“There ought by now to be results on the carbon-14 dating. Let me ring the lab.” She knew Richard meant only to humor her.
To her dismay, she found that the phone lay off the hook. She picked it up, rested it on its cradle and frowned, realizing that they had been out of touch with the investigation for nearly fourteen hours. Saying so to Richard resulted in a mutter of indifference from the man.
“I only hope nothing's happened and no one's missed us,” she replied, wondering now if he'd intentionally taken the phone off the hook.
She telephoned for Dr. Raehael at the Yard's crime lab, her face giving way to surprise, which Richard read as, “Another body's been found, hasn't it?”
“No, no,” she reassured him. “Yes, Dr. Raehael, I did hear you. Thank you, and please, let's keep this bit of news between us, please.”
Richard stood over her as she dropped the phone onto its cradle. “What news have you?”
“Raehael dated our dung beetle sample back to Roman times.”
“My word… my word… So it was formed in Roman England.”
“Now where shall we begin?”
“You sound like Alice-through-the-looking-glass, Jessica.”
“And you, my Mad Hatter, have you the time?”
“It's late, it's late,” he sang out an alteration of the rhyme, “it's very, very late.”
“And have you a direction?”
He gave a moment's thought to this, his hand rising with an aha notion playing about his features. “You know, there is a little frequented museum, an industrial history museum inside the RIBA. Rather buried in the basement there. A-”
“Where?”
“Royal Institute of British Architecture near Regent's Park in Marylebone area on Portland at China. They-RIBA, that is-built all that stands in London, you see, over the years. They're quite proud of their bridges, railways, mines, the tube-underground rail lines and their daft factories. They might have something on the mines, and perhaps someone there might be expert and helpful.”
Jessica only half heard what he'd said beyond Royal Institute of British Architecture and Portland Street. “I was once a member of the elite army corps of engineers of which we British are so proud. That makes me a tad more familiar with how London is laid out, and where all of her underpinnings and underground niches, nooks, and crannies lie. Still it's a complicated mess. I need to locate a moldy old institution dealing with the layout of the city to find my own way about.”
“We haven't left yet? Let's give it a shot. Who knows? Perhaps we can locate an underground kill site, a site from before the time of Christ.”
“Well, actually, Marylebone is quite the ancient district.”
“Marylebone?” She thought the place sounded grim.
“Aye, where the Royal Institute stands moldering. Not many visitors there. Out of the way, off the tourist treks, you see… Has one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, and there's actually an Epicurean statue in a park there of the Madonna and Child. The home of the fictitious Sherlock Holmes isn't too far from the area, either. But it is on the bus routes, I can assure you.”
'Twenty-one Baker Street? Really? How interesting.”
“It was loosely based on twenty-one Baker Street, yes.” He returned to his cooking in the kitchenette, calling back to her over his shoulder, “And so… what do we hope to locate in this ancient mine, should we ever find it?”
“I have as much clue as Alice, but like her, I am curious. Get your breakfast. I'm going to shower and dress. If you don't mind, perhaps you could take me by my hotel for a change of clothes, and then we can bugger off to this RIBA place, is it?”
“Bugger off,” he repeated. “Now you're getting the language!” He'd returned to her, took her by the shoulders, and firmly kissed her where she stood in his robe. He kissed her again, attempting to rekindle the passion they'd shared the night before, but Jessica pulled away, saying, “Bugger off, yourself! We haven't time. It's already near nine. Get your breakfast, now!” she ordered, and he wandered back off into the kitchen, a smile creasing his features.
She went toward the bathroom but found herself stopped before the bed, her eye falling on a book he'd left under the bed. It's flap winked at her where she stood. Crouching and lifting the book, she saw horrid pictures of various visions of hell. Closing it, she read the title: A History of Hades and Crucifixion Motifs in European Art. She rummaged through and found the words Mihi beata mater highlighted on a page he'd marked. It gave her a chill. Apparently, the words appeared on many paintings and depictions of both Hades and the crucifixion of all crucifixions.
Suddenly he stood over her, staring down at the book in her hands. “So, you've found me out,” he said with a sour frown.
“Light reading?” she asked, attempting to mask the shakiness she felt, not wishing to sound at all unnerved by her discovery.
“A prize from the library.”
She noted the spine, seeing that indeed it was a library lender's copy. She opened it, saw the date stamp which placed it at before her discovery of Burton's tongue art.
He lamely explained, “Been doing my homework.”
“How long have you known the meaning of the inscription?” She wanted to hear him admit to it.“From the moment I heard you pealing them from Burtie's tongue, I realized I had seen the phrase in my reading. I went back to the book later to confirm it.”
“Why lie about it? Why didn't you tell me outright that you knew?”
“I played dumb on it in order to get Luc Sante involved. His being a linguist would suit my superiors, you see, and we'd have him to consult with. You have no idea the budget constraints we work under.”
“Actually, I do have some idea. We have the same problem in the Bureau.” But a glimmer of disquiet remained with Jessica. Hadn't he called Luc Sante's words slut's wool? “I'm going to get that shower now.”
“And I that breakfast. Certain you don't want some?”
Without answering, she closed the bathroom door and locked it behind her, hoping to sort out her nerves, her suspicions, and the facts under the rain of warm water.
Later Richard showered while Jessica dressed.
After having showered, and after having accepted Richard's explanation for the book and his prior knowledge of the Latin phrase found on the dead victims' tongues, Jessica made haste to dress and start the day. All the while nagging doubt tugged at both her brain and heart. She had slept with this man. Her judgment could not be so impaired, she promised herself. She could not be so blind as to sleep with a serial killer, or someone involved with a cult of serial killers. Impossible, she kept promising herself over and over.
A quick call to Scodand Yard, she felt, was in order. She asked to be put through to Stuart Copperwaite who came on instandy, asking, “My God, Doctor, where have you and Sharpe been?”
“We were missed?” was all Jessica, feeling guilty, could manage.
“We've had another crucifixion death.”
“Dear God, not another.”
“ 'Fraid so, Doctor. Discovered in the wee hours again, with the cadaver disposed of in a body of water, St. James Park, and I can tell you now that if the Royals weren't taking an interest before, they bloody well are now.”
“The House of Windsor, you mean?”
“The Queen Mother herself, along with Parliament, the Prime Minister, you name it. Where's Sharpe?”
“In the shower.”
“I see.” Cozy, she thought she heard him mutter.
“Where is the body? Has Schuller and Raehael done an autopsy yet? Of course not. I spoke with Raehael only fifteen minutes ago, and he said absolutely nothing about it.”
“Most likely Dr. Raehael didn't know at the time, but he does by now. There appears a rift growing between Schuller and Raehael, one you may know something about?”
“No, I don't know anything about any problem between them,” she half-lied.
“In any case, the postmortem is being held up, Doctor, for your
attention. We… that is, Scotland Yard, the Crown, are paying well for your expertise.”
Something definitely icy in Copperwaite's tone; perhaps Richard had him pegged right after all. “I'll be right there.”
“And Sharpe is requested in Boulte's office.”
“I'll pass that request along to him. Thank you.” She immediately hung up. Sharpe, stepping from the shower, looking into her wide eyes. Her mouth agape, he momentarily thought she might be gaping at him, until she divulged the facts, saying, “The Rat Boys, as you call them, will be released today.”
“Then there has been another killing!”
“While we ate and drank, while we made love, while we slept.”
“At least you know I'm as innocent of the crimes as the Rat Boys.”
“I never suspected you, Richard!”
“Don't lie to a detective, Jessica.”
“All right, I felt a strange sensation come over me when I saw that book, but I never truly entertained the notion you might be the Crucifier.”
“Not even one of them? Forget it. I'd be disappointed in you if you hadn't a healthy suspicion after seeing that book below my bed. So, tell me, has the Yard been beating the bushes for us?”
“Indeed they have. Boulte wants you to report directly to his office this morning. They're holding the body for me to do the postmortem.”
Richard dressed solemnly, and she nibbled at the food Richard had burned on the stove. Soon, together, they were pressing for Scotland Yard, Jessica without time for a change of clothes.
The latest victim, thought by some in the Yard to be a copycat killing-and hoped to be one by P. P. Ellen Sturgeon and Chief Inspector Boulte-had all the markings of the real Crucifier at work, down to the coal in the nails and the branded tongue.
At half-past three in the afternoon, Jessica declared the body, that of a slim, pathetic, silver-haired old woman, to be the fifth victim of the Crucifier. Without an identity, Jessica had to tag her toe as A.N. Other. Boulte had come down to the autopsy room, hoping against hope that Jessica would find cause to declare the latest victim a random copycat crime in which someone, wanting to kill another, masked his crime by mimicking the ongoing series of murders. Jessica's findings proved otherwise, proved that this was indeed the work of the Crucifier.
This meant that Periwinkle and Hawkins had to be set free. The press would report the foolishness of the Yard in making the grandiose statements of the day before, which had declared an end to the crucifixion murders in London. The Rat Boys were returned to the streets, likely to do mischief to someone somewhere for which they might legitimately find the sort of twisted fame they sought.
It had all made for a long and tiring day. Now Jessica said good night to Raehael, who had, unlike Schuller, stayed dll the very end of the postmortem examination. Raehael and she discussed the strange findings with respect to their Roman beetle. Dr. Raehael told her, “I informed Dr. Schuller of all result, which he do not at first believe until he look over my findings-that same coal dust was embedded into the wounds of the victims, not just Woodard-and that he should look for himself. I told him then, Doctor, that he owes apology to you.”
“ 'Fraid I got none.”
She thanked Raehael and they shook hands, and he waved her off to what he hoped would be a good night. Alone now in the scrub room, she stripped her surgical gloves and gown away, reached over and tore off paper booties protecting her shoes from blood and fluids, tossed all recyclables in one bin, all garb in another, and stretched, using a yoga position that relaxed her back and neck muscles. As she turned to leave the operating theater, she came face-to-face with Luc Sante's disembodied head framed in the surgical doorway. “God-damnit,” she cursed inwardly at her sudden fright. He smiled in at her and waved her forward.“I came as soon as I could get away,” he explained. 'Tragic, a fifth victim. Is it possible he is planning to kill seven? Seven is often a number people fixate on, given its biblical connotations, its mystical history.”
“At this point, I haven't a clue, and I'm extremely, extremely tired, Dr. Luc Sante.”
“Obviously, yes, and with good reason.”
She almost thought he meant something by the remark, he'd heard of her tryst with Sharpe and was attempting a small, secular joke. But no, her mind told her to think better of his remarks than that. Then she recalled Richard's words about tmsting one's own intuition and sense of jeopardy, that the subconscious often knew more than the conscious mind, and this led her to recall the remarkable workings of FBI psychic investigator, Kim Desinor, who would not allow a red-legged crow, a DIVERSION sign or any other “signal” to get past her conscious self, because a psychic like Kim Desinor kept in tune with her subconscious.
“You must be anxious for a shower, something to eat. I have my car. Allow me to see you to your hotel, and there I will wine and dine with you, my dear Jessica.”
She could find no reason to say no. He offered precisely what she needed at the moment, and she had truly wanted to speak with him again regarding the latest aspects of the case.
“Yes, yes,” she told him. “I would like that, Dr. Luc Sante, Father.”
“Good, very good, indeed.” His smile left a small gap in his teeth, and his teeth were yellowed from years of smoking, which he'd obviously given up. Likely due to doctor's orders. His wispy hair flew about his cranium where he stood below the air duct in the surgical scrub area. He reminded Jessica of Scrooge, looking as if he'd stepped out of that bygone era, despite his modem cloth and the cut of his vestments.
“I am told the latest victim was left like the others, in water?”
“Yes, St. James Park.”
“Dear me, close to the Queen's little cottage. This will have a ripple effect, indeed.”
“Let's get out of here, Father.”
Before leaving Scotland Yard, Jessica dropped off her postmortem report in the ops room with Copperwaite and Sharpe. The two men now were working under a cloud. She told Richard of her plans to spend the evening with Father Luc Sante, and after an initial frown bom of disappointment, he accepted this, wishing her a good night. Copperwaite added a “Cheerio,” while sdll studying her autopsy report. Once back at the York Hotel, Jessica scanned a brief message left at the desk for her by first Richard Sharpe, saying he missed her terribly, and one from J. T. in America, which simply read: Tattoo Man's case heating up. Call you when I can.
Jessica, with Father Luc Sante waiting in the lobby, needed her own heating up, so she showered to cleanse the sad postmortem of the day from her fingers and nasal cavities as well. She very much wanted to enjoy her time now with this fascinating “Father,” and she felt a desire to confess to him, or at least to bare her soul to him. She felt some senseless worm of guilt eating away at her regarding this case, the fact that it seemed to be moving at a snail's pace. Not to mention that while she and Richard had made love, another victim had been staked to a cross somewhere, her body thrown into a lake.
Still, if she could tell anyone of her painful doubts and fears, it would be Father Luc Sante.
As she showered for the second time this day, she decided that Luc Sante was a man of great magnetism and charisma, due in large part to the kindness of his eyes and the kindness with which he imparted information, even on the most gruesome of subjects. In fact, his eyes stroked those he reached out to help.
After showering and dressing in evening wear, Jessica met Luc Sante in the lobby, the priest telling her that he'd already taken the liberty of booking them into the York's exquisite lounge. “My treat this time,” he assured her. Quickly seated, they soon found themselves sipping a fine rose wine, a 1979 vintage, something Luc Sante had selected previous to their having actually been seated. “They know me here,” he whispered in her ear.
After a few sips of wine, Luc Sante asked pointedly, “Why do you seem so melancholy in this place? We have comfort, wine, music, good company…”
She instantly apologized, realizing he must have read the melancholia from her
features. “I am sorry, Father. It's… it's just that… Well, it would appear that all my scientific skill has been of little help in actually pinpointing these killers, Father.”
A waiter stood in a nearby comer, and from time to time he rushed the table, refilled the wineglasses, and disappeared again. Something of a faceless, nameless penguin in his black and white, she thought.
The elegant restaurant at the hotel filled with music from a piano now being played by a gifted young black woman. She played Chopin, moved to Bach, and then settled on one of Beethoven's lighter moods.
“1 do not mean to mock or disparage your attempts or what you do for a living, Dr. Coran, but…” He hesitated.
“But?” she encouraged.
“But experience has taught me.” Luc Sante's voice, so deep, rich and full, rose above the music. He spoke around sips of his wine. “What is paraded as scientific fact is quite often mere rhetoric.”
“Rhetoric?”
“We know what we know. We don't always need a scientist to tell us what we already know.”
“All right, but we-people-don't always know what we need to know.” She tried to counter his logic with her own.
“So they need you? They need to be told what is what? They need to follow the precepts of some current belief held by a mere handful of scientists searching for truths beyond the scientists' reach in the first place?”
“Not unlike our investigation, you mean?”
He lightly laughed. “I hadn't thought of it in quite the same terms, but yes, you might say so,” Luc Sante added, snatching up the roll of bread between them, offering her first a piece and then taking one for himself. “Perhaps, it is time to abandon your scientific goggles for a pair of intuitive eyes. Your instincts have saved you in the past, and they will again in the future if you let them,” he attempted reassurance. “If you get out of the way of your own instincts, Jessica Coran.”
“Maybe it's this place, London. It's dizzying and romantic.”
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