Bloodline

by Jill Jones

  Trey had fared no better. The only child of Victoria’s father’s law partner, Trey was James Winston Delaney III. It was Meghan who had given him the nickname “Trey,” meaning “the third.” She’d told him he didn’t seem much like a James, certainly not a Winston, which was his mother’s family name. Trey had not taken offense. On the contrary, he was pleased. He readily embraced anything that would annoy James II and Marilyn, his parents who meant well but who demanded much of Trey without giving much in return.

  The waiter served his double scotch on the rocks. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  In the past few years Trey had become the darling of DC society, at least among the women, and she was glad his social schedule wasn’t so full that he couldn’t make it for dinner on such short notice. “My boss.”

  “Since when does the agency pick up a dinner tab?”

  “The tab’s mine,” she told him. “My boss wants me to take a vacation.”

  He looked at her, perplexed. “So what does that have to do with me?” He paused, then added with an affected Ricky Ricardo accent, “’Splain me, Lucy.”

  Victoria laughed. One of Trey’s most endearing qualities was his quick wit and keen sense of humor, although there had been times when she hadn’t appreciated his adolescent practical jokes. His humor could be black at times, too. And biting.

  But in the dark weeks following Meghan’s murder, his attempts at levity were all that had held her together at times. He had suffered terribly from the tragedy, too, but he had helped her get through with his ready smile and an occasional attempt at a joke. Victoria guessed it helped him deal with it as well, although she knew he had never really gotten over it. He and Meghan had been very close friends. Trey had been away at law school on the night of the murder, and she knew he blamed himself for not having been there for Meghan.

  “Mosier thinks I’ve been working too hard,” she offered in explanation, “and suggested I take a break. I guess he’s right. So I’ve decided to go to a symposium in London that’s being sponsored by a chapter of that Sherlock Holmes group I belong to.”

  “Ah, yes, the Sherlockians.” Trey sipped his drink and eyed her quizzically. “You choose the damnedest forms of recreation, Tori.”

  Victoria bristled. She hated to be called Tori, her childhood nickname. Trey was the only one who got away with it, mainly because with him, her protests fell on deaf ears.

  “For your information,” she said curtly, “Sherlock Holmes was the world’s first true profiler.”

  Trey laughed. “Sherlock Holmes is a piece of fiction. But whatever…I still want to know what your vacation has to do with me. You want my permission or something? Go, by all means.”

  “I didn’t invite you here to get your permission,” she snapped, thinking maybe she shouldn’t have invited him at all. But she needed him. “I want to know if you’d…like to come along.”

  Trey looked startled, then his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Victoria didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. She was not romantically interested in him. Never had been. He was five years her junior, Meghan’s age, and she felt nothing except sisterly toward him. “I’m not asking you to go as a date,” she said sharply. “I just don’t like going to these things alone. Sometimes guys, well, they get too friendly, if you know what I mean, and when it’s a professional gathering, or even pseudo-professional, like this one is, it’s hard to put them off without offending them. If I’m with someone, it’s not an issue.” Funny she should be asking him for protection of sorts. She’d always been the protective one in their relationship. The big sis running interference for both he and Meghan.

  “A bodyguard?” He looked down at his chest. Trey was well-built, but neither large nor muscular. “I don’t think I’m quite the type.”

  “No, silly. Not a bodyguard. An…an escort. I’ve seen the society columns. You seem to be a one-man escort service for half the good-looking single women in DC. Won’t you do it for an old friend?”

  The following Thursday afternoon, Victoria rushed down the stairs when she heard the cab driver honk in the parking lot in front of her apartment. She couldn’t believe it, but she really, really was going to take a short vacation. And she was excited about it.

  Since Mosier had insisted she take some leave, she had spent an inordinate number of hours on the Internet chatting with other Sherlockians who would be attending, and she anticipated an intriguing weekend at the conference. The main speaker was supposedly Britain’s foremost expert on the topic that had attracted her to attend. Mike was right. She needed this break, and she appreciated his tenacity in insisting on it. She made a mental note to bring him a tacky souvenir from London.

  As the taxi pulled up to the departure area at Dulles, she saw Trey waiting for her and felt a small surge of relief. She hadn’t known for sure he would show up. She could have, would have, gone alone, but she didn’t want to. He’d held out to the very end, not committing, claiming that he couldn’t see spending a weekend with funny old men wearing deerstalker hats and smoking long curved pipes. She’d pointed out that there were likely to be women there, too. “Perhaps you’ll meet some smashing duchess or baroness,” she’d said, hoping to tempt him, but to no seeming avail.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, giving him a warm hug.

  “You knew I would.” He took her bag and paid the driver. “I just like to yank your chain once in a while, for old times’ sake.”

  On the plane, they settled in for the overnight journey. Trey ordered a double single malt whisky and contented himself with thumbing through the airline magazine until the movie came on. Victoria picked up a book she’d started reading earlier. She laid it in her lap when the evening meal was served, and Trey caught a glimpse of the title. The Complete History of Jack the Ripper? He looked up at her with an uneasy expression. “I thought you were supposed to leave all that crap behind.” He took a dinner tray from the flight attendant and passed it over to her. “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” She paused, ripping open a package of crackers. She had withheld this particular bit of information from him on purpose. He did not share her enthusiasm for crime detection, and since Meghan’s death, he had been put off by anything having to do with violent crime. Perhaps it was unfair of her to have asked him to be her escort, she realized suddenly. But it was too late. She gave him a cheery smile. “Saturday’s presentation is called ‘The Unsolved Case of Jack the Ripper—Where Was Sherlock When We Needed Him?’”

  The gathering on Saturday morning was everything Jonathan Blake had feared it would be. The large meeting room in the hotel was packed with men and women of all ages, some of the men wearing deerstalkers and sporting Holmesian-style pipes, all eyes bright at the prospect of spending a weekend dabbling in crime.

  Jonathan hated public speaking because he didn’t consider himself very good at it, and he regretted he had allowed himself to be talked into this. But as the Commissioner at New Scotland Yard had pointed out to him, it was a great opportunity to accrue some good public relations for the Metropolitan Police. And when the Commissioner wanted good PR, no one argued.

  Still, he could have begged off. He was in the middle of several investigations, and he would much rather be working on those cases than hand-holding a bunch of dilettantes. However, Jonathan knew he was the most qualified person in the Criminal Investigative Division to present the program that had been requested of the Yard by a group that called themselves “Sherlockians.” They wanted an expert to discuss the world’s greatest unsolved mystery, the identity of Jack the Ripper, and Jonathan was known as one of England’s foremost “Ripperologists.”

  Sometimes when he considered his passion for this ancient and likely unsolvable case, he thought he must be off his head. But he was in good company, for the world was filled with armchair detectives, scholars, and nutcases, all of whom were set on naming the infa
mous killer, or promoting their pet theories as to his identity if the truth could not be had.

  Looking out across the sea of eager faces in the rows of chairs that faced the head table where he sat, he decided he was no better than they were. Their passion was for a fictional sleuth, his for a long-dead murderer.

  Funny what people did to entertain themselves.

  A woman with straight blond hair and owlish glasses hurried toward him, an eager smile on her face. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Blake,” she said breathlessly as she reached the table and dropped a pile of papers at the place next to him. “I’m Janeece Fairchild, the chairwoman of this little event.” She thrust her hand at him. “We’ve spoken on the telephone.”

  He shook her hand and summoned a better humor. “It’s my pleasure to be here.” It was only a small lie, after all.

  “Oh, it’s going to be a fabulous weekend, I just know it. We have so many distinguished guests. I just learned that Victoria Thomas is here. She’s an expert profiler with the FBI, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t…”

  But she didn’t hear him as she continued to inventory the roster of impressive names, none of whom had Jonathan heard of. “…and even Lord and Lady Chastain. He’s a Member of Parliament, you know.” She broke off suddenly and looked at her watch. “Oh, dear, I must stop this rambling. Are you ready? It’s time.”

  Jonathan nodded. He would never be ready, but oh, well. He was stuck with the assignment. Might as well get it over with.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Two

  Victoria sat two rows from the front and watched as the good looking Englishman rose and came to the podium after a lengthy and impressive introduction by the event coordinator. He toyed with his tie, as if he were uncomfortable, then cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, lowering his head slightly toward the microphone. “I bring you greetings from New Scotland Yard and the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. This illustrious institution has a long and proud record of service to the Queen and the people of Britain, and we are committed as much to the prevention of crime as to its resolution.”

  Victoria stifled a yawn, hoping his presentation would be more exciting than his introduction. Otherwise, with her jet lag, she might sleep through it. Then she saw him grin almost mischievously.

  “Actually, the Yard asked me to make this presentation today not knowing that I plan to tell the story of one of its most dismal failures.”

  A titter of laughter ruffled through the audience. The grin broadened and was punctuated by a dimple in his left cheek. It was the sexiest grin Victoria had ever seen, a grin she was certain could charm the socks off the Queen herself. To her consternation, her stomach did an unexpected somersault.

  Inspector Jonathan Blake oozed boyish charm as he continued. “My only request is that no one send a recording of this program to the Commissioner.” He paused again, then added, “I do value my job.”

  The laughter was more solid this time, and Victoria could see that Jonathan Blake and his little grin had captivated the rest of his audience as well. She settled back in her chair and crossed her arms. Well, charm had its limits. She’d come a long way to hear England’s foremost expert on the Ripper murders. She was ready for him to get on with it.

  “The world may never know the identity of the man whose pseudonym has become synonymous with murder of the foulest kind,” he said, the grin vanishing. “Jack the Ripper. But why is he so famous? His killing spree was short and confined. He is credited with murdering only four, possibly five women within a period of less than ten weeks, although a few other still unsolved murders are sometimes attributed to him.”

  Only four or five women. Victoria shuddered. How could he say that so lightly?

  Inspector Blake went on. “Now, the murder of five women is deplorable, but compared to some of the crimes committed in today’s society, his do not seem to warrant the notoriety that has been attached to his deeds. Certainly the crimes of other killers, like Son of Sam and Jeffrey Dahmer, were far greater in scope and equally as dreadful, if not more so, and yet when we think of serial killers, the first name that comes to mind is Jack the Ripper. Why so?

  “The reason is threefold, in my opinion,” he continued. “First was the very nature of the crime itself. Never before in recorded history had anyone killed in such a cold-blooded manner, completely without motive. The women were all prostitutes, destitute and alcoholic. They were the very dregs of society. They owned nothing, so there was nothing to steal. They had no power or connections, so we can rule out blackmail and revenge. There appears to be no rational reason for the brutal slayings.”

  Madmen need no reason, Victoria thought grimly, put off by his calling those poor women the dregs of society. Had he no compassion?

  “The second reason for the notoriety of Jack the Ripper is the media,” he went on. “I said a moment ago that never before in recorded history had such horrendous crimes taken place. We don’t know for a fact that such murders had never been committed. The key word here is ‘recorded.’ Before this time, very few serial killings were written into the history books. But in 1888, the year of the murders, yellow journalism was at its zenith. Everything was sensationalized to the hilt in order to sell newspapers.” He paused and looked out across the audience, then grinned and said, “Some things never change.”

  Unsettled all over again by that grin, Victoria squirmed in her seat while those around her laughed at his poke at the media. He was right in many respects, of course, but in the States at least, the media had become one of law enforcement’s most powerful allies in helping to locate and identify criminals, and a part of her found his disparaging remark unnecessary.

  Blake proceeded. “The newspaper stories of the murders brought the horror to readers in gory detail the likes of which had never been known. That alone might have been sufficient to create the legend that surrounds these killings. But the murderer, seeking notoriety, used the newspapers to insure his immortality when he sent the first of his famous correspondence to the Central News Agency. It was dated September 25, 1888, and it was signed, ‘Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.’ Catchy name. Descriptive. And above all, memorable. Now the papers not only had bloody murder to report, they had an appealing name to use in connection with those murders. Jack the Ripper.”

  Jonathan Blake gave a short, almost derisive laugh. “The murderer would have done well in the advertising business, thinking up memorable names and slogans, for this one stuck and has been notorious for over a hundred years.”

  Victoria grimaced, thinking Blake’s side comment out of place in a serious presentation. Then she reminded herself that this was not a professional seminar. She had come here to learn more about what she considered to be the most fascinating case of all time, but it was also supposed to be a fun get-away weekend, an intellectual lark filled with debate and speculation in an atmosphere such as one might expect at a murder mystery weekend party. She tried not to be so critical of the speaker. He wasn’t doing such a bad job. She needed to quit behaving like such a type-A.

  Victoria glanced at Trey, who sat to her left, and saw from his body language—arms and legs crossed, eyes glazed—that he didn’t give a damn about Blake’s speech one way or the other. She sighed quietly. It was no small measure of their friendship that Trey had sacrificed his weekend to come here and endure all this. She owed him, big-time.

  Before refocusing on the speaker, she gazed around the room, studying the other attendees and wondering which ones of them she had chatted with on the Internet. The room was filled with men and women of all ages. She guessed she’d likely communicated electronically with the younger set, but one never knew.

  Behind her and slightly to her left, her gaze met that of a young man who stared at her openly and unsmiling. He was not bad looking, with wavy chestnut hair and the broad torso of a body builder, but there was something about him that gave her the creeps. Somethi
ng about his eyes…

  Don’t be silly, she scolded herself. There was no reason for her to feel that way. But she was unnerved, because her intuition warned her to keep her distance from him, and her intuition was rarely wrong. Uneasy, she returned her attention to the speaker.

  “The third reason for the killer’s continuing celebrity, I believe, is…” The inspector was interrupted mid-sentence by a portly man with a ruddy face, wearing a worn houndstooth jacket, who stood up and harrumphed at the speaker.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Blake, those Ripper letters were a fraud. I have it on the best authority. You see, sir, Jack the Ripper is alive and well and living in Kent.”

  Jonathan had expected eccentricity from the people gathered here. Only eccentrics attended such functions. But the man who challenged him was clearly over the edge, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  This was the part he disliked most about public speaking. Interruptions like these always threw him off. He had been doing fine until now, even elicited a few laughs, and had begun to relax. Now he felt his shoulder muscles tighten again. Taking a deep breath, he recalled what the PR trainer had taught them at the Yard about handling hecklers.

  “I appreciate your information, sir,” he replied with forced equanimity. “I’d be interested in speaking with you afterwards. Perhaps you have information that might be valuable to the Yard.” He hoped he sounded earnest. He was supposed to be showing respect for the man, despite his absurd folly. But he also hoped fervently the old boy wouldn’t seek him out after the speech.

  The audience had laughed at the man’s ridiculous claim, then rustled with embarrassment. Now Jonathan heard what sounded like a collective sigh of relief, and the heckler, mollified, resumed his seat with a nod.