When a Lady Kisses a Scot (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service)
Page 13
“That won’t be possible. Not yet. The Yard is treating it as evidence. It remains in custody.”
Tension wove its way through Rose’s body. She tapped a finger against the arm of the chair in a rhythm that nearly mirrored her heartbeat.
“If it’s significant, I’d think the killer would have taken it as well as the letter,” Rose said.
“The brooch was discovered in a hidden pocket within Mr. Crabtree’s jacket. We believe the killer did not have time to search the man’s clothing,” Jennie explained. “Has any of your jewelry gone missing?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
MacAllister shoved his hand through his hair, ruffling it. “Perhaps the brooch was stolen from your aunt.”
“Her home had been ransacked.” The thought of the attack that had taken Aunt Helen’s life pierced Rose’s heart. “But to my knowledge, she’d possessed little in the way of adornments.”
“Perhaps she’d acquired the piece without your knowledge,” Jennie suggested.
“As you know, I’ve been away for a very long time. It’s certainly possible.”
“Our agency took the liberty of requesting an illustration of the piece. The sketch was delivered shortly before I left the office this morning.”
“Might I see it?” Rose asked, even as she questioned if she might be better off never laying eyes on the piece.
“Of course.” Jennie displayed a square of drawing paper so that they might all gaze upon the sketch.
Staring down at the artist’s rendering, Rose gulped against a foul taste in the back of her throat. Edging closer, she reached for the drawing. “May I?”
After Jennie handed her the image, Rose moved to the window. Holding the sketch up to the daylight, she scrutinized it, as if she might convince herself her eyes had deceived her.
The sketch artist had portrayed the brooch in considerable detail. The cluster of serpents writhing about the creature’s head were unmistakable, as was the look of evil in the gorgon’s eye.
“Medusa.” Rose murmured the word, if only for her own ears.
“You’ve seen this before?” Jennie questioned.
“Yes.” Rose reconsidered quickly. “And no.”
“And no?” MacAllister frowned.
“If you will excuse me, I have something that will explain perfectly.”
Rose rushed to her room to retrieve the brooch Portia had given her. The simple act of touching the cameo conjured a sensation of ants crawling over her flesh. Hurrying back, she thrust the piece into MacAllister’s hand.
Immediately, the sense of unease quieted.
“This brooch is nearly identical to that sketch,” she said. “But as you can see, the position of the creature’s head is different.”
“Good heavens, it’s the same image, but in reverse.” Jennie studied the ornament. “In this piece, it is facing the right, which I believe is typical. But in the sketch, the creature is turned to the left. And there’s something different about its mouth. It’s even more sinister than the drawing.”
MacAllister’s dark brows knitted. “How did you come to possess this?”
“It was given to me…the night at the theater.”
“Good God,” MacAllister said. “Do you know what this represents?”
“Truly, I have no idea. The very sight of it makes me shudder.”
“Quite so,” Jennie said, leaning in closer to get a better look. “I am not one to be drawn into beliefs of the supernatural, but this does stir a bit of a shiver. Highly unusual.”
MacAllister removed his reading spectacles from his vest pocket. “What’s that she’s wearing? Is that a pendant of some sort?”
Rose reached for the brooch. “May I?”
He nodded, and she reclaimed the pin. Holding it to the light, she motioned to MacAllister. “Your spectacles…might I use them for a moment?”
With a nod, he placed them in her free hand. Lifting the lenses to her eyes, she studied the relief that had been meticulously etched into the shell.
With the aid of the magnifying lenses, she spotted the reason for his question. There was definitely something there, at the base of the creature’s throat. “I don’t believe it’s a pendant,” Rose said, her heart racing. The hammering of her pulse pounded in her ears. “There is a symbol…dear God…”
A tiny image was etched onto the gorgon, as if marked on its skin.
“What is it, Rose?” MacAllister placed his hand over her arm, steadying its slight, sudden trembling.
“See for yourself,” she said, returning his spectacles.
He studied the brooch. When he looked up, he met her eyes.
“It’s a falcon—an Egyptian symbol. Bloody odd.”
Jennie examined the piece. “It appears to blend two myth systems. Very strange.”
The crease in MacAllister’s brow deepened. “The symbol could be meaningless, merely an embellishment.”
No. The single syllable echoed in Rose’s mind like an instinctive alarm. The tattoo she’d borne since girlhood had not been intended as an embellishment.
“That is not the case.” Despite the roaring in her head, Rose forced a calmness into her voice. “I can’t explain…not yet, at least. But there is a deeper meaning. This brooch and the other are tied to Merrick. I’d stake my life on it.”
Chapter Sixteen
The stark tension in Rose’s voice cut through Mac. Her tone was even, but an undercurrent of apprehension touched each word. As she kept her gaze on the brooch, her top teeth grazed her lower lip. The very sight of it appeared to disturb her. Was that fear glimmering in her dark green eyes?
What did she know about the bizarre bit of ornamentation?
“Rose, who gave this to you?” he asked.
She met his eyes, displaying no trace of evasion. “When I went to the theater, I encountered a woman named Portia. She presented it to me.”
Good God. It had been a while since he’d heard that name. The hairs raised at the back of his neck. If his suspicions held true, this was not good news.
Jennie’s eyes widened slightly. “Portia—you met with the Widow Rathbone?”
“I do believe that was her.”
“You’re not certain?” Mac pressed.
“I could not attest to it under oath, but I am reasonably sure of her identity.”
Jennie let out a low breath. “I must say, I had not anticipated that.”
“Bloody hell,” Mac muttered. “I presume you were in America when her name dominated the London papers.”
Rose shot him a little scowl. “I’m far too tired for clues. Please tell me what you’re getting at.”
“One might say she’s rather infamous,” Jennie said.
“I had not encountered her before that night at the theater. I know very little about her…only what she chose to tell me. What did the woman do that’s so very sinister?”
Mac met Rose’s eyes. “A few years ago, Portia Rathbone stabbed her lover to death.”
“The woman I met in that theater is a killer?” Rose scoffed.
“Yes.” Mac was blunt. “She didn’t deny the act. She was caught literally red-handed, knife in hand, his blood covering her fingers. The killing was the scandal of London.”
“Her motive was the only question. Was it murder? Or had she acted in self-defense?” Jennie added.
Rose’s features drew tighter with tension. “The woman I met at the theater did not appear to possess the ability to walk on her own, much less kill a man with a knife. It’s simply not plausible.”
“At the time of the killing, Mrs. Rathbone was not in a wheelchair,” Mac explained. “She suffered a fall down the stairs of her mansion not long afterward. Her injuries were severe. She was not expected to survive.”
“But she defied the grim prognosis,” Jennie said. “I’m told Mrs. Rathbone still possesses the ability to walk, but with great effort. She bears a pronounced limp. As such, she utilizes a wheeled chair when she is in public.”
“She accused her lover of attacking her in a fit of jealous rage. As such, she’d had no choice but to defend herself,” MacAllister said.
“Her lover died before investigators could ask him any questions,” Jennie said. “Mrs. Rathbone bore a few faint bruises, marks the police inspectors theorized might have been self-inflicted.”
“There were signs of a struggle, but the detectives suspected the scene might have been staged. But there was no way to confirm their doubts. The case did not go to trial.”
“Could she have been telling the truth?” Rose said.
“That is indeed a possibility.” Jennie stood, smoothing out the creases in her skirts. “But there is something else you should know. The man who died at her hands was her late husband’s business partner. His name was Jacob Merrick.”
Rose stifled a gasp. “Merrick?”
“Cyril Merrick’s older brother followed their father into the family business. Over the years, he invested their wealth in numerous enterprises. A few years before his death, Jacob Merrick entered into a partnership with Mrs. Rathbone’s late husband to expand his business into a passenger transport endeavor—steamships crossing the ocean, catering to travelers who wished for a luxurious voyage. They named the company Neptune-Atlantic Enterprises.”
A glimmer of understanding darkened Rose’s eyes. “I sailed on one of their vessels.”
“Someone within the company might have discovered you were on that ship and notified Portia Rathbone,” Jennie said.
“When her husband died, Mrs. Rathbone inherited his interest in the firm,” Mac added. “After she killed Jacob Merrick, she was able to take full control.”
“Dear God, she benefited from his death.” Rose’s mouth parted in shock. “But how did she take control? What of the man’s heirs?”
“Jacob Merrick’s wife predeceased him, and they had no children,” Mac said. “He bequeathed his share of ownership in the company to Mrs. Rathbone.”
“His relatives came forward, claiming his will was a forgery. But they were unable to prove their accusations,” Jennie added. “Oddly enough, Cyril Merrick remained silent throughout the battle. Rumor has it he was in league with his brother’s killer.”
Rose pressed her fingertips to her temples. “This is all so very confounding. I feel as if I’m trapped in a labyrinth.”
“A man like Merrick is not capable of family loyalty,” Mac said.
“I don’t doubt the snake was incapable of giving a fig about his flesh and blood. But why would Portia Rathbone ally herself with the man? When I spoke with her, she made it clear she detested Cyril Merrick.”
“You believed her?” Jennie questioned gently.
Rose stared down at her fingertips. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Why did she give this brooch to you?” Jennie pressed.
“I don’t know…well, that’s not entirely true. She’d employed it as proof of her connection with my father.”
A light rapping tore Mac’s attention to the door. Bugger it, this was no time for interruptions.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but a courier has arrived with a package for Miss Fleming,” Irene Pearson called through the still-closed panel.
“Do come in,” he replied.
The agent entered quickly.
“You recognized the courier?” Mac asked.
“Yes, it was Jim,” Miss Pearson said. “The same agent-in-training who transported Miss Fleming’s belongings from the hotel. He stated it had been screened by our trained hounds—they detected no trace of explosives.”
Jennie glanced toward the brown-paper wrapped parcel. “Very good. We cannot be too careful.”
“Still, I should examine this,” Mac said, taking the package from Mrs. Pearson’s hands. “I’ll ask you all to stand back.”
With a nod to Mac, Jennie led Rose into the corridor. The women peered through the door as he peeled away the paper, revealing a small silver box.
Examining the exterior of the container, he searched for any sign of explosives or hidden blades. Satisfied that the box had not been rigged to cause harm, he slowly tipped up the lid.
An ornate ring lay upon a bed of burgundy satin. A golden topaz gem gleamed against black-enameled gold. Gold flakes surrounded the stone, resembling the sun’s rays. Carefully, he lifted the ring from the box. A tiny glass compartment had been molded into the back of the ring. A slender lock of reddish blond hair rested within it.
The ring had been crafted as an act of mourning.
Lifting the band to the light, he read the initials engraved within the band. RMF. Rose’s mother had been named Rowena. Had this ring been commissioned upon her death?
Turning the enameled circle between his fingers, he spotted a tiny symbol etched into the underside. A falcon, outlined in gold against the matte black surface.
Good God. Had this ring been designed by someone in the throes of mourning? Or was it intended to torment Rose with fear?
“Evidently, the blasted box is not going to kill us all,” Jennie called from the doorway. “What do you have there?”
He hesitated. When Rose saw the ring—and the hieroglyph of a falcon carved into the enamel—she’d likely find it a shock to the system. But she needed to see it. She needed to know if this ornate ring symbolized a threat against her.
“Come see for yourself,” he said, motioning the women to return.
“The box is quite lovely.” Jennie frowned as she peered into the container. “Pity the ring is rather macabre.”
“Rose, do you recognize this?” he asked, removing the band from the box.
For a long moment, she stared at it. Eyes wide. Mouth pulled tight at the corners. Her face betrayed her instinctive response to the ring.
“Oh dear God.” Her near-whisper cut through the silence.
“What is it, Rose?” Jennie came closer, studying the delicately etched item.
She trailed her fingertip over the initials engraved in gold. “I had not expected this.”
“Was this ring commissioned after your mother’s death?” he asked with as much gentleness as he could muster.
“No.” Her teeth grazed her bottom lip as she held it up to the light, examining the underside of the band. “This…this thing was not made as a memento of my mother.”
She thrust the ring at Mac. “I don’t want to touch this.”
“Rose, what has upset you?” Jennie asked.
“Look at it,” Rose whispered. “It’s like something out of a nightmare.”
“What do you make of this?” He handed the ring to Jennie.
“I suspect this came from Mrs. Rathbone. I think it’s high time she answered a few questions.” She touched a fingertip to the intricate rendering of a falcon. “Rose, tell me what this means. You know, don’t you?”
Rose gave her head a miserable shake. “I don’t know who had this made. Or why.”
“You said this ring was not made in memory of your mother. Then who might it be?”
She shook her head again. “I don’t know.”
“But those were your mother’s initials. Perhaps this ring was made as a token after she died,” Mac suggested.
“That cannot be.” A light sheen glistened in her eyes. “My mother’s name was Rowena Ruth Fleming. R.R.F. Not R.M.F. And her hair was dark, like rich brown chocolate.”
Sickening understanding plowed into Mac like an unseen brawler’s fist. “Then whose hair is beneath that glass?”
“MacAllister, do you remember my middle name?”
“Yes.” Margaret.
R.M.F.
Bloody hell.
Rose held his gaze, her voice steady. “I believe that lock of hair was taken from me when I was a child. That mourning ring has been crafted for me.”
/> …
Rose paced the floor, nervous energy sparked by fear infusing every step. “It’s clear someone wishes to frighten me. I’d say they’re succeeding.”
“We need to question the agent who delivered that ghoulish piece of jewelry.” Despite MacAllister’s cool, rational tone, tension filled every word, every movement.
Jennie frowned. “By all accounts, the agent is a very level-headed and trustworthy sort. The package might have been placed in Rose’s hotel room by someone on the hotel staff.”
Irene studied the mourning ring under a powerful light. “Whoever crafted this possesses a high degree of skill. The image is quite intricate—rather remarkable given the exceedingly small canvas.”
MacAllister gave a thoughtful nod. “Mrs. Rathbone has ample funds to pay a skilled craftsman.”
“She’d likely know who to turn to for such a task,” Irene went on. “I have a source within the Yard who is extremely interested in Portia Rathbone’s activities in the antiquities market. She’s suspected of trading forged artifacts. Evidently, someone connected with her company sold a scepter to a prominent museum. The piece was supposedly crafted in the eleventh century, but unfortunately for the buyer, the scepter was scarcely older than me.”
“Forged antiquities, very much like these bizarre brooches.” Mac pondered the connection. “That might tie in with this investigation.”
“I have it on good authority that Mrs. Rathbone is throwing a grand ball tomorrow night to celebrate the acquisition of a certain queen’s crown by the British Museum,” Irene said. “It’s expected to be a grand affair.”
“Odd that I hadn’t heard,” Jennie said.
“Evidently, the event is a rather spur-of-the-moment idea,” Irene explained. “Mrs. Rathbone commandeered the use of the ballroom at the Downeyfield Hotel from an American tycoon’s daughter who’d planned to hold a charity ball there at the same time. I’m told the widow offered the manager a tidy sum to cancel the American’s reservation. The manager indicated that Mrs. Rathbone’s guest list is a well-guarded secret, but I may be able to convince him to confide what he knows to me.”
A sly little grin played on Jennie’s mouth. “MacAllister, I know where you will be tomorrow evening.”