to his feet. “But why kill him now?”

  Benedict glanced at the trunk on the floor near the door. Careful to avoid the dried blood, he stepped around the body and hunkered down beside it.

  “Locked,” he said.

  Without a word Logan reached into the dead man’s coat. He withdrew a key and handed it to Benedict.

  Benedict opened the trunk. The hall lamps gleamed on an array of carelessly packed clothing and shaving gear.

  “He was on his way out of town,” Benedict said. “Running, I think. This suitcase looks like it was packed in a hurry.”

  “I agree.” Logan fished a ticket out of the victim’s front pocket. “He was scheduled to catch a train to Scotland.”

  Benedict circled the body again and opened a door. When he turned up the lamps inside the room, he found himself looking into a neatly organized office. There was another door in a side wall of the office. He opened that one, too, and saw an examination table and an assortment of medical instruments.

  Logan went straight to the desk and opened a leather-bound volume.

  “This is Norcott’s appointment book,” he said. “Looks like he expected to be busy all week with patients.”

  Benedict headed for the door. “I’ll have a look around upstairs while you go through his desk.”

  “Right.” Logan sat down in the chair and went to work in an efficient, methodical manner.

  Benedict took the stairs two at a time. There was only one room that looked as if it had been recently occupied. The furniture in the others was covered with heavy dust cloths. Norcott lived alone.

  He saw the letter on the bedside table as soon as he turned up a lamp. He read it quickly and then went swiftly back down the stairs. When he walked into the study, Logan was in the process of closing a drawer.

  “You found something?” Logan asked.

  “The killer wasn’t in Scotland.” Benedict held out the letter. “He was a patient at a hospital called Cresswell Manor. Two days ago he was taken away by his mother.”

  “Let me see that.” Logan snapped the letter out of Benedict’s hand and read it quickly. “Cresswell Manor is an asylum. It is common for respectable and upper-class families to send their mentally ill relatives to such institutions under false names in order to protect the privacy of the patient.”

  “To say nothing of the family’s privacy,” Benedict said. “The patient’s relatives will do whatever they can to bury such a secret.”

  “And they will pay any price to guarantee silence.” Logan held up a ledger. “According to these financial records, Dr. Norcott received a very nice commission for referring the patient known as V. Smith to Cresswell Manor.”

  “If the referral commission was that large, one can only imagine the size of the fees that were paid directly to the proprietor of the Manor.”

  “Bloody hell,” Logan said softly. “I very much doubt that Virgil Warwick willingly checked himself into an asylum. Someone else in the family was no doubt responsible for paying the fees.”

  “We need to track down Virgil Warwick’s parents,” Benedict said.

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult now that we’ve got a name.” Logan looked around. “I think we have done all we can here. I’ll call a constable and arrange to have the body removed.”

  Benedict went back into the hall. He glanced once more at the body and the trunk.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “What?” Logan asked.

  “I wonder what happened to the doctor’s satchel. I can’t see a man of medicine leaving it behind, even if he was trying to flee from a killer. Medical instruments and medicines are a doctor’s tools, his stock-in-trade, the means by which he makes his living. They are valuable.”

  “We’ve established that Norcott was in a hurry, probably fleeing for his life.”

  “Yes, but if he hoped to practice medicine after leaving London, he would have taken the instruments of his profession with him,” Benedict said. “I think the killer stole the doctor’s medical supplies.”

  Logan eyed the bloodstained scalpel. “Which would include sharp blades like that one.”

  “And chloroform,” Benedict said. “Warwick is preparing to take his next victim.”

  Twenty-nine

  It was not hard to create a list of Virgil Warwick’s close relatives,” Penny said. “I checked with Mrs. Houston to confirm my own recollections. She went to see a friend of hers who once worked for the family. Warwick’s father died a few years ago. Virgil has no brothers or sisters. There are, I believe, some distant cousins, but they moved to Canada. As far as we could determine, he has only one close relation here in town. His mother.”

  “Warwick is the sole heir to a sizable inheritance,” Amity said. “Which explains the trappings of luxury that I noted when I was kidnapped.”

  The four of them were in the study. She and Penny had been closeted there, scouring the guest list one more time in a search for answers, when Benedict and Logan had returned with the news of Dr. Warwick’s murder. One look at their grim, determined faces had been enough to tell her that the discovery had deepened their concerns. But the steel in their eyes made it clear that they were closing in on the answers.

  Benedict pulled a letter out of his pocket. “According to this, Warwick was referred to Cresswell Manor—which appears to be a private asylum—for unspecified treatment a little more than three weeks ago. Warwick’s records indicate that it was the second time Warwick had been admitted to the Manor.”

  “Let me hazard a guess,” Amity said. “The first time was approximately a year ago.”

  “Yes,” Logan said. “Immediately after the body of the first dead bride was discovered. It appears he was sent back after the attack on you, and now he has been released again.”

  Penny frowned. “Why would his mother take him out of the asylum again?”

  “In her heart she probably knows or at least suspects that he is capable of terrible things, but she continues to hope that he can be cured by modern medical knowledge,” Amity said.

  “She certainly didn’t allow much time for him to receive therapy on this last occasion,” Penny said.

  “Perhaps she has been convinced that he is not guilty of murder, after all,” Amity said. “I’m sure he told her that I attacked him, not vice versa.”

  “And she wishes to believe that is what happened,” Penny said. “She is his mother, after all.”

  “Regardless of her reasoning, Virgil Warwick’s mother is the one who is responsible for his release and she may be the one person who knows where he is,” Logan said. “I must speak with her.”

  Penny shook her head. “Even if she believes her son to be innocent, the last person she will speak with is a policeman.”

  “I will find a way,” Logan vowed.

  “It will be easier and no doubt faster if I do the interview,” Benedict said.

  Amity looked at him. “I am going to accompany you.”

  Benedict gave that a brief consideration. “Yes, I think that would probably be best.”

  Logan raised his brows. “How do the two of you plan to get past the front door? If you use your real names, she will become suspicious immediately and have her butler inform you that she is not at home.”

  “What made you think that I plan to use my real name?” Benedict asked.

  “Speaking of names.” Penny held up a sheet of paper. “It just so happens that Mrs. Charlotte Warwick is on the Channing ball guest list.”

  “So there was a connection,” Logan said.

 
“That certainly explains how her deranged son came to hear the gossip about my supposed shipboard affair with Mr. Stanbridge,” Amity said.

  “It appears he may have gotten the news from his mother,” Logan said.

  Amity sighed. “I’m sure she had no notion of what he would do with the information.”

  An hour later Amity stood on the front steps of the Warwick mansion and watched with interest as Benedict dealt with the supercilious butler.

  “You may inform Mrs. Warwick that Dr. Norcott and his assistant are here to discuss a matter of utmost importance.”

  The butler eyed Benedict’s expensive coat and trousers and then gave Amity’s elegant walking gown a similar perusal. He did not appear convinced.

  “Your card, Dr. Norcott?” he said.

  “Sorry. All out of cards. Trust me, Mrs. Warwick will see us.”

  “I will find out if she is at home to callers today,” the butler said.

  He closed the door in their faces.

  “Do you think this is going to work?” Amity asked.

  “I think that, under the circumstances, Mrs. Warwick will be afraid not to see Dr. Norcott. She must know that he is one of the few people who are aware that her son is likely a killer.”

  “But if she does refuse to see us?”

  “Then we go in anyway,” Benedict said.

  “We could find ourselves under arrest,” Amity pointed out in neutral tones.

  “Mrs. Warwick is unlikely to summon the police to remove a doctor and his assistant who just happen to know her darkest secret. She would be terrified that the scandal would be all over town by morning.”

  “Indeed,” Amity said. “Your powers of reasoning never cease to amaze me, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear that because at the moment I am not at all in a reasonable mood. I want answers.”

  “So do I.”

  The door opened.

  “Mrs. Warwick will see you,” the butler announced. He looked as if he strongly disapproved of the decision.