by Jill Jones
Jonathan swore under his breath. He’d been hoping for some kind of evidence from the crime scene that he could use to compare DNA with that of Reginald FitzSimmons. If they ever found him. The old gentleman, if he was the killer, was no slouch. He knew a great deal about the original Ripper and apparently had managed to copy him in every respect, including vanishing without a trace.
“What’s the report from the neighborhood canvass?” he asked the investigators on his team. “Did anyone see anything?” The portly FitzSimmons would be hard to miss.
“If they did, they’re not talking,” one of his detectives told him. “Everyone is terrorized down there in the East End. Afraid this is going to be a repeat of that bloody autumn.”
“What did forensics come up with on the letter that was sent to the Times?” Jonathan was growing increasingly exasperated at the nothingness they were presenting him.
“The handwriting and ink are the same as on the note delivered with the…uh…liver. Unfortunately, like before, there were no fingerprints on the Times letter. Our experts think both were written by a male, someone who was in a state of high excitement. He is probably left-handed but turns his paper as if he were right-handed. The ink is from a common ball point pen, and it’s smeared slightly from the top down. Of course you already know, like the first note, this one was also written on stationery from the hotel where the Sherlockian meeting was being held. The odd thing is, the letter was postmarked Saturday evening. It was sent before the murder took place.”
Jonathan’s head jerked up. “What?”
“The letter was mailed at a post office near the hotel sometime before midnight Saturday.”
Until now, Jonathan had been unsure whether the real killer had written the second note, using hotel stationery because it was handy, or if someone from the conference, upon hearing of the murder, had decided to jump into the action for a lark and sent a phony note. Someone young and brash who would do such a thing for the excitement of it. Billy Ray came to mind.
But now he knew better. Whoever had committed the murder had it planned all along. Maybe he’d come to the conference with this in mind.
A male in a state of high excitement.
FitzSimmons? Somehow the image didn’t fit. The old man, although mentally keen, seemed too plodding. Had it been Billy Ray? He certainly had the muscular build for it. And as Victoria had pointed out, he was attracted to murder and followed all the big murder cases.
Billy Ray? Reginald FitzSimmons? Or someone else altogether?
FitzSimmons and Ray. FitzSimmons and Ray. They remained his prime suspects. And neither was anywhere to be found. Maybe Victoria was right. Maybe they should circulate their pictures in the media.
His phone rang, and he picked it up. “You’ve got a call on line one,” the receptionist said. “She says her name’s Elizabeth Huntley-Ames, Lady Chastain. Sounds upset. Want me to ring her through?”
Lady Chastain sounded more than upset to Jonathan. “It’s…oh, Inspector, it’s terrible, and I was wrong not to tell you in the first place.”
“Tell me what?”
A sniffle, then silence, then…“It’s so embarrassing.”
“You can speak to me in confidence, Lady Chastain. I am privy to many secrets.” Jonathan’s voice was calm but his curiosity was raging.
“It’s…it’s Alistair. He’s been cheating on me for some time now. He goes out in the evening, and sometimes does not return until dawn. If I confront him with it, he goes into a rage. I’m sick of it, I tell you. Sick of it!” Her tirade ended in a little hiccough of a sob.
“I’m sorry to hear this,” Jonathan replied, wondering what Huntley-Ames’s philandering had to do with him. His division did not handle domestic disputes.
“I didn’t quite tell your men the truth the other morning when we were questioned at the hotel, because I was afraid Alistair might harm me afterward. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I decided I had to call you, because…I’m afraid that he might be…the killer.”
Jonathan stared at the wall of his office. “I see,” he said for lack of something more intelligent. He was stunned. Lord Chastain was an MP, although not particularly powerful in the country’s political structure. Still, he was a highly unlikely suspect. But stranger things had happened, and Jonathan had learned not to discount anything. “What brought you to that conclusion?”
“The night of the murder, after we left you, we went to our room, but about an hour later, when he thought I was asleep, he dressed again and went out. He…he didn’t come in until after four am.”
Jonathan thought it more likely that Huntley-Ames had a mistress than that he was a Ripper copycat murderer, and he suspected Elizabeth had had enough time to fret about her husband’s blatant infidelity the night of the murder to make this call in revenge. He smiled at the woman’s artifice. He would not have thought she had it in her.
“Did you find blood on his clothing or belongings?” he asked.
“N…n…no. But I didn’t look. At the time I had no reason to suspect him of…of…murder. Alistair is finicky about his clothing, and he hung everything neatly in the closet when he came in. He packed his own things when we left.”
Jonathan let out a breath. “Are you willing to come in and make a statement?” As expected, she hesitated.
“You don’t know Alistair. He gets mean when he’s angry. I’m afraid…”
“Without your statement, our records show he has an alibi because he was with you. If we should indeed discover that he was the murderer, you become an accessory to the crime by covering for him.”
There was a long silence on the line. Then she hung up.
It was a stretch to take the woman’s story seriously, but whether he believed her or not, Jonathan was concerned about what Elizabeth Huntley-Ames had told him about her husband’s bad temper and penchant for violence. He would interview Lord Chastain again, but there were ways to do it without letting him know his wife had made this call. Jonathan turned to his assistant.
“Move Lord Chastain back to the A list.”
Victoria jumped when she heard a knock on the door, even though she was expecting Jonathan. She had returned to the hotel from her sightseeing adventure only a few minutes before, and when she’d picked up the single message that was waiting on her voice mail, she’d heard his most unhappy voice scold her for not being there and inform her that he was on his way over.
“Who is it?” Victoria was not taking any chances.
“It’s me. Jonathan.”
She opened the door a crack and peeked out, and her heart did the now expected little flip-flop. “Solved any crimes today, Inspector?” she said as she opened the door fully.
“Where the devil have you been?” He was inside in an instant, and in the next, she was in his arms.
“Got tired of working,” she said, her heartbeat racing, “so I went sightseeing.” He smelled of October rain and man, and she wanted him in bed again.
He took her head between his hands and kissed her. The kiss was anything but gentle, as if he had to prove to himself she was solid and real. “Why the hell can’t you play it safe, just for a little while?” he murmured, searching her eyes with his.
“I was perfectly safe,” she whispered, encircling his body with her arms and pressing into him. She felt his erection against her belly and pressed harder. He drew in a sharp breath. “Damn it, Victoria, what am I going to do with you?”
“Make love to me, Jonathan. The door’s locked, and everything else can wait.”
And it did.
“You’ve got to stop doing that,” he said later, cradling her in his arms. “You’re making me crazy.”
“Me? You’re the one who started all that kissing stuff.”
He was quiet for a long while. Then he said, “Now about today…”
“Don’t start it, Jonathan.” She pulled away slightly. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. FBI, remember?”
He sighed. “
You have made me crazy. When you didn’t answer the phone, all kinds of terrible things went through my mind. I know we’re just getting to know one another, so to speak, but honestly Victoria, if anything happened to you…”
“If anything happened to me, what?”
His look was both forlorn and perplexed. “It would break my heart.”
Victoria’s own heart lurched at his admission. She lay very still, watching this man struggle with obviously unfamiliar emotions. Emotions with which she too struggled. What was happening here? Was this just about sex? Or was it something more? It was too hot, too heavy, too fast.
Too scary.
She rolled away. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.” Except that I might lose my heart to an Englishman. “I went to the Tower, and guess who I met up with? Adele Quigley, of all people. I’d have thought she would have taken the first plane back to Pittsburgh. Makes me wonder who else didn’t leave town.”
She slipped on her robe, and Jonathan drew on his pants. They sat on opposite sides of the bed, looking at one another in silence. Jonathan was so handsome Victoria feared she might succumb to his sexual appeal all over again. “You stay there,” she said, desperate to regain control over her wayward desire, “and I’ll sit over here.” She went to a chair across the room next to the desk.
“We have to talk. I called Mosier,” she said, hurrying to get down to the business at hand. “I’ve filled him in on the situation here, including my involvement in it. He went through the roof when I told him about the liver being left outside my door, and he insisted I come home right away. Then I told him where the liver came from, and he about split a gasket. He doesn’t like it, but I’m signed out until Scotland Yard releases me.
“I gave him what I know about Billy Ray,” she continued, trying to stay focused on the murder case and not on the breadth of Jonathan’s shoulders, “including a physical description and the address we got from Janeece. He’s put somebody on it. If Ray is back at home, we should know it soon.” She let out a breath. “What’s happening on your end?”
He told her that the two Ripper notes had proved a match. “And our prime suspect list now has three names on it.”
Victoria was as surprised as Jonathan had been about Lord Chastain’s supposed nocturnal activities on the night of the murder. “Do you think she’s lying?”
He shrugged. “I have an appointment to talk to him at his office later this week. I decided against letting him know Elizabeth blew the whistle on him, at least for now. She claims he’s abusive, and I don’t want to make matters worse for her. I’ll just tell him we’re re-interviewing those who went to the Ripper pub that night.”
“Abusive?” Victoria raised a brow and gave it some consideration. “Actually, I can see it, now that you mention it. He belittled her in front of the rest of us, and you could tell theirs is not the most loving of relationships. Elizabeth seems in many ways like a woman whose spirit has been broken. I’m surprised she had the courage to call you.”
“Maybe it’s her little revenge. It might not be true at all.”
“Things are not always what they seem,” Victoria murmured, “which brings me to this.” From the desk, she picked up the envelope that had been delivered to her earlier and tossed it to Jonathan. “This was waiting on me when we returned this morning.”
She watched the blood drain from his face when he read the first note, and her nerves tensed.
“You are in grave danger. Beware.” Jonathan read the words aloud, then looked across at Victoria, worry etched in every handsome line of his face. “I can’t believe you went out after you got this.”
“I can’t hide here forever, Jonathan. Actually, I was hoping whoever sent the note might be nearby and reveal himself. It could have come from the killer, but it could also have been sent by someone else, someone who is honestly trying to warn me. Maybe someone who knows who the killer is but doesn’t want to come directly out with it.”
“Lady Chastain?”
Victoria raised her brows. “Now there’s a thought.”
Jonathan studied the note for a long moment. “I can’t say for certain, but this doesn’t look to me at all like the handwriting on the other two notes.” Then he turned his attention to the other paper that had come in the mysterious envelope, and Victoria saw his eyes widen in astonishment. “This accompanied the warning note?”
“Same envelope. Obviously different authors. Got any idea what it is?”
Holding the paper gingerly by the edges, he turned it over, held it up to the light, turned it back to the front side, and studied the message again. At last he shook his head. “I can’t say for sure. I’ll have the lab examine it, as well as the other note. But this looks to be much older. The paper is heavy, the ink’s faded to red-brown. Inks used at the turn of the century did that, but it’s also possible to artificially age modern inks. So this is either a relic of that time, or an excellent forgery.”
“Who is ‘V.R.’?”
This time, he was slow to answer. “This is pure conjecture, and you know I don’t like that,” he said, “but it could be…Victoria Rex.”
“Queen Victoria?” Victoria was astounded. “You don’t mean it.”
“I’m not saying she wrote it, but whoever did might have meant to give the impression that it was penned by her.”
Victoria’s mind began to race as possibilities whirled through it. “Let’s say, just for grins, that it is an authentic note from Queen Victoria to—someone. How did the author of the other note, someone obviously from this age, get his hands on it? Or hers? And why did that person send it to me?”
She looked across the room and saw that Jonathan was staring a hole through her. “What?”
“Pack your bags. I need to get these things to the Yard right away, and I’m not leaving you here alone again.”
“Where are you taking me? To that ‘safe house’ you were talking about?” The thought was not all that unpleasant, considering what he’d promised to do to her there.
“No. You’re going home with me.”
Jonathan dropped the two mysterious messages at the forensic lab with orders to rush their examination. It only took a moment to confirm that the handwriting on the warning note Victoria had received did not match that on the modern-day Ripper messages. As for the older correspondence, he was completely mystified, both as to its age and content as well as why it had been included in the envelope and sent to Victoria.
One thing was clear to him, however. He didn’t understand how or why yet, but Victoria was somehow involved in the murderer’s scheme, and he believed her life was in danger. Maybe it hadn’t been the smartest move to insist she stay at his flat, for they both knew the other danger that awaited them when they were alone together, but he’d felt it was the only choice at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. It was a delicious danger to have her so close, but he could not allow their relationship to get in the way of the investigation. His mind was already only half on the job.
He made a mental note to ask Inspector Sandringham to help him find another, safer place for her to stay. Maybe with that American who had recently joined Scotland Yard, Jack Knight and his new wife. Or maybe they should just let Victoria return to the States. She’d be safe there, at any rate.
When he returned to where she sat waiting for him in the reception area, however, he thought both were bloody wretched ideas. He wanted her no place else but with him.
“When will they have something?” she asked, standing to greet him. This evening she was half business, half casual, wearing a dark blazer over matching slacks and a colorful scarf over a feminine blouse. She looked sharp. Sophisticated. Beautiful. What did she see in him? he wondered.
“I put top priority on it, but it may take a day or two. Come on. I promised Roger to be at his place before seven.”
The Rabbit Hole Antiquarian Book Shop was a tiny store wedged between a travel agency and an ice cream parlor on a busy street in London. The windows looked as if
they hadn’t been washed in this century, and the clutter inside was equally mucky, but Jonathan loved the place. Treasures were to be found here, especially when one was friends with the owner.
“Jonathan! Come in.” Roger’s voice boomed from behind a stack of books piled high on a counter toward the rear of the store. “We were waiting on you.”
To his surprise, Janeece Fairchild poked her head around the books and gave them a little wave. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath. “So that’s what he was doing at the Sherlockian thing.”
Victoria gave him a fleeting grin. “Did he know her before? Maybe they met there. Either way, they looked like they were getting kind of cozy at the dance.”
Janeece hurried toward them as best she could down a narrow aisle, looking owlishly at home amongst the books. “Oh, Inspector, Ms. Thomas, it is so good to see you again. Roger is being very mysterious about this little package he has for you.” She shook Jonathan’s hand, then Victoria’s. “Quite a place, isn’t it?” she said, sweeping an arm out over the room that contained piles of dusty books. “I just love it. Roger’s quite a bibliophile. I heard about him from a friend and came in to see if he could perhaps keep an eye out for material pertaining to my famous distant cousin, Virginia Woolf. I’ve heard I was related to her, and I’m trying to trace my lineage back to see if it’s true.” She wiped a finger across a book jacket and made a face. “Roger’s not much of a housekeeper, I’m afraid. I’ve volunteered to spruce the place up when I have time.”
Roger joined them. He was middle aged, with a pleasant round face and thinning hair. He looked somehow happier than he had on Jonathan’s previous visits, and Jonathan guessed Janeece was the reason. In his hands, Roger carried a thick manila envelope. “Sorry we’re in such a rush tonight. We have tickets for the theater and thought we’d grab a bite beforehand. Care to join us?”