Yes, an urgent search of teaching facilities was overdue. He would have to find the officers someplace.
Lance rose, stretching his big body by vigorously feigning some fencing moves. He needed a true match and would make time for one. He’d drop in on the fencing gymnasium later today. He knew from experience nothing cleared his mind like a session with an equally skilled partner. The talented instructor was his favorite and maybe he’d be lucky enough to find the man free.
With a small sigh, he gave one last false thrust and sank down again at his desk, leaning back for a moment. So far fencing had proven to be no use in banishing his lustful longings for Morgan. She was there, glowing in his mind, the minute he laid down his épée.
He pulled a fresh tablet and some pencils toward him. Then he threw them down and started for the door. He’d have to get his Commander to assign him more men. He wanted every man he could commandeer to be placed on the new search for the killer. This came before he could make a list of duties for men he didn’t yet have.
* * * * *
The killer was dressed in nondescript clothes although he’d been careful to clean himself up. He aroused no comment in the pub near Scotland Yard many policemen fancied. If anyone noticed him they looked past him as if he weren’t there. He was used to this. All his life he’d felt invisible. Often he railed in his mind against the fact no one paid him the slightest attention, but tonight he was grateful.
Tonight was his third night in the pub. He sat in a corner, nursing his pint and listening to as much conversation as he could. His hearing was keen and he could pick up much of what was said at the tables around him.
Suddenly he heard the words “Lucky Lance”. Cursing to himself the fact the speaker was across the room, he got up and began wandering around as if without purpose. Edging closer to the table, he could soon hear clearly.
“That woman Lucky’s been taking with him sure is a looker. No wonder he got his nickname.”
There were a few chuckles and then one of them said, “Funny name though for a girl. Morgan. I thought Morgan was a boy’s name.”
“She’s all girl, though. Have you seen her? Purtiest green eyes I ever did see.”
One of them suddenly noticed the man who’d stopped to eavesdrop. The murderer lingered, spellbound in exultation. He was finally starting to get the information he needed.
“Hey, you. Get along with you. Don’t go trying to hear your betters talk. Get off.”
The officer half-rose from his seat and the nondescript man scurried away. He was content with the name “Morgan”. There could not be many with such an unusual name and a few questions in the right place would tell him the rest. There probably wasn’t more than one Morgan in all of London with green eyes. If there were more than one he’d hide himself and see which one Lucky Lance visited.
Well pleased, he left the pub. Not a person noticed his departure.
He chortled as he sidled away. The Chief Inspector wouldn’t be called “Lucky” much longer. He was about to lose his woman. Lose her in a manner sure to haunt him for the rest of his life. What a wonderful revenge he would take on them both. The Chief Inspector would never be able to forget how horribly his Morgan died.
He busied himself thinking of details of her death he meant to etch in the Chief Inspector’s mind for all of eternity.
* * * * *
Lance lowered his head onto his hands and groaned. He was getting exactly noplace in the current investigation. Following leads on the newest murdered girl turned up exactly nothing. She was as anonymous in her life as the other victims. Another girl who’d somehow been recruited or who’d turned to prostitution to merely survive.
She seemed to have no family to mourn her and if no one claimed her she’d be buried by the city in a pauper’s grave, in a pauper’s coffin. Lance had taken time to attend the lowering of the other two murdered girls into the ground. He was the only one present. No one else appeared to weep or say a kind word for either one. Lance commended their souls to God in his mind. He left word he wanted to attend the burial of this one as well when the coroner released the body.
The futility of such a barren life haunted him. He began to think even more seriously about marriage. He’d like to at least leave a child or two who might grieve at his death. He cursed to himself as his ever disobedient mind drew images of the beautiful children Morgan would produce. Would they all have her gorgeous green eyes? Would they have her laughing attitude toward pretension and her piercing intellect?
My God, what could he do to erase her from his thoughts? The last thing he wanted was a wife who would eventually ferret out his every thought. He wanted a calm, no-nonsense wife who’d not bother him and would quietly do her duty to him and his children. Was that too much to ask?
Still, he could use a fresh viewpoint on the present murder. He decided to visit Morgan and discuss the latest developments. Or rather the lack of them. At best she might be of help. If not, perhaps he could finally find something about her to give him a justifiable reason to ignore her charms. He didn’t think he could go on like this much longer without losing his pitiful mind.
At six o’clock in the evening Lance’s carriage pulled up to the McAfee residence.
Lance didn’t have the faintest idea the murderer was lurking behind some bushes at the side of the house.
Waiting.
Waiting for Morgan.
* * * * *
The killer experienced no trouble pinning down Morgan’s full name and address. It took just a few drinks, bought for a police officer who could not hold his liquor well. When he judged his victim to be slightly drunk, the killer casually mentioned Morgan’s unusual name. Had the officer ever seen her and was she as beautiful as he’d heard?
Eager to be agreeable to the nice laborer buying him drinks, the sergeant answered at once.
“Oh, she’s a beauty, she is. You should see her.”
The killer pretended to take a large swallow of his bitters.
“I think I have seen her. Morgan Thomson, isn’t it?”
“No, no.” The half-foxed sergeant was delighted to be in the know. “The one I’m talking about is named Morgan McAfee. She’s a rare one. Most be-you-ti-ful eyes I ever did see.”
The killer took a true swallow this time. He had exactly what he needed. He must be the smartest man in London. Those fat-headed doctors who’d dismissed him from medical school at King’s College would never know how wrong they’d been. Or was there a way of telling a reporter so they’d have a hint of their idiocy? He’d have to think seriously how to get in touch with the newspapers. He hated to have his brilliance unacknowledged.
But not yet. For now he needed to concentrate. Morgan McAfee would soon pay his price for her interference. She’d be sorry not only she’d hampered a genius, but horrified she’d ever lived to hear of him. After she was dead, painfully dead, he’d see about getting recognition for his intelligence.
* * * * *
The killer went to Morgan’s house and boldly knocked at the door. He didn’t expect to gain entrance but he hoped for information. With the best of luck, she might even wander into the hall and he’d know she was at home. The rest would be easy.
Jackson answered the door and the killer’s eyes narrowed as the stuffed-up bastard’s expression changed to hauteur.
“The kitchen is around the back. Although we have no positions open, you should inquire there.”
The killer tried his best smile, which seemed to further repel Morgan’s butler.
“I wanted to see Miss McAfee, please,” he said.
“She’s not at home now nor will she be to the likes of you,” Jackson snapped out as he slammed the door in the caller’s face.
Cursing in a low monotone, the killer pulled his hat further over his face and went back down to the street. He saw a curtain move and knew the butler was checking to make sure he left. He went down the block and turned the corner, waited about ten minutes and then reversed and again appr
oached the house. He hid in the tall hedge at the side of the yard. He’d wait for missy to come home or go out. Either one would do and he had all the time in the world. It was hard for him but he could force himself to be patient. It was only a matter of time until he caught up with the treacherous bitch.
The delay was longer than he’d expected and frayed the killer’s patience. For four hours he waited in the shrubbery, afraid to move lest he give his presence away. He could barely exercise his self-control not to jump, scream, or rush from his hiding place and pound on the door. He’d found his other victims quickly. The ever-present tic in his left eye grew frantic. Still he waited.
Cursed silently, twitched and waited.
He couldn’t have been more surprised or pleased when he saw Chief Inspector Lord Lance Dellafield’s carriage draw up at the house. For just a moment, he shrank back and then he realized with a spurt of joy he might be the one to be lucky.
He stilled so he could hear.
“I didn’t realize she was still residing with Master Jamie. Should I look for her there, then?”
Dellafield’s voice was strong and clear and the murderer heard every word.
“You can try, sir, although she often comes by this time of day to pick up fresh clothing. Would you care to wait?”
The bloody butler certainly was oily enough with a Duke’s son! The murderer chewed his lip and waited.
“No, I think I must go back to the office. But thank you, Jackson.”
The murderer slunk back in his bushes. He needed only to wait a little longer. He cracked his knuckles over and over as he grinned his rictus grin. Now that he knew he’d have success it was easier to stay.
His tarrying was not in vain. Late in the afternoon he saw his quarry approach. He noted her graceful walk with a sneer. No wonder she captured men so easily. She was dressed simply, with only a small scarf tying back her hair. Certainly no lady ventured out minus a proper hat. Her abundant hair hung down her back as she looked up at the sky with a joyous smile. Soon she wouldn’t have a thing to smile about. She was just the slut he’d expected.
He moved just a little so he could see the door.
She knocked briefly and the bloody butler opened for her with obvious pleasure on his face.
“I need to get a few things, Jackson. Could you find me a cool drink while I pack what I need? Walking over was hotter than I expected.”
Jackson nearly split his face smiling. He held the door open for his mistress.
“Certainly, Miss Morgan. It’s always good to see you. There’s a letter from your mother you’ll want to read. Oh and Lord Lance was here looking for you.”
“Indeed! I’m…” As the door closed quietly behind her the killer grimaced and shrunk back in the bushes. So. She wasn’t going to stay at the house right now. Where was the slut sleeping? Who was Jamie? Another lover? Not that mattered. No one was ever going to see her alive again.
He flexed his hands to make sure they were limber. And waited once again. This time the wait was pleasurable, as he felt the anticipation begin to build throughout his body. He smiled as he felt his male member start to stretch his pants. This killing would be even more satisfactory than the others.
Nothing must go wrong while he dragged Miss Morgan McAfee into her own garden and slowly killed her. The Chief Inspector would never be able to forget this particular crime. There was no way the killer could be caught and that would only add to the Chief Inspector’s terrible guilt. If he’d only waited for Morgan he might have saved her. He’d never forgive himself.
The killer chortled with barbaric glee as he dragged a scarf out of his pocket and wound each end securely around his hands.
Miss Morgan McAfee would be coming down the front steps soon.
He was ready and waiting.
* * * * *
Lance went back to his office to find reports seeming to identify the killer. Lance sat there, leafing through them, wondering why he was not more elated. He should be feeling on top of the world. He was positive he’d cracked the case and there remained only the technicalities of arresting the murderer.
A certain Tom Tomlinson, a student ejected from Kings College. Tomlinson had been a brilliant student, but one who refused to obey any of the rules. He’d only studied the subjects interesting to him, notably the physiology of the human body and its anatomy. His professors tried again and again to persuade him to conform to the curricula, but finally gave up. He’d shown an almost pathological interest in points of pain and the circulatory system. Even now, three years later, they remembered him with regret for a wasted brilliance.
Lance had nothing definite to go on but this information and the inner intensity of his conviction he’d found his man. He’d always been right on the occasions when he felt this sureness.
He would bring his staff up to date and start them searching for Tomlinson and then go see Morgan. A feeling his visit was important nagged at him and made him uneasy. He should have gone straight to the Commissioner’s home when he did not find her at her own place. His stupid pride made him want to avoid the appearance of chasing her. A foolish concern when a vicious killer was still loose in London.
Did Morgan feel this unease when she sensed something was wrong? Did this inner certainty accompany her visions?
He called his men together, anxious to get the meeting over with and be on his way.
“And now you all know as much as I do,” he finished with a slight smile. “No, one other thing. As I’ve told you Tomlinson is a rather nondescript man with sandy hair, not very big or noteworthy in any way. He does, however, have a definite tic in his left eye. I’m told it’s quite noticeable. So keep your own eyes open.”
Lance half turned to go when he noticed one of his younger sergeants turning white as the pad of paper he was using to take notes. Lance wheeled around.
“Murdock, you look as if some of this triggers a memory. Have you seen this man?”
The sergeant nodded, his young face a mask of horrified guilt.
“I’m afraid so, Sir. I think I had drinks with him two nights ago. He was asking questions about a lady named Morgan. I’m afraid I blurted out her last name.”
“Dear God.”
Lance almost ran from the room. Shriver, who’d been sitting with the rest of the team, leapt up to get the carriage. Very shortly after Lance ran out Shriver pulled up with the carriage and the two set out for Commissioner Randall’s house.
The logical part of his brain assured Lance no harm could come to Morgan when she was staying at the Commissioner’s home. My god, Randall was the head of all the Metropolitan Police Force. Who would dare attack her in such august surroundings?
Another part, stoked to a brooding fire by his visceral instincts, told him Morgan was in mortal danger. The murderer knew her name and had somehow found her and Lance might not be in time to save his love. Maybe an irrational reaction, but he felt in his innermost being this was true. Surely this was the exact certainty Morgan sometimes felt.
Suspected danger to Morgan downed all his defenses. His mind settled into a sure conviction she was indeed his love. He might never be able to claim her, but all doubt of his feeling for her was swept away with a surety that shook him to the toes of his boots.
He knocked on the roof of the carriage, even though he knew it was a needless question.
“Shriver, can you manage to go any faster?”
They made it to the commissioner’s in record time, although the trip seemed hours long to Lance. He ran up the steps and when Millson opened the door he asked to see Miss Morgan immediately.
“But she’s not here, sir. She went back to her house to get some things she needed. She said she’d be right back, but something must have delayed her.”
Lance thanked him and started running to the carriage when he stopped. If Tomlinson indeed held Morgan in his power, the sound of a speeding carriage would alert him. Morgan had walked, so perhaps he’d find her if he took her return path. His heart di
dn’t believe that, but he could then also be on the lookout for any sign someone had dragged her into the bushes. More importantly, if he ran he would raise no signal of pounding horses’ hooves to anyone in hiding.
He called to Shriver to wait five minutes and then follow him with the carriage at a discreet distance. And to go slowly to Miss Morgan’s house and to keep his eyes open. He himself would run. He was a strong man in his prime and could speed almost as fast as the horses for such a short distance. He would slow down when he got close. He definitely needed the advantage of surprise.
He set out, a big man running as easily as only an athlete can. He covered the distance in record time, leaving it to Shriver to search for any clues along the way. At the corner of Morgan’s block he slowed down to a walk. Any footsteps should sound normal if someone were actually listening.
He didn’t think she’d be in the house. There were too many people for the murderer to dispose of to accost her inside. Lance cautiously crept along the side of the house, noticing instantly where the bushes were crushed as if someone had hidden in them. What small doubt he’d permitted himself fled his fearful mind.
He forced his mind to steady into the cold, calculating machine he’d always been able to summon when necessary. Especially when a case was drawing to a close or disaster threatened.
Tomlinson had either dragged Morgan away or he was in the backyard with her. There was no sign of a scuffle nor any blood near the place where he’d hidden. He knew his Morgan well enough to know she wouldn’t leave without a fight.
He’d better try to figure out where in the garden they could be. That Morgan was there with the killer was by far the most likely answer. He wished he could be sure, but after a second’s hesitation decided to go with his instinct.
He prayed to his own God and especially to Morgan’s Goddess that her Druid daughter still lived.
* * * * *
Morgan left the house carrying a small valise and started down the street. In a matter of seconds Tomlinson darted out and looped his scarf around Morgan’s neck. He pulled it tight immediately, so only slight choking sounds came from her almost garroted throat. Much stronger than he looked, he had no difficulty dragging her to the bushes where he’d hidden. He’d done it all quite quickly.
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