by Jill Jones
“I want to speak to every bellhop who was on duty this morning,” he said to the hotel manager. “I want to know who delivered this. Go collect them. I’ll meet you in your office in fifteen minutes.”
When the men hurried out, Jonathan double locked the door behind him and turned to Victoria. “Hopefully we can get to the bottom of this quickly,” he said, “but until we do, it would be best if you stayed in your room. Don’t let anyone in, except me, of course.”
“Don’t be silly, Jonathan. I didn’t come all the way to London to stay in a hotel room. This is just a prank. I will not be held hostage by some practical joker.”
But Jonathan suspected this was not a practical joke. He hesitated, not wanting to share the awful possibility with her. There was no need to worry her prematurely. He wished he could haul her pretty ass to the airport and put her on the first plane back to DC, where she would be safe. But he knew she could not leave now. Not if what he suspected turned out to be true.
And if it did, he would brook no argument from her concerning her safety. He’d take every measure he could to protect her, even if he had to throw that same pretty ass in jail. For she was in terrible danger.
“Perhaps it is only a joke,” he said as calmly as he could. “But…”
“But what?”
“Nothing. I’d just feel better if you’d stay here until we find the culprit.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me. You’re making too big a deal of this.” Her eyes sparked in golden challenge, and her perception reminded him of what she did for a living.
Maybe he was making too big a deal of it. He hoped so. Maybe she was right, and it was just a sick joke. But the coincidence was too great.
“Jonathan,” she almost shouted in her exasperation. “What is it?”
He heaved a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “There was a murder last night. In the Whitechapel area. The MO was…reminiscent of the Ripper murders.”
“Oh, God,” she murmured. He saw by the look in her eyes that she’d instantly arrived at the same conclusion he had. “Someone from the convention.”
“Could be. I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said.
“But what does that have to do with me and the little present that was left at my doorstep?”
Jonathan stared into those deep golden eyes and knew she wouldn’t let up until he told her everything. She was a detective, the same as he. She trusted her instincts, and it was only a matter of time until her intuition put two and two together.
“I was with the coroner during his examination,” he said quietly. “Besides murdering and mutilating the victim, the killer also…took her liver.”
Chapter Eight
London
Twenty-second August 1885
I should have known our happy days could not last, but I had dared to dream that when Eddy had served his time at Cambridge and at last matriculated, I would become his companion and guide in the larger world. Yet the Pig Prince and Mother Dear, no doubt urged on by the old Whore Queen, have wrenched my beloved Prince from me and are demanding he assume the royal duties of his father, who is more interested in poking whores across the Continent than he is in fulfilling his obligations as Prince of Wales.
Eddy writes that he is filled with terror at what is thrust upon him, but I am helpless to come to his aid. Can they not see he is not yet ready for kingship? Do they not understand that without me, Eddy will never manage in their world? The insufferable ingrates! It was I who brought him through scholarship he never grasped, I who gave him the appearance of success. It must be I who leads him now, or we shall both perish. The agony of it all splits my breast and fills me with that dark and dangerous rage I find increasingly difficult to control.
Victoria’s lunch sat untouched in front of her, but Trey scarfed his like he hadn’t been fed in a month. “Double sex must take a lot out of you,” she remarked dryly. He raised his head, startled.
“I can’t believe you said that. You’re usually such a prude.”
“Maybe it’s time I got over that.”
“You’ll never get over it. You were born that way.”
Victoria’s spine stiffened, but she did not argue. He might be right. She’d always been conservative. But she didn’t want to think of herself as a prude. And yet, she couldn’t conceive of behaving the way Trey had the night before.
“Are you free to go?” she asked, knowing he had already been interviewed extensively by the police, who were routinely questioning every person who had attended the symposium. Those with tight alibis were given permission, encouraged even, to go home. The police had their hands full and didn’t need a bunch of curious armchair sleuths hanging around to hamper their efforts. Most of the attendees, however, were eager to leave. The copycat Ripper murder had badly shaken everyone.
Yesterday, the murders perpetrated by the killer known as Jack the Ripper were a thing of the past, safely examined from the distance of over one hundred years. This morning, the murder and mutilation of a streetwalker in Whitechapel was in their collective face.
“They say I can leave any time,” Trey replied. “Thanks for vouching for me and the girls.”
Victoria winced. It had been embarrassing to tell the police what she’d seen when she went barging into Trey’s room, but she’d had no choice. At any rate, he and the two young women were off the hook. His playmates had already left for Paris.
“Are you coming back to the States with me?” he asked.
“I can’t. Jonathan said Scotland Yard wants me here, at least for a while, because of that awful little present that came my way.”
Trey’s face darkened. “Isn’t that dangerous? Are you sure the good detective doesn’t have other motives? Seems to me he’s got the hots for you.”
Victoria blushed in spite of herself. “He does not. Does your mind never come out of the gutter?”
“Prude.”
“Shut up.”
Trey leaned toward her. “Really, Victoria, you shouldn’t stay here. It’s dangerous. There’s a madman on the loose, and somehow he has pulled you in to his nasty little game.”
“Madmen are my business,” she reminded him, trying to sound unconcerned, although in truth, she was totally unnerved. Jonathan had reported back to her in less than two hours that the liver had not come from a calf. It was taken from the body of the woman who was murdered the night before.
“Madmen who send you body parts? I’d be on the first plane out of here. Honestly, Victoria, I don’t understand how you can deal with stuff like that so calmly. After Meghan…”
“Don’t go there, Trey.”
He broke off and shook his head. “You’re in danger here.”
“So stay with me. You can have your old position back, although I can’t say you did such a hot job for me as a bodyguard.”
Trey gave a bitter-sounding laugh. “Didn’t look to me like you wanted me on duty once you laid eyes on the inspector.”
Victoria shot him a withering look. “Didn’t look to me like you wanted to be on duty once you spotted the Frenchies.”
He shrugged. “So we both got what we wanted.”
No, they didn’t, she suddenly realized, but didn’t want to go there either. “So are you going to stay?”
“I can’t. I haven’t told you this, but I’m starting a new job this week.” Victoria blinked in surprise. Trey with a real job? Trey doing something responsible for a change? “Why, that’s wonderful. Congratulations! What will you be doing?”
“It’s a sales position. An old friend asked me to take the job, so I’m doing it as a favor to him…” He cleared his throat and continued, “…not because I need the money or anything.”
Victoria grinned at this, wondering if Trey, the perceived rich young playboy, had managed to run through his trust fund. “Of course you don’t need money. Still, I’m proud of you for helping your friend out. What will you be selling?”
“It’s hard to ex
plain. It’s a kind of technical service. I’m not real clear on exactly what it entails, if you want to know the truth. I’m supposed to go out to the West Coast next week for training. That’s why I can’t stay here any longer. I want a few days between this trip and that to catch my breath. There’s only so much jet lag this old bod can take.”
Victoria gazed across the table at her longtime friend, awash with relief and joy at this news. Until now, Trey Delaney had lived like Peter Pan, unable or unwilling to assume any real responsibility in life. He had gone to law school at the insistence of his father, and his parents expected him to become a junior partner in the law firm headed by his father and hers. But after Meghan’s death, Trey told his parents he needed some space, some time to “find himself.” He dropped out of school and disappeared into the wilderness of the Washington State rain forests for nearly a year. Marilyn had been beside herself with worry, for he had not contacted his family for many months. She’d thought he was dead.
But Trey came home eventually. He was different in some ways. Quieter, more subdued. He bought a townhouse in Georgetown but refused to go back to school and made no attempt to find a job. He seemed content to live off his trust fund and party as hard as he could. His parents were furious, which only aggravated their already strained relationship. Within a year, articles began to show up in the society columns, linking Trey with many young women of DC society. That should have appeased Marilyn somewhat, for she’d always wanted him to marry well, but instead, it only made things worse, because it was obvious Trey had become a notorious playboy.
Paybacks are a bitch, mama, she thought.
Still, the big sister in her had always wished he would grow up and do something more substantial with his life. Maybe that time had at last arrived.
“When’s your flight?” she asked. Trey looked at his watch.
“Five. Guess I’d better get packing.” He laid a twenty pound note on the table for lunch and stood up. “Sure you’ll be okay?” he said, touching her hair lightly.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, hoping it was the truth.
Jonathan entered the hotel restaurant where they sat, anxiety written all over his face. When he spotted Victoria, that anxiety changed to annoyance. He strode briskly toward them.
Trey grunted. “Your replacement bodyguard just showed up, and he doesn’t look happy,” he said, kissing her cheek lightly. “Good luck.” He left, nodding at Jonathan as he passed and picking up a toothpick at the cashier’s desk on his way out.
“I told you to stay in your room.” Jonathan almost barked at Victoria as he took a seat across from her, frowning fiercely.
“Who the hell are you to tell me to stay anywhere?” She bit back. “Don’t talk to me like I was a naughty child.”
He took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it that way, but…Victoria, you of all people know the danger you might be in. We’re dealing with a real sick mind here.”
“I’ve run across a few of those before.”
“I suppose you have. But not one, I daresay, who sent you a human liver.”
She glared at him with those golden eyes. “Jonathan, I appreciate your concern,” she replied at last, her voice less angry, “but I can’t stay locked up while you sort things out. This is my business, in more ways than one. Let me help.”
“You can’t help if you’re dead.”
“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
Jonathan’s scowl deepened again. This woman was as strong-willed as a race horse, and he knew it was pointless to expect her to huddle behind her hotel room door during a murder investigation, especially one that involved her. There was only one way he could think of that he could keep an eye on her.
“Very well,” he said without enthusiasm. “You can come along, but only unofficially. I must ask you to stay in the background.”
“I can do that,” she said, then added mischievously, “but it won’t be easy.”
He gave a sigh of surrender and glanced at her untouched meal. “Are you finished? You haven’t eaten a bite.”
She was out of the chair like a shot. “Not hungry. Let’s get on with it.”
Jonathan did not plan to really involve her in the investigation, and he hoped she would keep quiet and let his men do their work in the manner in which they had been trained. It was one thing to pay lip service to psychological profiling, which he admitted he had done yesterday in an effort to appease her. But it was quite another to taint his scientific approach with what he considered mumbo-jumbo.
“They’re interviewing in one of the conference rooms,” he said, striding down the corridor on long legs, making it necessary for her to take almost two steps to his one. He did not slow his pace. If she wanted to get involved, she would just have to keep up.
Inside the room, two of his best CID men were interviewing Adele Quigley, who sat on the edge of her chair, twisting her hands. Her frightened expression softened when she saw Jonathan.
“Oh, Mr. Blake. I’m so glad to see you. Oh, this is simply awful. Terrible. I…I can’t believe it’s happened. I’ve told these men where I was last night. I went directly to my room after dinner, when the dancing started.” She paused, looking embarrassed, and Jonathan felt sorry for her, thinking the reason she left the party was for lack of a partner.
“They’re just doing their job,” he assured her. “Do you have any way to prove where you were?”
She shook her head. “Only my word. Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with that murder? That’s preposterous”
“Yes, it is,” Victoria broke in. She turned to Jonathan. “You’re wasting your time and hers. She’s not a suspect.”
“Every conference attendee who can’t prove where he or she was at the time of the murder is a suspect.”
“She doesn’t fit the profile, Jonathan. This is the work of a sexual killer. Nearly one hundred percent of sexual killers are men. Men with strength and stealth.”
Jonathan was furious at her intrusion, but when he looked at Adele Quigley’s stout build and flabby muscles, he had to admit she was an unlikely candidate. “Put her on the C list,” he told his men. “And make sure you verify her contact information in the States, in case we have reason to investigate her further.”
When interviewing potential suspects, Jonathan’s team used an alphabetical method of sorting them out. The A list comprised the prime suspects, those who had motive, or means, or opportunity, or all the above, and others who had been seen in the vicinity of the crime within six hours of the incident and who had no provable alibi. The motive, means, and opportunity of those on the B list was less certain. This list contained those who hadn’t been seen in the vicinity in the hours surrounding the crime but who were known to frequent the area and who were also without a confirmed alibi. Also on the B list were those with spousal or family alibis only.
The C list was for those who had no known connection with the crime scene, but who for one reason or another might be involved. In this case, having attended the Sherlockian conference was enough to put every attendee on the C list for starters. The D list was for those whose alibi was air tight, confirmed by at least two non-related parties.
Jonathan turned to the librarian from Pittsburgh. “You may go home, Ms. Quigley,” he said more gently. “If we need further information from you, we will be in touch.”
She scurried from the room like a frightened rabbit let out of a trap.
“How many left?” Jonathan asked his men.
“That was the last. Except for the two we can’t find.”
“Can’t find? Who are they?” Jonathan’s hopes soared. If the killer was among the participants at the symposium, it was likely he was one of the two who had now disappeared.
“Let’s see,” said one of the officers, thumbing through the list. “There’s a Reginald Smythe FitzSimmons, and an American, Billy Ray. FitzSimmons was not a guest of the hotel. Ray checked out early this morning.”
“I kne
w it,” Victoria uttered. Jonathan wheeled around.
“What? Do you know something about either of these guys?”
“Only what my instincts tell me.”
Jonathan resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he saw how pale her face had become. “And that is…?”
“First of all, it’s not FitzSimmons. He’s physically too large. An Orson Welles type simply can’t get the business done quickly and cleanly enough. But Billy Ray…”
“He’s the chap who cornered you last night in the corridor, isn’t he?” Jonathan asked, suddenly thinking it very likely he could be their man. He agreed with Victoria that FitzSimmons’s body type precluded the hard physical work of such a murder. But Billy Ray was a muscle man. He had the physique to have performed the murder. He’d frightened Victoria last night, and he could imagine him playing the devilish prank of sending her the liver.
“Yes,” she answered his question. “He’s aggressive, and…I don’t know, there’s just something about him that gives me the creeps.”
In spite of his suspicions about the man, Jonathan had not found Billy Ray to be “creepy.” What was creepy anyway but an irrational emotional reaction? There was no room for that kind of conjecture in his investigation. “That doesn’t make him a killer, Victoria,” he said, playing devil’s advocate.
She whirled on him. “You listen to me, Mr. Blake. I will not suffer your condescension against a tool that has been invaluable in solving more than a dozen murders in the United States—my instincts. You may not believe in psychological profiling and intuitive approaches to crime detection, but they work, and I have the track record to prove it. So get over it and listen. This man could very well be your killer. He does fit the general profile. He’s young. Most sexual killers are in their twenties. He told me he follows all the big murder cases, which means he’s obsessed with murder.”
Jonathan was shocked by her outburst, but he had no intention of letting her temper throw him off. “That still doesn’t make him a killer,” he protested.