So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  Mark shrugged. “There’s a lot about the world that you probably don’t wish to know about. Whether Lucinda was willing or merely a pawn to someone else, I cannot yet say, but I believe, in some way or another, she was selected because of her proximity to you. She was chosen to watch you. To find out what you knew about your father, and the scrolls.”

  Mina pressed a hand to her temple. “She’s the one who gave me roses and destroyed my father’s papers.”

  His cheeks tautened. “Roses? Destroyed papers? Mina, when did this occur?”

  Mina pressed her lips together. She wasn’t prepared to answer his questions. No. He should answer her questions.

  “Is what happened to her . . . my fault? Would she have been left alone and . . . unrecruited if I had not come to live with the family? Did I bring her transformation on by my presence here?”

  “I don’t know,” Mark answered. “Regardless, you can’t blame yourself for the evil others do.”

  Mina shivered, remembering Lucinda’s vicious hatred. “Did you find her last night, after you left?”

  “Those things with the twirling eyes are . . . empty inside. They don’t give off any emotions or thoughts, which makes them difficult to track.” He shook his head, frowning. “I lost her out in the city.”

  A cold chill struck Mina through. “What if she’s downstairs, even now, drinking tea and s-s-sliming marmalade on her toast, waiting for us to come downstairs?” Mina’s stomach pitched. She pressed a hand over her lips. “What are we supposed to do? I just want to get out of this house.”

  Mark towered over her. “Let’s go, then. I swear it, Mina, I am no enemy to you or your father. Tell me where he is. I implore you, as your husband.”

  “Stop saying that.” She recoiled. “You’re not my husband, and I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father is dead,” she insisted.

  Frustration showed in the flash of his eyes and the tightness of his mouth. “There were only stones in that coffin.”

  Her eyes widened. “That was you in the crypt! You pulled my petticoat.”

  “I’d do it again too.” He grasped her forearm. “And he’s not dead.”

  She wrenched free. “Well, he’s dead to me.”

  “Why?”

  “He told me to come back to London,” she blurted. “To tell everyone he’d died on the mountain. I told him no. Whatever the danger, we needed to remain together. But he left me, Mark. He left me alone on that mountain in that damn whispering fog, and I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  Someone screamed. Mina froze.

  More screaming . . . two voices now. The shrillness of the sound sent gooseflesh down the backs of her neck and arms.

  Mark said, “It’s coming from outside.”

  She rushed to the window and drew the curtain aside just in time to see Evangeline and Astrid race toward the house. Both looked over their shoulders in the direction of the garden fountain.

  The fountain.

  Mina’s eyes riveted upon it. Pink water sloshed in the lower basin, and something bobbed on the surface.

  A woman’s headless body, clad only in thin linen.

  She felt Mark beside her, felt his power and his heat.

  “Hell,” he said. “That’s Lucinda.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mark followed Mina through the cadre of uniformed officers, his arm extended alongside her to prevent her from being jostled. Farther down the hall, Trafford’s study was shut up as tightly as a crypt.

  “This way, my lady, if you please.” Assistant Commissioner Anderson of the Metropolitan Police extended his hand toward the yellow drawing room. After they entered, he followed them in and pulled the polished doors closed. Overnight, the sunshine yellow walls and draperies and upholstered furniture appeared to have taken on a garish hue.

  Anderson held out a guiding hand, indicating an arrangement of chairs near the windows. Out toward the street, Mark glimpsed the row of police wagons, and a sidewalk already thick with bobbing black top hats and bowlers, the gathering curious. “Lord and Lady Alexander, thank you for your patience. It was, of course, important that we speak first to Lady Astrid and Lady Evangeline, who first discovered the body, as well as the unfortunate Lord Trafford.”

  Mark lifted an assuring hand. “It’s quite all right.”

  What a lie. A goddamn lie. Mark wasn’t quite all right. From the moment Lucinda’s headless body had been discovered in the fountain, the house had deteriorated into a state of hysteria. Mina had veered between two incoherent, sobbing girls to a trembling, white-faced Lord Trafford, who had just returned from his morning ride on the Row when his wife’s body was discovered.

  Mark, for his part, had gone outside with a bedsheet and covered the countess’s corpse and bobbing, severed head from the wide-eyed servants who gaped from the upstairs windows. Peculiarly, her body appeared—and smelled—as if she had been dead for weeks.

  Next he’d summoned the authorities, because, damn it, he had no other choice, given the flamboyant disposal of her body. In the midst of all the madness, he hadn’t had a moment to speak to Mina alone.

  So it wasn’t with the highest degree of confidence that he went into this interview with the bloody assistant commissioner of the bloody CID, knowing his wife might very well point to him as a bloody murderer. Since they’d left their room above the garden, she had not once met his gaze, and her internal thoughts had remained tellingly shuttered, as if she were afraid to trust anyone, most especially him.

  Anderson instructed gently, “Please, please sit. I know all this must be exceedingly distressing, especially for her ladyship.”

  Mina nodded, her cheeks devoid of their usual vibrant color. “Thank you.”

  She lowered herself into an armchair. Her hands twisted around a linen handkerchief on her lap.

  Mark situated himself behind her, his hand rested on the top of the curved chair back. “I prefer to stand, if it’s all right.”

  The commissioner nodded. He too remained on his feet. “As I previously introduced myself in the hallway, I am Robert Anderson, Assistant Commissioner of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard. While I do not customarily participate in actual day-to-day police investigations, due to the rather high profile of this most tragic and disturbing death, I felt it necessary to involve myself on a more personal level. As you are both likely aware from reading the papers, there have been a number of unpleasant discoveries along the Thames over the previous week. Because of the . . . uncommon violence of Lady Trafford’s death, we must be absolutely certain the two incidents are in no way related.”

  It was no surprise that Anderson would take a special interest in Lucinda’s murder. His predecessor, Sir Charles Warren, had been forced to resign his post after having lost the confidence of the city’s public for his handling of the investigation into Jack the Ripper’s killings. Certainly Anderson had no wish for a similar murderer to run rampant on his watch.

  The assistant commissioner spread his hands graciously. “That said, I hope you understand that this interview in no way implies you are under suspicion. Indeed, at this time we are not even certain we’re dealing with a murder—and I shall explain that comment in just a moment. But in order to make an educated determination, we must speak with everyone present last night on the premises.” Anderson crossed his arms. “It is my understanding the two of you were married only yesterday.”

  Mina nodded. “Yes, Commissioner, that is true.”

  Mark’s gaze settled on the dark, glossy crown of Mi-na’s head. At some point in the night she’d removed his mother’s ring, something that wounded him more deeply than he might have expected.

  Anderson continued. “Please accept my congratulations on your nuptials, but also my sympathies that such a happy occasion has been darkened by this morning’s terrible discovery.”

  “Thank you,” Mina responded softly.

  Anderson had a polished, quiet way about him, but keenly o
bservant eyes. No doubt the commissioner would make note of their every facial expression and telltale gesture. He would perceive the slightest inflection of their voices, and seek to translate any clues, no matter how slight, to attempt to discover the truth behind Lucinda’s death.

  “Now, if you could please share with me . . .” The commissioner’s voice softened. “When did the both of you last see her ladyship alive?”

  Mark answered, “Yesterday, at our wedding. It was a small, private affair—just family—here at the house.”

  Mina nodded. “We had luncheon after the ceremony, and then we departed on our . . . on our honeymoon.” Her voice went husky on pronouncing the final word. Mark flinched inside. He could not—and would not—change how ruthlessly he’d pursued her, but he regretted the pain he’d caused her.

  “Did everything seem well with Lady Trafford then?”

  “Yes,” answered Mark.

  Mina nodded.

  “No trouble between her and his lordship?”

  “None at all,” she responded.

  Anderson’s eyes narrowed. “Neither of you has heard any whispers of . . . gambling debts?”

  “No.”

  “Infidelities?”

  “No, sir,” they answered in unison.

  Commissioner Anderson picked up his notes from the mahogany sideboard and quickly scoured them. “I understand that, as you’ve just shared, the two of you set off on your honeymoon voyage yesterday, on board Lord Alexander’s yacht—and actually, I know that to be true because your departure and pictures were in the papers this morning.”

  From beneath his notebook he produced a newspaper, folded to frame several photographs. Anderson handed Mina the paper. Mark looked down over her shoulder. The photographer had captured her face at its most lovely and optimistic. The shadow of his hat obscured his face.

  Anderson continued. “Obviously, as you got under way, some sort of mishap forced you to abandon your plans and return here to the house.”

  Mark supplied, “One of the ship’s engines blew out.”

  Anderson scratched out a few lines. “What time did you arrive?”

  “It was very late before the yacht was finally towed into dock,” answered Mark. “We did not return to the house until perhaps . . . one o’clock in the morning?”

  “Thereabouts,” confirmed Mina quietly, “although I cannot specifically claim to have made note of the time.”

  “Upon your return, did you visit with Lord Trafford or her ladyship? Either of their daughters?”

  “They had not yet returned home from their evening engagement.” Mark rested his hand on the back of the chair. “We were greeted only by servants. My wife and I retired directly for the night.”

  “I am told your window overlooked the courtyard. Did either of you hear any peculiar noises in the night that might have indicated either violence or the disposal of a body?”

  They shook their heads.

  The commissioner rubbed his chin. “And did either of you leave your room at any time during the night? For a celebratory bottle of wine? A late-night trip to the kitchen? Anything?”

  “Sir, if I may say something,” said Mina.

  Mark tensed, steeling himself for what she might say.

  Commissioner Anderson nodded. “Of course, my lady. Please speak freely.”

  Mina’s expression, though solemn, appeared utterly placid. Her gaze did not waver from the commissioner’s.

  “Last night was our wedding night. I’m sure you’ll understand, when I say most emphatically, that my husband and I were together all night, and, for reasons you must surely understand, we were neither aware of anything going on outside our room, nor did we emerge until this morning when we heard the obvious sounds of the disturbance outside.”

  Did Mark imagine things, or did Anderson actually blush? Hell, he felt a similar warmth in his own cheeks, but one inspired by hopeful pleasure. Perhaps things with Mina weren’t irreparably damaged.

  Anderson tilted his head and raised his eyebrows to Mark in silent congratulation. He issued a raspy chuckle. “On that note, I believe our interview is concluded. Has either of you any questions?”

  Curious, Mark inquired, “You mentioned a moment ago that you weren’t sure the countess’s death was a murder. I saw the body shortly after its discovery. What did you mean by that?”

  Anderson pressed his lips together. “This is such a peculiar case. . . .”

  He glanced considerately toward Mina.

  “Please speak candidly,” she encouraged quietly.

  “Well . . .” Anderson’s brow furrowed. “From the condition of her body, it appears she’s been dead for quite some time.”

  Mina responded, “But we all saw her yesterday. She was the picture of health.”

  He nodded. “Dr. Bond, the police surgeon, will have to examine the body, of course, but I must say . . . given a lack of explanation or motive for a murder and the deteriorated condition of her ladyship’s body, I’m starting to believe that what we have on our hands here is some sort of rare deteriorative disease. It’s almost as if the bone and flesh of her neck had . . . melted away.”

  Mina coughed into her handkerchief.

  Mark’s eyes widened. “You think a . . . disease made her head fall off?”

  Anderson nodded. “Have you ever seen chickens or geese that suffer from limp neck disease?” He twirled his index finger in the direction of his neck. “Perhaps this is some extreme human mutation of a similar nature.” He crossed his arms and stroked his chin. “It’s a frightful possibility, but certainly not contagious, else we’d have heard of other instances of similar deaths.”

  Mark assisted Mina up from the chair. “My wife and I had planned to leave the Trafford household today. Is that still possible?”

  Anderson pulled a card from his vest pocket and extended it to Mark. “The less civilian traffic we’ve got here to muddy up the evidence, the better. We’ve asked Lord Trafford to retain only a minimal staff until then as well. Just send word to my office once you’re settled elsewhere, in the event we must contact you for additional questioning.”

  There would be no evidence to muddy. Not a trace. Just a stinking, headless Lucinda. She had been beheaded elsewhere by an Amaranthine silver blade, and her deteriorating corpse purposefully deposited on the grounds. No doubt, it was his twin’s skillful work.

  Mina arose from the chair. “Thank you, Commissioner.”

  An hour later, after Mina had said her good-byes to the family, two officers pushed back a crush of onlookers who had gathered to gawk on the sidewalk in front of the house.

  “Back away,” one shouted. “Give room. Give room.”

  Of a sudden, Mina halted on the steps and stared into the crowd. Mark bent low, bringing his arm protectively around her shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  The slight touch against her elbow granted Mark a vision of a man—a handsome, dark-haired man with furious green eyes.

  Mina’s shoulders drew together, a slight but stinging rejection of his touch, and she continued toward the carriage. Mark peered over the crowd to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit and top hat striding away. It took him a moment to identify as jealousy the sick, cold-water-in-the-veins sensation he experienced. Unnerved, he followed her into the vehicle and sank onto the squab opposite from her. Although tempted to demand she identify the man and his relationship to her, Mark shunned the role of jealous lover and spoke the second foremost question on his mind.

  “Why did you tell the inspector we were together all of last night?”

  She looked out the window. Soon the carriage rocked with movement, and the jumbled wall of faces disappeared. “You didn’t kill Lucinda. You told me you lost her in the city. Unless you lied to me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Who did kill her?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “There are more of you out there, aren’t there? More . . . immortals?”


  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  He shrugged. “Not as many as there used to be. Most remain within the protected boundaries of the Inner Realm.”

  “The Inner Realm . . . ,” she whispered.

  “Another dimension of existence, here on Earth. It’s beautiful there.”

  Looking weary, she pressed gloved fingertips to her temple. “But you are here, in this dimension, to . . . hunt souls? What did you call them before?”

  “Transcending souls. Yes. Evil souls. Wicked souls. Dangerous mortals who deserve nothing less that an eternal death.”

  She gave him a level stare. “And if you don’t find the scrolls . . .”

  “That’s right.” He nodded. “I’ll eventually become one of them. But that’s not going to happen, because—”

  “You shall have your wish,” she interrupted quietly.

  “What wish is that?” His wish, at the moment, was that she’d look at him the way she had before. Not in the cool, distant manner in which she presently considered him. Her dark, demure clothing taunted him, hiding the precise combination of pale skin and feminine curves he’d come to crave. In these close confines, her delicate fragrance teased his nostrils, taunted that he could only look, and not touch.

  She reached up and repinned her hat. “I have no idea where my father is, but . . . I’m sure with you as enticement, he’ll eventually make an appearance. Me, dangled by my toes above a fiery pit? No.” She giggled, low in her throat, though no humor lit her brown eyes. “But you, yes. Never fear. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”

  “And then what? Once we find him?”

  She folded her hands atop her lap. “The two of you can both go off and do whatever you wish. Read scrolls. Recover artifacts. Save the world through your shared knowledge. Mutually admire one another. I don’t care. Just so you both . . .”

  “Mina—”

  She shook her head, an indication she didn’t want to hear anything he might have to say. “Just so you both leave me alone.”