Sonnet to a Dead Contessa

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You’ve been listening to Dylan’s stories too much.”

  “No, I haven’t, Mum. He tells great stories. They always end happily.”

  “But life isn’t like that, I’m afraid, David.”

  David looked at her steadily, and finally he said in an altered tone that she seldom heard, “Was my father good at games?”

  “You mean like draughts?”

  “Yes, like that.”

  “He didn’t play games much. I expect he would have been good if he had put his mind to it.”

  “Did you ever play with him?”

  Suddenly one of the bad memories that lay dormant in Serafina’s mind surfaced. The memory was as clear as a painting on the wall. She had been sitting across from Charles and had just beaten him at a game of chess. His face had turned red, and he had reached out and swept the chess pieces in a gesture of anger. Then he had slapped her face. His eyes had been blazing with fury, and she could resurrect the feeling the imprint of his hand on her cheek had left, although that had been years ago.

  “Not very often.”

  David was silent for a time, and Serafina could see his mind working. She knew him so well. She was afraid at times, for this boy now fully occupied her heart and mind and soul. She waited for him to speak, and finally he said, “It might be nice to have a father.”

  “I suppose that would be good.”

  “Do you think—”

  “Do I think what?” Serafina asked when he broke off.

  “Do you think you might ever marry again?”

  It was not the first time David had broached this question. She had seen it rise to his lips more than once, and now she knew that it had been something deep in his heart, and something he had thought about for a long time. It frightened her what deep thoughts he had at times, and she had no idea what to answer until finally she struggled to come up with one. “Your grandfather is like a father to you.”

  “No, he’s like a grandfather.”

  Another thought seemed to be birthed within David’s head, and she finally said, “What is it, son?”

  The words came out reluctantly and almost as if they had to be pried loose. “Dylan is like a father.” He was watching her eyes, Serafina saw, and he spoke quickly. “He takes me places, and he plays games with me—and he tells me stories. He’s always ready to help me when I need something. That’s what a father does, isn’t it?”

  Once again Serafina could not find an answer that seemed satisfactory. “I suppose so. Dylan is a good friend to you.” Quickly she rose, saying, “That’s three games you’ve beaten me. I refuse to be beaten again! Come along. Let’s go see how the roses are doing . . .”

  Septimus’s hand moved with precision and firmness. The scalpel opened the body on the table in front of them, and Serafina quickly tied back the flesh with sutures. They worked quickly and easily; the dead body might have been a melon or a piece of cake for the emotion that didn’t show in either of their faces. There must have been a time when Serafina was apprehensive about cutting into human flesh (even though it was dead), but that had been long ago. She had long since steeled herself to take no thought of what the human being had been like before death. It had been part of the process of learning that she had received from her father, and she often felt a wave of thanksgiving that she had had this man to teach her all that she knew.

  “Does David ever talk to you about Charles?”

  Serafina’s head lifted, and she blinked with surprise. It was like her father, she thought suddenly, to come out with something totally unrelated to the affair at hand. She had thought his attention was totally on the body of the middle-aged man that lay before him, and the question had disturbed her and had caught her off guard. She looked up and studied her father. As usual, he wore a dirty white smock, and his hair was waving wildly as if in a stiff breeze. His eyes were dreamy, as they often were when he was dissecting. But she was so uncomfortable that she could not answer, and finally Septimus spoke again. “Your mother and I knew you weren’t happy with Charles, but you’ve never told either of us what the problem was.”

  Indeed, Serafina had told her parents little of the horror that her marriage to Charles had been. They had been excited when she met Count Charles Trent, for he had all that a man should have—at least on the surface. He was handsome, cultured, wealthy, positioned, titled, and, of course, he had been pursued by half the women in the English court. She herself had looked forward with great excitement to becoming a bride, but the romance had never come. She thought of his cruelties and of the twisted part of his mind that he always kept hidden from others, allowing it to come out only when he was with her. She did not like to speak of these things and could not think of a proper answer. Finally she said, “He was not a good man. Not what I thought he was.”

  Septimus responded, “Well, your mother and I thought it would be a good match for you.”

  “So did I, Father. I had a rather romantic fantasy about marriage. I found out that I was very wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I can see that you don’t like to speak of it.”

  “It’s best not to. Memories like that shouldn’t be paraded, and I appreciate you and Mother not pressing me.”

  Septimus studied her and finally gave a weary sigh and turned his head to one side. “Do you think, daughter, you will ever marry again?”

  “I doubt it. It’s too big a gamble.” Serafina was glad when the door opened and Barden, the butler, said, “Lady Trent, Superintendent Grant would like to see you.”

  Relieved to get away from the conversation that had shaken her, Serafina said quickly, “Take him to the study, Barden. Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Grant rose as Serafina came into the room. He wore a soft, white silk shirt, a plain black cravat tied meticulously, and a casual jacket. His trousers were a rich brown and had a razor-sharp crease, and his black boots gleamed as if made out of glass instead of leather. Serafina thought, He’s one of the best-dressed men I’ve ever seen. No one would ever take him for a superintendent of Scotland Yard. But his haggard expression countered the rest of his appearance.

  “How are you, Matthew?”

  “Well, not too well, I’m afraid.” Matthew hung his head, not meeting Serafina’s eyes.

  Serafina looked surprised. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news.”

  Serafina blinked for a moment. “What is it? Is someone ill?”

  “Worse than that, I’m afraid. It’s about your friend Lady Acton.”

  “Why, she was all right when I saw her yesterday.”

  Matthew Grant was a plainspoken man, and in most situations had no difficulty conveying information. He was well aware, however, of the close friendship of Lady Margaret Acton and Serafina Trent. He had been surprised to find that the relationship between high-class noble-born ladies could be so firm and so very real. He had marked it often, although he had never commented on it, and now he wished that he were anyplace in the world except in this room, facing the woman in front of him. Finally he gave a slight shrug of his shoulders as if shaking off a burden. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but Lady Acton is dead.”

  For a moment Serafina did not understand him. The liveliness of Margaret on their last meeting leapt into her memory, and she was in a state of shock. She felt as if she had been struck.

  “How can she be dead? Was she ill?”

  “I’m afraid not, Lady Trent. She was murdered in her bed-room—exactly like Lady Welles.”

  “Murdered?” The word hardly would say itself, for Serafina’s mouth felt dry and her lips seemed almost paralysed. She had been shocked by the murder of Lady Welles, but Margaret was more than an acquaintance. The two were almost like sisters, and now she stared at Grant, willing him to unsay his words. Finally she cleared her throat.

  “You’re certain, of course—but it’s hard for me to believe.”

 
Grant dropped his head and studied the carpet. “Well, you’ll believe it when you see her, Lady Trent.”

  “See her? Why should I?”

  “Because I need you. You knew her better, perhaps, than anyone else, and there are strange circumstances. I have little faith in the imagination of the average Scotland Yard inspector, and what we have here is something out of a nightmare. I hate to ask you to do this, but I’m sure you want to have her killer brought to justice.”

  “Certainly. Do you want me to go now?”

  “If you would.”

  “Should I ask my father to accompany us? He’s in the middle of an autopsy.”

  “No, not right now.”

  “Let me change clothes.”

  She moved quickly out of the room without another word, went to her own room, and changed to a simpler dress. She put on a rather severe chocolate brown velvet dress with a chatelaine pin as the only ornament. When she returned, Matthew was waiting for her, and the two walked out to the carriage he had brought. “Shall I order my own carriage, Matthew?”

  “No, I’ll bring you back when we’re finished.”

  She took Matthew’s hand as he assisted her into the carriage, and then he walked around and entered from the other door. He sat down beside her, and after he spoke to the driver, the carriage lurched forward. For a time neither of them spoke, until finally Matthew said, “What sort of a marriage did Lady Acton and her husband have?”

  Turning quickly, Serafina had a strange feeling. He was questioning her as if she had special information. She and Dylan had asked that sort of question of many suspects, and although Matthew was aware that she could not be the Slasher, as the murderer had been called, she could not answer for a moment. Finally she said, “They didn’t get along too well. That’s no secret, Matthew. Everyone knew that.”

  “What was the trouble?”

  “They never should have married in the first place. She had money, and he had none. So, after they married, for some reason, he felt obliged to bully her.”

  “You mean physically?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do. I had seen bruises on her face that she tried to cover up but could not. When he came into a room, she would almost physically flinch.”

  “And everyone knew about this?”

  “Their close friends did. He was sly about it though. He appeared to be very careful of her well-being and was always asking her if she needed another coat to keep warm or was there too much breeze. But the smiles that he gave her never reached his eyes. I think he eventually just grew tired of her and treated her like she didn’t exist. Then she left to stay with her ailing mother for a while. Now that she is . . . was . . . back in town, he rarely is.” Serafina paused and said forcefully, “I can’t stand the man, Matthew.”

  “Do you think he’s capable of committing a murder?”

  The wheels were rumbling over the gravel and broken rocks in the road, and the carriage lurched from side to side as it hit holes created by the rain two days earlier. Serafina thought and tried to make herself as objective as she could. “I suppose most of us are capable of murder if the circumstances are right.”

  “That’s an evasion, Serafina.”

  She did not notice that he used her first name. “I suppose it is,” she said wearily. She sat back and looked out the window, and he questioned her no further.

  The Acton town house was large and extremely gracious. The furniture was Regency and Georgian in keeping with the architecture of the house itself. As the two entered, admitted by a rotund butler with the mundane name of Smith, Matthew Grant asked a smaller man who was waiting, “Kenzie, has anyone called?”

  “No, sir.” Kenzie shrugged and said, “I didn’t expect anyone, sir.”

  “Come along, Lady Trent,” Matthew said shortly.

  They climbed a winding staircase, and skylights gave the stairs excellent clarity, or would have during the brilliant sunlight. It was late now, and the darkness seemed oppressive to Serafina. They entered the room, and although Serafina had steeled herself against the sight she knew awaited her, still when she saw her friend lying in her bed laced with crimson blood, her eyes opened wide and a silent scream issued from her mouth. Margaret’s throat was cut, and other slashes soaked the snow white shift she wore as if she had been in a slaughterhouse.

  She moved closer and forced herself to look down. “The vocal cords were cut. She couldn’t have cried out.”

  “The same as Lady Welles. I’m afraid there seems to be a pattern here.”

  Serafina tore her eyes away from the body, unable to look at it. Her training seemed to have flown out the window. “Why would you say that?”

  “It would be better if there were no patterns. This proves that the killer is methodical. If there are two murders, there may be three or half a dozen. There have been other serial killers, as they’re called, in England, like William Palmer, who poisoned a number of people.”

  Serafina said, “I remember reading about that trial at the Old Bailey. He was convicted and executed by hanging, wasn’t he?” She shook her head and looked around the room, noticing what appeared to be unrelated items scattered over the floor. “Have you examined all these pieces of evidence?”

  “I don’t know as you could call them that,” Matthew said grimly, his face set. “It’s the same as when Lady Welles was murdered. They’re all sorts of things that have no place here. I’ve made you a copy of a list that we compiled.”

  Serafina took the paper and studied it:

  small cameo of a woman

  newspaper article about Gerhard Von Ritter

  silver spoon

  silver snuff box

  fine handkerchief with “Violet” sewn in

  small kitchen knife

  small key

  queen of hearts playing card

  autographed picture of two circus performers, signed “To our good friend Lady Acton”

  drawing of a woman holding a hammer and a spike

  Serafina looked up from the list, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Some of the articles are duplicates, the handkerchiefs with ‘Violet’ on them. That must mean something, but what?”

  “I noticed that, and there’s the playing card, the queen of hearts. What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. It may be just a trick to confuse us. I don’t understand the picture of the woman.”

  “No, I don’t either. We’ll have to ask around.” He held up a piece of paper. “And here’s the poem.”

  “Another poem?”

  “Yes, just like Lady Welles’s murder. See if you can make anything out of it.”

  Serafina took it, and her eyes ran over it.

  Hath not a Jew eyes?

  If you prick us, do we not die?

  The world is full of traitors,

  And highborn women mere impersonators!

  Better if they were off the earth—

  Even those of noble birth!

  “What do you make of it, Lady Trent?”

  “It’s like the other note. Terrible poetry, I think, although I’m no expert. That first line sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “I can. It’s from Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice. I don’t know what it means though.”

  “Who said the line?”

  “The merchant himself. A Jewish merchant. Mean enough fellow, but one felt sorry for him.”

  “Notice how the killer has put in a reference to ‘highborn women.’ And the two victims were both that, women with titles.”

  “Evidently the Slasher has a hatred for women who are titled.” He gave her a quick glance. “You’ll have to take precautions, Serafina.”

  The two talked about the clues, and finally he said, “I’ll have Kenzie make a diagram of the room. And, if your father agrees, we’ll move the body to his laboratory for the autopsy.”

  “Yes, please do. He will do it.”

  Matthew came forward, took her hand, and held it. It was an unusual gesture for
him. “I’m sorry to put you through this, Serafina, but unless we catch this fellow, he’ll kill again.”

  “We will find him, Matthew.”

  They walked out of the room, and the butler, Smith, was waiting. “Where is your master, Smith?”

  “He’s at his club, sir, I understand.”

  “You’re not expecting him home?”

  “No, he stays there whenever he is in town.”

  This was no shock to Serafina, but Matthew’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Thank you.” He turned. “I’ll go break the news to him.”

  “I’d better stay here, Matthew. The children have to be told. It might be best if I do it rather than a man from Scotland Yard.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “She has a sister, Irene, who takes care of them. She never married. She’s very devoted. I expect she will stay here as house-keeper and nanny for the children. But they loved their mother. They’re going to have a hard time.”

  Matthew’s eyes closed, and he shook his head. “What an inhuman beast!”

  “Inhuman is exactly the word I’d use. You’d better go, Matthew.” She watched as he left the house and went at once into the kitchen, where she made herself tea and set to thinking up a way to break the news to Margaret’s children—but there was, she knew well, no good way to tell two children their mother was dead.

  EIGHT

  Serafina and her family arrived at St. Mary’s Church, which was only a short distance from Prince’s Road. Other members of the funeral party were filing in, all with the same pinched expression on their faces that one sees at a funeral. Several members of Parliament were in attendance, and Lord Herbert Welles, the widower of the murdered Lady Stephanie Welles, was seated in front of Serafina’s family. Marchioness Rachel Reis and her husband, the marquis, were there. The marquis himself was a short man with black hair and black eyes that seemed too small for his frame. He was a successful arms manufacturer, but his wealth showed more in the dress of the marchioness than in his own. She was a striking woman of average height with black hair and grey eyes. Next to them were Baron Jacques DeMain and Baroness Danielle DeMain. They were of French descent. Serafina was surprised, however, to see Miss Martha Bingham, who sat in a group of women all plainly dressed, and all of them had a rather predatory look about them.