Otherwise Engaged

by Amanda Quick

  Virgil motioned for Penny to step back out of the way. When she obeyed, he took a key out of the pocket of his coat and unlocked the cage. Amity carried the wedding gown inside.

  Virgil slammed the door shut and locked it. He went to the workbench, picked up a knife and walked back to the cage.

  “Put your hands through the bars,” he ordered.

  Amity did as instructed. Virgil sliced through the bindings on her wrists. Relief swept through her. She and Penny were hardly free, but at least, for the moment, they were both unbound.

  Virgil crossed the room, picked up the folding screen and positioned it in front of the cage. Amity looked at Penny, brows raised.

  “Evidently Mr. Warwick has some respect for a lady’s modesty,” Penny said coolly.

  On the far side of the screen Virgil uttered a guttural laugh.

  “You know what they say, bad luck to see the bride in her gown before the wedding,” he said lightly.

  But there was more to it than that, Amity realized.

  “You don’t like to see women nude, do you?” she asked.

  Virgil grunted on the other side of the screen. “Women like you are unclean. Dirty. Tainted. Their wedding gowns conceal the truth about them until the groom has been deceived into marriage.”

  Penny helped Amity out of the domino and the simple gown that she had worn beneath it. They both went about the business as slowly as they dared. Trying to buy time, Amity thought. She touched the Rose Necklace that she still wore around her neck as if it were a talisman. Benedict and Logan would even now be searching for them.

  “Is that why you murdered your own bride?” Penny asked, sounding for all the world as if she was making polite drawing room conversation. “Because you felt she had deceived you?”

  There was a short, startled silence from the other side of the screen.

  “How did you discover that?” Virgil demanded.

  “This is your wife’s gown, isn’t it?” Amity asked. “How long did it take you to realize that she was not the virgin you assumed her to be?”

  “I believed her to be a paragon of womanhood,” Virgil said. “But she dared to come to me pregnant with another man’s child. She tried to deceive me and for a time I believed her lies. But when she miscarried three weeks after the wedding I knew the truth.”

  Amity stepped into the heavy white satin skirts and pulled up the bodice. She noticed that the gown was cut rather full around the waistline. Madame Dubois had done a very good job of concealing that feature, however.

  “To be fair, you lied to her, as well, didn’t you?” Amity said.

  “What are you talking about?” Virgil snapped.

  “I imagine that you failed to mention the streak of insanity in your family bloodline,” Penny said casually.

  “The Warwick bloodline is untainted,” Virgil roared. He slammed the privacy screen aside just as Penny started to do up the bodice of the gown. His face was splotched with fury. “How dare you imply that there is insanity in the family!”

  “I had an interesting conversation with your sister tonight before you murdered her,” Amity said. “Out of curiosity, may I ask why you killed her in the middle of a ballroom?”

  “You think I killed her?” Virgil asked. He looked first surprised and then amused. “You silly woman. Put on the veil. It is time for your sitting.”

  Penny picked up the veil. Her eyes were filled with dread.

  Amity turned toward her, partially blocking Virgil’s view. She pressed the little evening bag that she had carried to the costume ball into Penny’s hand. Penny’s fingers closed around it. Her eyes flickered in understanding. Amity knew she had just remembered the little sewing kit inside.

  “Good-bye, sister,” Amity said, raising her voice to a sorrowful wail. “He will kill me as soon as he takes my photo and then he will murder you, as well. He is quite mad, you see.”

  Penny hastily opened the pretty evening bag and took out the small scissors.

  “Enough!” Virgil screamed. “There will be no more talk of insanity.”

  “Be ready.” With her back to Virgil, Amity mouthed the words the way she and Penny had done when they were children trying to convey a silent message across the dinner table without their parents being aware of it.

  Penny concealed the scissors in the folds of her skirt.

  Amity readied herself. Until that moment she had been careful to move slowly, making no moves that might alarm Virgil. She could only pray that he would not be anticipating a sudden burst of energy from her.

  “Put your hands outside the bars,” Virgil ordered.

  Amity turned around and extended her wrists. He was obliged to set the pistol aside while he bound her a second time.

  “Stand back, both of you,” Virgil ordered. Hastily he retrieved the pistol.

  Amity and Penny obeyed.

  Virgil stabbed the key into the padlock. It took him two tries to unlock the door. There was a feverish excitement about him now.

  When the lock finally gave way, Virgil tugged the heavy door open. In that one brief moment he was forced to juggle the door, the lock and the pistol.

  Amity gave a shrill, piercing scream and flung herself at the door. The force of her full weight slamming into the iron bars caught Virgil off guard. He staggered back a couple of steps.

  “Lying whore!” he screamed. “Lying, cheating harlot. I’ll teach you your place.”

  He used his grip on the door to slam it closed but Penny, wielding the little pair of scissors like claws, stabbed his hand. The sharp points of the blades bit into flesh.

  Virgil howled. Blood flowed.

  Reflexively he released his grip on the iron bars and staggered back out of range. Amity took advantage of the opportunity to shove hard against the door a second time. It swung wide open. Penny dashed out first. Amity flew after her.

  Virgil fell back again, his attention fixed on Amity. He raised the gun, aiming it at her. She grabbed the only weapon at hand—the long wedding veil with its elaborate crown—and tossed it at him. The yards of diaphanous lace cascaded over his face and chest. Furious and clearly panicked now, he swiped at the billowing veil with both hands.

  The roar of the gun was deafening. Amity didn’t know if Virgil had pulled the trigger by accident or intent. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that she and Penny were both on their feet. Neither of them had been hit.

  Penny seized the nearest heavy object—the medical satchel—and hurled it at Virgil. It caught him on his upper shoulder. It didn’t do much damage but he stumbled again. He had evidently unlatched the satchel earlier because the contents spilled out. Small glass vials filled with medicines, bandages, a stethoscope and a number of gleaming instruments scattered across the floor.

  Virgil yelled and swung the pistol toward Penny. Amity grabbed his gun arm with both hands and hauled on it with all of her strength. The second shot slammed into the wooden floorboards.

  He managed to shake free of her grip but Penny came at him from behind, a scalpel in her hand. She stabbed wildly at the back of his neck, missed and struck his shoulder.

  He shrieked in pain and whirled around. He still had the gun. He tried to level it at Penny. Amity hoisted the heavy skirts of the wedding dress and kicked Virgil behind his right knee with all the strength she could muster.

  He screamed again, lost his balance and went down on both knees. This time he lost his grip on the gun. It fell to the floor. Amity kicked it out of reach.

  Penny grabbed the big camera off the tripod. Amity realized that she intended to smash it against Virgil’s head.

  A gun roared. Not Virgil’s, Amity realized. The sound had been muffled.

  The studio door slammed open. Benedict and Logan thundered into the room. Amity realized that Benedict had shot the lock off the door.

  It seeme
d to her that for an instant everything and everyone in the scene except Benedict and Logan froze. The two men did not stop. They were intent only on the destruction of their prey. And their prey was Virgil Warwick.

  Virgil erupted from the brief trance. He scrambled to his feet. Amity made no attempt to stop him. Neither did Penny. They both knew that he would never escape the wrath of the two men who were between him and the door.

  Virgil must have seen the ice in Benedict’s and Logan’s eyes. He stopped short, frantic now.

  “No!” he shrieked. “I’ve done nothing. It’s the whores. They are trying to kill me.”

  “Stop,” Logan said. “I am arresting you on charges of murder.”

  “No!” Virgil screamed. “I’m Virgil Warwick. You can’t touch me.”

  He whirled around and reached out to grab Amity. She realized he intended to use her as a shield. She lurched out of his path. Her foot caught on the thick, treacherous folds of satin in the skirts of the gown. She lost her balance, but the fall took her out of range of Virgil’s desperately flailing hands.

  He changed direction and went after the gun he had dropped during the struggle.

  Benedict aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger.

  The roar of the gun bounced off the walls. Virgil stiffened as if he had been electrified. He looked down, staring in disbelief at the growing bloodstain on the front of his crisply pleated white shirt. Then he raised his eyes and stared at Benedict, bewildered.

  “I’m Virgil Warwick,” he said. “You can’t do this to me.”

  He crumpled to the floor.

  A great hush descended upon the room. Amity grabbed Penny’s hand. Penny’s fingers closed around hers. They both watched Logan crouch beside Virgil.

  “Is he dead?” Benedict asked.

  “Not quite,” Logan said. He took his fingers away from Virgil’s throat. “But he will be soon, which, under the circumstances, is a very good thing. We will not have to worry that he might be released again from an asylum.”

  Virgil’s eyes fluttered. He stared up at Benedict with fading eyes.

  “Where is Mother?” he rasped. “She will take care of everything.”

  “Not this time,” Benedict said.

  Forty-one

  The first light of dawn was illuminating an overcast sky when the hansom cab stopped in front of Benedict’s address. He paid the driver, descended the narrow steps to the pavement and turned to look back at Logan.

  “Can I offer you a brandy, Inspector? I think we’ve both earned one. It’s been a long night.”

  Logan hesitated and for a moment Benedict thought he might refuse. Then he got out of the cab.

  “A brandy sounds like an excellent notion,” Logan said. “Thank you.”

  They went up the steps. Benedict reached into his pocket for the key. His fingers brushed across the Rose Necklace. Another sharp pang of dismay splashed through him, weighing down his spirits. He relived the moment in Warwick’s ghastly studio when Amity had looked as if she would fling herself headlong into his arms. Instead, she had composed herself and said something about his always excellent timing.

  They had all agreed that it would be best if he escorted the ladies home before the press arrived. The story was bound to be a sensation, but the uproar would be even greater if the killer’s last two intended victims were discovered at the scene.

  Unable to tolerate another moment in the wedding gown the killer had forced her to wear, Amity had insisted on taking the time to change back into her own dress before leaving the studio.

  She did not remove the Rose Necklace until they were back in Exton Street. Benedict had the feeling that she had forgotten it. There, on the front steps, Amity had paused to thank him again, ever so politely, and then she had reached up to unclasp the necklace.

  In the hazy glow of the gas lamps he thought he saw some emotion in her eyes, but he could not read it. Shock, he concluded. What else? She had been through a terrible ordeal.

  “You mustn’t forget your necklace, Benedict,” she said, handing it to him. “I know how important it is to you and your family. I don’t want to take any more chances with it.”

  He had left Amity and Penny in Mrs. Houston’s capable hands and returned to the grim, boarded-up house that Warwick had used as a photography studio. He had been very conscious of the weight of the necklace in his pocket while he waited for Logan to finish with the business of collecting evidence.

  When Logan had eventually appeared, he had been surprised to see Benedict and the hansom in the street. But he had accepted the offer of a ride without hesitation.

  “I must call on Mrs. Warwick before I go home,” he said.

  “I will go in with you if you like,” Benedict said.

  Logan nodded once, his face grim. “I would be glad of your company. I’m not sure what to say to a mother under these circumstances.”

  In the end, however, the meeting with a stoic Charlotte Warwick had been mercifully short. Benedict knew from the shadows in her eyes that she had been braced for the news they had brought her. They had left her alone in her library, tears glittering in her eyes. Benedict had gotten the odd impression that they might have been tears of relief as well as grief, but he could not be certain.

  He opened the door of his house and moved into the dimly lit front hall. Hodges appeared in his nightcap and dressing gown.

  “Tea or brandy, sir?” he asked.

  “Brandy,” Benedict said. “But I’ll see to pouring it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Benedict led the way into the study, turned up the lamps and splashed healthy doses of brandy into two glasses. He handed one of the glasses to Logan and motioned him to sit down. He watched Logan lower himself into the chair with a familiar ease that indicated he was as comfortable in a gentleman’s study with a brandy glass in his hand as he was drinking tea in a lady’s drawing room.

  “When did you take a notion to become a policeman, Logan?” Benedict asked.

  The question clearly caught Logan by surprise but he recovered readily enough.

  “Shortly after I found my father dead from a self-inflicted pistol shot to the head and discovered that he had died bankrupt after a series of disastrous financial investments.” Logan swallowed some brandy and lowered the glass. “It was either take up gainful employment here in London or emigrate to Canada or Australia. I haven’t ruled out the last two possibilities, by the way. In fact, I am giving both countries a great deal of consideration at the moment.”

  Benedict took the Rose Necklace out of his pocket. He studied the brilliant jewels in the lamplight for a moment and then set the thing on the desk. The heavy gold links clinked on the polished wood.

  He crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair across from Logan.

  “You are not the only one who is considering his prospects in Canada or Australia tonight,” he said. He drank some brandy. “And for similar reasons, I suspect.”

  Logan glanced at the necklace. “She gave it back to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you did not ask for it to be returned.”

  “No.”

  “Well? Did you tell her you wanted her to keep it?”

  Benedict frowned. “There was no opportunity to discuss the matter. She simply dropped it into my hand before she closed the door. I thought the gesture rather telling.”

  “We are men, Stanbridge. We are not always very good at comprehending women.”

  “You are in no position to lecture on the subject,” Benedict said.

  “Is that right?”

  “Bloody hell, man, even I can see that you and Penny—Mrs. Marsden—have warm feelings for each other.”

  Logan’s jaw hardened. He drank some more brandy. “At the moment I am in no position to propose marriage to her. I have made a few small investments but none
have proved to be especially lucrative. Perhaps in time.” He raised one shoulder in a small shrug. “For the most part I am obliged to survive on an inspector’s salary, at least for now.”

  “Well, at least she hasn’t flung a damned family necklace back in your face.”

  Logan scowled. “I can’t imagine Miss Doncaster actually flinging the necklace at you.”

  “I may have exaggerated slightly on that point, but there is no mistaking the fact that she gave the thing back to me.”

  “Huh.” Logan cradled the brandy glass in his hands.

  Benedict swallowed some brandy and lowered the glass. “Have you let Mrs. Marsden know that you are considering emigrating to Canada or Australia?”

  “The subject of my future has not come up.”

  They drank their brandies in silence for a time.

  “The ladies suffered a terrible shock to the nerves tonight,” Benedict said after a while.

  “We all did,” Logan said. “I certainly doubt that my nerves will ever be the same. When I think of that scene in the bastard’s studio, I feel like reaching for a vinaigrette.”

  “So do I. What we need to keep in mind is that by the time we arrived Penny and Amity were in command of the situation.”

  Logan smiled grimly. “I do believe they would have killed the monster.”

  Benedict recalled the fierce expressions on Amity’s and Penny’s faces. “No doubt about it. They are both quite resourceful.”

  Logan nodded. “Indeed, they are.”

  “And brave.”

  “Absolutely,” Logan said.

  “Extraordinary,” Benedict said.

  “Indeed.”

  They drank some more brandy in silence.

  Benedict rested his head against the back of the chair. “It occurs to me that you ought to clarify the matter of your future with Mrs. Marsden.”

  “I don’t think I have any choice.” Logan finished his brandy and set down the glass. “I can’t imagine continuing to live here in London knowing that she is living in the same city, wondering if I’ll see her on the street or at the theater, unless I can be with her.”