Her friend stared into the near grove of trees. An absent-minded air gathered around him, as if he were miles away—back in London, perhaps. When he spoke, it was with a musing quality to his voice. “Over the past several months, I’ve studied the history of crimes in London, in an attempt to further familiarize myself with the psychology of murderers and the sort of victims they tend to favor.” He glanced at Katherine, seeming to return to the moment briefly. “This all has modern implications, of course. If I can identify the most vulnerable areas, perhaps we can arrange some kind of patrol or other measure to ensure the safety of all London citizens, not only the rich.”
“An admirable venture, but what does it have to do with the pink-ribbon murders?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid that isn’t easily answered, given what little we know, but I will attempt to be brief. While studying the records, I’ve noticed that on rare occasions, some killers seem to favor a certain type of victim. They commit a series of murders, not only ones of opportunity or profit. These serial murderers, as I like to call them for lack of a better term, do choose a certain type of victim each and every time. Some like brunettes, some blondes. Some like wanton women, some the chaste. But there is a pattern of similarity. In short, yes. Your theory is possible.”
Triumph soared through Katherine’s veins. Her theory was possible. Knowing that brought her one step closer to completing her task. If the killer were only interested in slim blondes, then she might be able to catch him simply by keeping her eye on the one slim blonde at the party, Miss Young.
“However, with only two victims, I can’t definitively judge whether or not these murders fit the pattern I found.” He paused and scratched his long nose. Without looking at her, he added softly, “I must confess that I’m hoping they do. If so, you don’t fit the serial murderer’s preferred victim type. I would be much more at ease knowing you weren’t in danger from this fiend.”
“I’ll be careful,” Katherine vowed, “but I must solve these murders before he adds another to his roster.”
“I know.” He straightened, turning to look at her. For once, he seemed grounded in the moment. “While you were gone, I followed up with my friend who investigated the first murder, and I asked around regarding the second, as well.”
“Oh?” Katherine checked the garden to ensure that she hadn’t been spotted. Wayland, head and shoulders over the top of the hedge, disappeared for a moment as he bent. He seemed well occupied. With luck, Emma was leading him on a merry chase. She returned her attention to her friend. “What news did you hear?”
“By the accounts of my coworkers, who have consulted with your father, it seems as though the second murder was indeed similar enough to the first that it was likely committed by the same hand. Both women were strangled in the garden with a pink ribbon.”
Biting the inside of her cheek to stifle a retort, Katherine nodded. She knew as much already. Had he learned anything new that might help her?
“The first murder, that of”—he pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from his pocket and consulted it—“Miss Smythe, was far more violent than the second. The pink ribbon lodged in her throat and had to be peeled away before burial, leaving a visible imprint in her skin even then. The second victim was bruised, to be sure, but that imprint did not exist.”
Katherine frowned. “Does that mean that the murderer was angrier with the first victim than the second?”
“If we are dealing with a serial murderer, he might not have been angry at all. Given the records for the few arrested, they seem to delight in the act of killing, planning rather than seizing the moment out of anger.”
“If not personal, then what reason can you think?” Was she barking up the wrong tree in looking for a connection or motive? Were the killings simply at the lark of the killer?
“It is possible she was his first victim, and he hadn’t yet perfected his art.”
It twisted her stomach to think of murder as a form of art, but she pressed her lips together and nodded. “Did you find anything else?”
Frowning, he flipped through his notes until he found the correct page then offered the book to Katherine. No text was written here, but there was the jagged, triangular-shaped outline of an object.
“There was one piece of evidence at the second crime scene, a chip of ivory. It was largely discounted by investigators, because it could have been on the scene prior to the murder, but I was allowed to see it, and I took the liberty of testing it. There was blood on one side.”
Lyle looked quite pleased with himself, but Katherine couldn’t see why. If the piece was important, her father would have mentioned it. “The piece might have been there all along and blood dropped on it during the murder.”
“Yes, that is what your father thought. However, yesterday I used one of my solutions and was able to determine the blood was underneath, on the part that was resting on the ground. And the piece was not embedded in the dirt, as it would have been had it already been there. There is a high probability it actually was deposited during the struggle.”
“Meaning it belonged to the victim?”
“Or to the killer. The chip itself remains in London, but I took an imprint of it in case we had need of one.”
“Thank you,” Katherine said, nodding as she handed the page back to her friend. “Do you think it came from a lady’s fan? I remember Papa mentioning the ivory as an afterthought, because the fan found on Miss Rosehill’s body was intact.”
“It might have come from something else. Or it could be another lady’s fan. I have not yet invented something that can tell us exactly where a chip of ivory came from.”
Katherine squeezed Lyle’s arm. This could be just the piece of evidence she needed. “Thank you. You’ve been invaluable.”
His cheeks gained a bit of color, and he tugged on the end of his nose. “Happy to be of service. I took a room at the inn in the village we passed, about twenty minutes’ walk away, I’d say. Shall we meet again tomorrow? If you’ve made any progress, I can render my assistance in providing an opinion of your next theory.”
Katherine smiled. “Tomorrow evening? Near ten o’clock, perhaps? The evening entertainments will be in full swing, and I’ll be able to slip away by then. I’ll need some time in between to gather more information.”
Lyle nodded. “I’ll be here. But Katherine? Do be careful, even if you aren’t this murderer’s typical victim.”
She squeezed his hand once more. “I’ll be here tomorrow evening. I promise.”
Chapter Thirteen
A few short hours after Lyle’s departure, Katherine excused herself on a pretense and left Annie playing pantomime with the guests.
After her excursion with the butterflies, Annie seemed in a much-improved mood. With Harriet’s help, her hair was tucked safely out of her eyes, and her dimples framed her constant smile.
Throughout supper and the evening entertainment, Katherine had noticed Annie and Lord Northbrook sneak glances at each other. Each time he caught her looking, she blushed vigorously and averted her eyes. Once, Katherine had found him smiling to himself as he turned back to his dinner partner. If the earl’s shrewish mother didn’t interfere, Katherine might have a chance at matching Annie, after all.
For now, Katherine hoped that Annie would be in good enough spirits not to agonize over a perceived social blunder. The gathering would keep an eye on her for the few short minutes that Katherine intended to be away.
She had two strong suspects, and tonight, while both Lord Mowbry and the Duke of Somerset were occupied by the festivities, she intended to whittle that number to one.
Motives aside, if either man intended to add a third victim to their list, he would have had to have brought the pink ribbon he intended to use to strangle his victim.
Although Miss Smythe had been wearing her pink ribbon beneath her breasts to accentuate her gown, none of the women had brought such a ribbon to a house party since. The killer had s
upplied his own ribbon for the second murder, and if he intended to kill in the same fashion here, he would have done so again.
Therefore, if the killer was Lord Mowbry, as Katherine strongly suspected, she would find a pink ribbon in his room. No man could explain that. And that ribbon would be just the evidence she would need to get that confession.
When she reached the guest wing, it was deserted. Not even the echo of a passing servant disturbed the silence. She stepped lightly as she crossed through the part of the hallway that housed the ladies’ and married couples’ chambers and into the far area where the bachelors’ rooms were.
Was that someone behind her?
She spun around only to see the wisp of a skirt at the other end of the hall. One of the guests was going down the stairs late. She hoped she hadn’t been spotted as she watched the guest cross the hallway to the main staircase.
Hurry. She turned back to her task. Unfortunately, she did not know which room belonged to Mowbry. She had to guess.
The Duke of Somerset had chambers next to Lady Reardon. The marble bust of Caesar was between their rooms. After counting down the line and accounting for the debutantes, unmarried chaperones, and married couples, she turned to the other doors in the line.
Blast, but she must have miscounted. After all, she’d found Mr. Greaves exiting Lady Reardon’s bedchambers, and she was certain it wasn’t the room she’d just counted out. Shaking her head, she stepped two doors down to bypass Lord Somerset’s room, and opened the door. She held her breath as she did, wondering if the man’s valet was inside.
The room was silent and dark, necessitating that Katherine leave the door open as she entered, to take advantage of the lit corridor. This room was spartan in its upkeep, with not a whisker out of place.
Someone passed by the partially open door, and she shrunk back into the room. Unable to see who it was in the hall, she glanced about the room.
Best to hide in here a bit.
A docket of papers rested on the writing desk. When Katherine held them up, she found them to be notes on the murders. This room must belong to Captain Wayland.
She thumbed through the notes, shamelessly seeking any clues he might have found that pertained to the case. He had copies of notes from the interviews with each of the guests, written after the first murder. Seemingly, she wasn’t the only person with connections to Sir John’s men.
I’ll return later, she vowed. In the dim light, she couldn’t read the notes through with the proper care. For now, she searched for ribbon, and Wayland was certain not to have any.
Reluctantly, she exited the room and shut the door. No one lingered in the corridor, so she continued to the next room. As before, she left the door ajar.
This chamber showed far more use. The writing desk, instead of being used for its intended purpose, had been repurposed for the containment of various personal effects. A silver-backed brush rested next to a handheld mirror, both monogrammed with an elaborate M. Mowbry. This was Mowbry’s room. She must have miscounted the rooms before.
Stepping inside, she shut the door as much as she dared without cutting off her source of light. In the dim remainder, she searched the room quietly and carefully.
She found several more monogrammed items: handkerchiefs, cufflinks, a shoehorn. It appeared everything was stamped with his family name.
She found no ribbon, but as she felt beneath the pillows for something hidden, she discovered a hard, rectangular object stuffed in the pillowcase. She retrieved a leather-bound journal, about six inches tall. Frowning, she quickly replaced the pillows as they had been and crossed to the door.
Her heart stilled when she opened the book. On the front page, in a neat, flowing script, was written: Property of Isobel Smythe.
Could this be Miss Smythe’s diary? Why would Mowbry have it? No lady she knew gave over her diary, even to her betrothed. Perhaps after her death, Mowbry had been so upset he wanted to keep one of her most personal items. Or perhaps Mowbry had a more sinister reason to keep it. Perhaps Mowbry had taken it by force right before he killed her. Either way, Katherine needed to read it. There may be clues inside.
Katherine slipped into the corridor and shut the door carefully behind her. As she started back down the hall, her curiosity got the better of her, and she couldn’t help but open the diary. As she began to read, she ambled forward.
“Oof!”
The wind knocked from her lungs as she collided with a tall male form. The diary tumbled from her fingers to splay open, facedown on the floor. As she craned her neck back, fighting the uneasy feeling of being small, Wayland raised his eyebrows.
He clasped her by the upper arms, holding her upright, though she was perfectly capable of standing under her own power. They loitered in front of the door to his chambers, where he must have been headed. Sard it. She should have waited until she was safe in her room to open that diary.
“Fancy meeting you here, Lady Katherine. Are you alone?”
She scowled. “Of course I am alone, you bounder.”
As he released her, he had the gall to laugh. “Filching Mowbry’s boots now, are you?”
She gritted her teeth. “That was not why I entered—” She cut herself off. Why was she arguing with him? “If you’ll excuse me…”
His gaze wandered to the diary on the floor. “What is this?” he asked as he crouched.
Darn it! She ducked to retrieve the volume but reached it a second too late. He snatched it out of her reach, turning it over to read the page.
Katherine panicked and said the first thing that popped into her head. “That’s my diary. Don’t read it.”
His eyebrows soared as he unfolded his frame. She stood with him, knowing that he didn’t believe her in the slightest. He confirmed as much when he smirked. “You’re with child, are you? Congratulations.”
She scowled. “It does not say that.”
He turned the book and pointed at a line on the right-hand side of the page.
I fear I am enceinte. What will Lord M— say when he learns I coupled with another man? This has all happened so fast. I never expected to fall in love…
Katherine’s jaw dropped. “Miss Smythe was in the family way when she died?” And not with Mowbry’s child, given the context. She had to read further. However, Wayland stood at her elbow. She snapped the book shut and hugged it to her chest. Darn it! She’d given away the fact that she had Miss Smythe’s diary!
His eyebrows lowered over his eyes with disapproval. “Don’t think you can keep that to yourself. You owe me for rescuing your dog.”
Unfortunately, she did. “I owe you the answer to a question,” she reminded him. “Not this book. This is my find. It is mine to read.”
“You’re too set on going this alone. We could be brilliant together, Lady Katherine.” His eyes caught and held hers, causing her heart to turn over. “Imagine how much more quickly we would solve this string of murders if only we married our intellect.”
She held the diary closer to her chest. “That won’t be happening. I don’t approve of your methods.”
“You don’t know enough about my methods to make an informed decision.”
She knew that the moment he learned enough to roust the murderer, he would take all the credit and leave her with nothing. When he leaned closer, she might have called his expression earnest, if she hadn’t known him better.
“You’re basing your assumptions of me on your father’s words. Perhaps you ought to take a moment to form an opinion of your own.”
She steeled her spine. “My father is an excellent judge of character, I’ll have you know. I trust him wholeheartedly.”
As she moved to step past him and stash the diary in her room, Pru Burwick appeared at the other end of the hallway. Her gaze raked over Katherine and Wayland, then she scowled and turned toward the stairs, disappearing out of view in a swirl of taffeta skirts.
“Very well,” Wayland said, his voice as hard and cold as ice. “Think what you wil
l, but you owe me a question, and I’ll have the answer now. Who are your primary suspects in his investigation, and why?”
Sard it! She’d known he would ask something pivotal. Grudgingly, she answered, “Lords Mowbry and Somerset. Mowbry has motive—more than ample motive, after this”—she hefted the journal—“and he was lurking in the garden on Saturday. When Annie screamed, he ran in the opposite direction.”
“And you know this from?” Wayland released her and sighed before answering his own question. “His feet.”
Katherine nodded, curt. “I found an impression where I saw him run.”
“I don’t think he’s your man.”
Katherine crossed her arms, trapping the diary close to her body. “Running in the opposite direction when a woman screams and later feigning concern is the very definition of suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”
Wayland’s mouth twisted with chagrin. After a moment’s pause, he inclined his head grudgingly. “I don’t argue it is suspicious, but I don’t think he killed Miss Smythe. I saw the two of them in London before the end of the Season. He was smitten with her. Doted on her every word; it doesn’t surprise me at all to learn that he proposed. He couldn’t have killed her.”
“Not even if he learned she was carrying another man’s child?”
His mouth thinned as he pressed his lips together. He wanted to contradict her—that much was evident from his expression. However, they both knew this knowledge changed her theory. Learning that one’s fiancée was carrying another man’s child could move a man to murder. “What possible motive could you have for him to kill Miss Rosehill?”
Katherine stifled a sigh. “I haven’t puzzled that out yet.”
Wayland crossed his arms. “And Somerset? Do you have a more plausible reason for him to have committed the murders?”
An Invitation To Murder Page 12