A few steps from the second floor, Harper stopped. The stairs ahead of him were wet and smelled of soap. Someone had washed this section of the staircase less than an hour ago. Harper went up more slowly, checking each step before he set his muddy boots on it.
Deep in the groove, where the brass railing met the pale marble stairs, was a thin line of bright red blood. Several long black hairs were caught there also. Harper noted the length of the hairs, then continued.
The staircase opened into a wide hallway. Six tall doors lined both walls of the hallway. Light glowed from beneath two of the closest doors on the right. Harper noticed a few more spots on the floor where the marble shone wetly from a recent cleaning.
As he moved closer, Harper heard the voices of two men coming from behind the farther of the two doors. The men spoke in hushed tones, and Harper couldn't clearly distinguish their words. He unbuttoned his overcoat to allow himself easy access to his pistol. Then he started down the hall.
He stopped, noticing that the signs of cleaning ended at the first door. Harper nudged the door open.
It was clearly a girl's bedroom. The rug, the wallpaper, the swaying curtains, and even the big canopy bed were all white. A pattern of gold and pale pink roses covered the carpet. White lace dripped over the edge of the dressing table. The bed billowed up from the rest of the room like a wedding cake in a bakery window.
Harper stepped into the room slowly, studying each foot of floor before marking it with his filthy boots. Blots of vivid red led him from the door to the far side of the bed.
The girl lay on her side. A pool of blood formed a dark red halo around her head. Harper crouched down beside her. The entire back of her skull was a mat of black hair, blood, and jutting bone.
Her neck hung awkwardly between her cracked skull and shoulders. As Harper looked over her body, he noticed old yellow bruises beneath newer blue ones. When he pulled aside the white sleeve of her nightgown, he found that the marks were still red, the bruises not yet darkened.
From the old woman's words, Harper knew that a man had been beating the girl. From the marks on her body, it was obvious that the beatings had been going on for quite a while. Perhaps the girl had attempted to escape and fallen down the stairs. Or possibly the man had thrown her down.
Harper guessed what the men in the other room whispered about so urgently. They could clean up the stairs and hall, but they couldn't wash away the broken bone and deep bruises on the dead girl's body. Harper decided that it was time to talk to them.
Harper stood to leave when he noticed that he had made a mistake upon entering the room. He had thought the glass doors to the girl's balcony had been open. Now, as the curtains fluttered in the storm wind, he saw that the doors were still closed. The glass had been broken out. Harper checked for any shards of glass on the white rug. There were none.
He stepped out onto the balcony. It was too dark to see clearly, and the rainwater hid the glitter that the broken glass would have given off. Harper moved his gloved hands through the water, feeling for the hard edges of glass. He found dozens of shards in just a few moments.
"She's in here," he heard a man say, and then the door to the girl's room swung wide. As Harper watched from the dark balcony, three men entered the room. Harper recognized the first two from the Brighton Inquisition: Captain Brandson and Abbot Greeley. A man in a dark violet dressing gown followed after them.
Brandson's pale face was spattered with orange freckles, and his black coat, like Harper's own, was soaking from the rain. Brandson's fine red hair dribbled water down his face. He had clearly left his cap behind when he had been called to the murder. It was like Brandson to forget something like that.
The abbot's thick shock of white hair was perfectly dry. Despite his age, he looked much more fit than Brandson. He gestured to the dead girl's body offhandedly, as if she were a curiosity he had already seen.
The third man Harper did not know, but his face seemed familiar. He was in his late forties, a few years younger than the abbot. His black hair was streaked with gray and swept back in a rather handsome manner. The elegance of his tall, slim form almost allowed Harper overlook the white bandage wrapped around his right hand. As if sensing Harper's eyes on him, he hid his hand in the pocket of his dressing gown.
"As you can see..." Abbot Greeley directed Brandson's gaze. "The intruder broke in through the glass doors there and attacked her while she was preparing for bed—"
"I don't think that was the case."
The three other men jumped at the sound of Harper's voice. He stepped in from the balcony.
"Captain Harper." A flush of anger colored Abbot Greeley's tanned face. "What in the name of God are you doing here?"
Even at the best of times, a deep, mutual hostility seethed between Harper and Abbot Greeley. Because the abbot was his superior, Harper masked his animosity with expressionless professionalism. As a rule, the abbot did the same. For five years they had maintained that tenuous illusion of civility. But since Peter Roffcale's murder, even that had begun to collapse.
"Investigating a murder, sir," Harper replied.
"You were given vacation leave four hours ago," Abbot Greeley snapped. "You shouldn't even be in town."
Harper realized that the abbot's voice had been one of the two he had heard whispering in the other room. Harper wondered how long Abbot Greeley had been at the crime scene. Certainly long enough for his clothes and hair to dry, despite the soaking rain outside.
"I heard a woman on the street calling for help. She sent me here to try and reach the girl before she was killed." Harper held the accusation back from his voice. "May I ask how you happen to be here, sir? Normally you'd be at home by this hour, wouldn't you?"
"Lord Cedric and I are good friends." Abbot Greeley gestured to the man in the violet dressing robe. "He sent for me the moment he saw what had befallen his poor niece."
"You have my condolences, sir." Harper had seen photographs of Lord Cedric in the social columns of the papers. He recalled that the man was a cousin to the bishop of Redstone, but little else.
"Thank you," Lord Cedric said quietly. Harper recognized the rich depth of his voice. He had been the second man up in the room with Abbot Greeley.
Clearly, Lord Cedric had sent for the abbot long before he had called for any Inquisitors. The abbot would have instructed Lord Cedric in the matter of erasing evidence. It wouldn't have taken long to move the girl's body from the stairs to her bedroom and hide the signs of her previous beatings under a long nightgown. A maid would be called to clean the stairs and hall. Then, to concoct a murderous intruder, they smashed the glass doors. Their deception had been created in haste, and no doubt Abbot Greeley knew that any decent investigator would have seen through it.
But then Abbot Greeley had the advantage of choosing which Inquisition captain to summon. Briefly, Harper glanced at Brandson. The captain flipped his wet hair back from his face. He picked up one of the dead girl's hairbrushes, considered it for a moment, and then, noticing Harper's gaze, returned it to the dressing table.
"Good of you to come, Harper," Abbot Greeley said. "But we have things well in hand now. You can get back to your vacation."
"I'd be happy to." Harper continued to study Brandson. He'd never thought highly of the captain's intellect, but perhaps he could be roused to thought. "Before I go, however, I can't help but wonder what's become of the footprints and water from the intruder?"
"Well." Brandson pointed to Harper's own tracks. "Those would be them, I would say."
"I'm afraid I have a pretty tight alibi, Brandson." Harper crossed his arms over his chest. "Those are from my boots. Moreover, they don't lead in from the balcony to the body. There aren't any tracks leading in from the balcony."
"That's impossible. A rug this white would have been marked. No one could break in and not leave a single print." Brandson frowned down at the white carpet.
"A Prodigal could. One of the flyers wouldn't need to set foot on the flo
or." Abbot Greeley offered Harper an angry smile. "Thank you for pointing that out, Captain Harper. We now know that we are looking for a Prodigal."
"Shouldn't you also consider the possibility that no one broke in?" Harper directed the question to Brandson. "Someone might have shattered the glass to make it look like there had been an intruder—"
Abbot Greeley cut Harper off. "Captain Brandson can certainly draw his own conclusions, Harper." He still smiled at Harper, but his eyes were narrowed in anger. "I'm sure we've kept you from your vacation long enough. Brandson and I will take care of things here."
"Of course. I should be going then," Harper stated coldly.
"What about the maid?" Lord Cedric's voice carried from behind Brandson and Greeley.
Abbot Greeley glanced back at Lord Cedric, then to Harper.
"Quite right. Harper, where is the woman who sent you here? We'll need to speak to her."
Harper had no intention of handing the old woman over to Abbot Greeley, not after what had happened to Peter Roffcale. At the same time, he didn't have the proof or the authority to out-rightly challenge the abbot. The woman hadn't actually accused Lord Cedric by name. All Harper had was his own conviction, and that wouldn't stand up against the abbot's authority.
"I left her at the Convent of the Pierced Heart." Harper picked the most plausible place in the vicinity. Pierced Heart had the added advantage of being farthest from where he had actually left the old woman. Harper wasn't sure if Abbot Greeley believed him, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he answered. So long as Harper didn't directly disobey orders, the abbot couldn't have him locked up or discharged.
"Right, then," Brandson said. "I'll send two of my men out to take a statement from Captain Harper's witness."
"Send Reynolds and Miller. If they don't find the woman at the convent, have them search north toward the Chapel Street carriage house," Abbot Greeley said.
Brandson nodded.
"Also..." Abbot Greeley gave a quick glance to the shattered glass doors. "Send Camp, Thurston, and Wills out to round up the Prodigal flyers that we have on record. I want a confession from one of them within the next week."
Again Brandson nodded, as if the thought had been his own. The fact that a Prodigal had been designated as the murderer even before the investigation began didn't seem to bother Brandson. Only Abbot Greeley's orders seemed to penetrate his thoughts.
Harper had once wondered how Brandson managed to rise to the rank of captain. He supposed that he was now witnessing the qualities that Abbot Greeley so valued in Brandson.
"With your permission, sir, I think I had better get back to my vacation." Harper inclined his head slightly to the abbot out of habit.
"A very good idea, Captain Harper. I don't want to catch a glimpse of you until you're due back." Abbot Greeley smiled as if he were joking. Harper wondered if the abbot actually thought he was fooling him.
"We can both hope," Harper replied, and then left the house.
Chapter Two
Needle
The old woman hung against Harper like a mass of soaked laundry. She was limp in his arms, her body and limbs buried in the filthy, dripping fabric of her dress. Her wrinkled face was nearly as colorless as her lace cap and white hair. Only the short wisps of her breath brushing against his collar assured Harper that she was even alive.
For a brief moment Harper thought that she had died when he first returned to her, but he found a pulse still weakly throbbing through the pale veins of her wrist. She hadn't awakened when he shook her, only letting out a weak groan. Her skin felt icy and tremors shuddered through her body. She needed to be taken to a physician. He quickly wrapped her in his coat.
She shivered, and Harper pulled her closer to the heat of his own body. Her lace cap hung in a tangle with her hair. One of the little hairpins jabbed into the side of Harper's neck as he walked. He shifted the old woman's unconscious body against his shoulder, and her cap fell entirely free.
Harper knew that he should stop and retrieve the cap. It might take only one scrap of lace to serve as a trail. But time was already against him. He didn't dare stop and fish through the mud while this woman died. He kept walking and hoped that the mud and darkness would hide whatever trail lay behind him. His best chance lay in putting as much distance between himself and the Chapel streets as quickly as possible.
It wouldn't take Reynolds and Miller long to discover that the woman hadn't been left at the Convent of the Pierced Heart. The moment they realized that, they would be hunting. That knowledge gave Harper a rush of strength, and he quickened his step.
Reynolds and Miller worked fast and took a deep pleasure in their searches. As a team, they hunted more like hounds than men. Harper had seen them chase down a murderer on no more of a trail than the print of a boot heel and a whiff of cologne. They hadn't been easy on the man either. They had brought him in with a broken leg and a gash across his hand so deep that it had required sixty stitches. Harper had always enjoyed having them assigned to one of his investigations.
Tonight he wished the two of them had found other occupations.
Harper reached the Brighton and Chapel Street carriage house just as city bells began to toll out the change of the hour. The south carriage would normally have been gone already, but the bad weather had slowed the drive. It arrived just after him. He had to wait with the old woman cradled in his arms for ten minutes while the horses were changed and the driver took a piss in the street.
Inside the shelter of the carriage, Harper allowed himself to relax a little. The old woman no longer shook against him. She lay still, sleeping. Only one other passenger climbed into the carriage after Harper. The young man was wearing a muddy school robe in the colors of St. Christopher's College. He reeked of too much sweet wine. He collapsed into the seat across from Harper, then sat bolt upright.
"Good God, are you here to arrest me?"
"No." Harper stole a glance out the window to see if Miller or Reynolds had gotten this far yet. Two blocks up, beneath one of the few remaining lamps, he thought he caught the outline of an Inquisitor's long coat. The figure was there only a moment and then gone into the darkness.
"I was only having a few sips of sherry to keep off the cold," the young student slurred at Harper. "The carriage was late. Please don't bring me up for Penance."
"Quiet," Harper told him flatly.
The young man pressed his lips together absurdly and squashed himself back into his seat.
Harper kept watching out the small window. Silently he counted the passing seconds to himself. When he had been a boy, he had gotten in the habit of keeping his nerves calm with this steady silent count. As Harper reached the count of eight, he saw Reynolds.
Reynolds was a surprisingly small man with misleadingly youthful features. At the moment, as he stepped swiftly through the shaft of light from a window across the street, he was beaming like a schoolboy.
Harper had counted to ten when Miller appeared. He could have been Reynolds' twin if it hadn't been for his black mustache and slightly darker hair. Miller tossed something limp and partly white to Reynolds. It was the lace cap. The pulse of Harper's blood began to quicken.
Twelve, Harper counted. Reynolds gestured ahead. Miller nodded.
Thirteen. They began to run toward the carriage house.
Fourteen. Harper calmly latched the lock on the nearest door and then reached past the drunken student and locked the opposite door.
Fifteen. Miller was close enough that even through the rain, Harper could see the glint of his little round spectacles beneath his black cap. Reynolds was bounding ahead through the mud as if it were scarcely there.
Sixteen.
Harper was suddenly rocked back into the thin padding of his seat as the carriage pulled out into the street. He kept watching as the carriage rushed farther and farther away from the two Inquisitors. It was only when he had come to a full count of sixty that Harper leaned back against the worn seat of the carriage
and relaxed enough to pay any attention to the student across from him. The young man swayed back and forth as he clumsily tried to shove a half-empty bottle of wine under his seat cushion.
Some men certainly hid their deceptions better than others, Harper decided, but he said nothing of it.
At St. Christopher's Park, he lifted the old woman back into his arms and carefully got out of the carriage. Here the houses were not as sprawling as those of Chapel Street, but they stood against the black, storming sky with a conservative elegance. Harper walked quickly, ignoring the tired ache in his back and legs. Four blocks up the line of steepled roofs and miniature rose hedges, Harper reached his destination.
The house had been recently rebuilt, and Harper was no longer familiar with it. There had been six steps to the front door before. Now there were seven, and Harper almost tripped on the last one. It worried him that the woman didn't wake at all when he stumbled. He pulled the bell a little more violently than was necessary and waited.
It was late enough that most of the house staff would have been in bed or gone for the day. Harper jerked the bell chain again. Only a moment later, the door opened.
Edward took a quick look at Harper, then the old woman in his arms, and let them in.
"What happened?" Edward asked as he led Harper past the waiting room and into the consulting room.
"Exposure, I think. She's been out in the cold most of the night."
"Lay her on the table." Edward pushed his blonde hair from his face. One of his cheeks was much redder than the other. Harper guessed that he had fallen asleep at his desk again.
As Harper lay the woman down on the raised nursing table, Edward reached past him and took her pulse. Edward frowned slightly and placed his hand against her pale cold cheek. Gently, Edward brushed Harper aside and stripped the wet black coat off the woman. He tossed it to the floor.
Hale, Ginn Page 10