Secret Admirer

by Michele Jaffe

  “Don’t say that just to appease me.”

  “Have I ever done anything just to appease you before?” She was smiling at him and Lawrence felt his insides melt.

  “No,” he had to admit.

  “Lawrence, you are the only man I have ever loved.”

  “Oh,” he said, because once again she had robbed him of words. And then he yawned.

  “Very flattering, my lord.”

  “It’s your fault,” he told her. “You kept me up all night.”

  “I did not. It was you who kept me up,” she protested. “I distinctly remember—”

  “Don’t argue with me, Tuesday.” His voice was tight. “Please.”

  “Why not? If I am right?”

  “First of all because you are wrong. And secondly because arguing with you arouses me to such an extent that it is impossible for me to think straight.”

  Her eyes were huge. “It does? Always?”

  “Since the first moment I met you. And I don’t have time for that. I have a murder investigation to consider, which I badly neglected all day.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because my heart was broken.”

  “Mine, too. I mean, I neglected it, too.” Tuesday tried to stifle it but could not keep back a yawn. Suddenly she was exhausted. “I am certain that if anything important had happened we would have known about it.”

  She made to rise but before she could get to her feet, Lawrence had gathered her into his arms. “Wait, where are we going?”

  Lawrence pushed open the door with his back. “I am taking you to bed and then I am going to see how little we progressed today.”

  “I am not going to bed. I want to know what happened in the investigation, too.” It all seemed strangely far away and unreal to her now. She was so weary. And she knew she had better sleep tonight because she was not going to sleep the next night, Monday night, when the killer might use her dreams as a launching point for his Tuesday murder again. But first she wanted to know what had happened. If she could keep her eyes open.

  “I will tell you all about that in the morning,” he said as he carried her down the stairs.

  “I am absolutely not going to bed. I’m not even tired.”

  “Then why have you been yawning? Right through my declaration of love.”

  “I did not. You yawned through my declaration of love.”

  “You did it first.”

  “No I didn’t. You are the one who should be going to slee—”

  Lawrence kissed her. “Later sweetheart. When this is over. Then argue with me for hours.”

  They finally compromised that she would lie in bed, with her eyes closed, while he met with his men to catch up on the investigation in the other half of the studio where she could hear.

  “And I am agreeing to close my eyes only because I have a slight headache,” she announced as he carried her into the room. “Otherwise they would be open, as I will be wide awake.”

  “Of course.”

  Lawrence settled her in bed and went to join his men, who were arrayed around the large table. In the center of the table was a pile of clothes.

  “Marston’s,” Grub told him. “That’s all we found.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Lawrence admitted. “He would have changed disguises as soon as he lost the men following him. You searched the area?”

  “Twice. No sign of anyone unusual.”

  After Lawrence had reviewed their lack of progress from every angle and sent his men home, he stood and stared out the long windows of the studio into the darkness of the night. It was a perfect night for hiding. There was only a sliver of a moon and the streets were oddly empty, as if all London were holding its breath alongside him.

  He had done everything he could, and he could not have felt more dissatisfied. Albert Marston had gone to ground somewhere. Their only hope now was that he would come back out to keep his schedule of killing every Tuesday. Which was an extremely unpleasant hope.

  Everything about the investigation rankled him. Tuesday had been right the previous day—it all felt too staged, too put together. Even their meeting and their collaboration. It was as if the murders were just a vehicle to bring them together, to showcase their precise talents—hers for drawing and observation, his for—whatever he was good at. Puzzle solving. Frowning. It all seemed somehow inevitable, preordained.

  That is called destiny, my friend.

  It’s called coincidence, Lawrence corrected, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it because it made him feel as if someone else were in control. As if, at any moment, whomever had given him Tuesday could take her away again.

  He was absolutely right.

  Chapter 30

  At midnight, the moment when Monday turned to Tuesday, the transformation of London began. It was almost unnoticeable to the naked eye, but a few very astute watchers—largely prostitutes—caught on that something strange was happening. As the night watchmen finished calling the hour, the streets gradually filled with able-looking men. They were all dressed differently and none of them acknowledged one another, but there was no mistaking that even when they lounged, they lounged with an attentiveness and purpose that suggested they were not at leisure.

  At one Silus Ivry awoke from a disturbing dream about Tuesday and himself and a tortoise. He put on his dressing gown and wrote a long letter to his wife.

  At two Lucy Burns, perched on her rooftop, finally thought of the perfect rhyme for “vaporous” and, with a fond look at George Lyle who had for hours been lurking in the alleyway opposite Worthington Hall below (he lurked better than any man alive, she thought), went inside to sleep.

  At three, the Lion traded posts with one of the other men on duty and settled himself on the chair outside of Tuesday’s studio.

  At four, Tuesday began to dream.

  Ha ha ha footsteps pounding behind her, near her. Scenes already painted, the forest, the garden, the store-room, whiz by her. Now they are in the corridor, now the familiar shadow is crawling up the wall, crawling closer, over her.

  “Hello, Tuesday.” It is his voice, the voice of the killer. It is uncannily familiar, and terrifying in its intensity. Wake up, her mind screams. Wake up. But she can’t.

  “It did not have to be like this, you know,” he says, his voice like glittering metal.

  If you can see him, you can find him. You must see his face. She tries to turn around but a strong hand holds her head forward.

  “Don’t.” His fingers dig into her scalp. “I don’t want to see your harlot eyes.”

  “Why are you doing this?” she gasps, trying to wrench away.

  “You know why. I warned you.”

  He grips her head tighter so she is staring straight ahead, straight at the shadow on the corridor wall. The knot in the wood, like a death’s head, hovers above it, and now, as he comes to rest behind her, it sits on his shoulders, a small, leering face on his grotesquely huge body. She can hear his breathing, regular, steady, hear hers panting, gasping.

  Ha ha ha the death’s head laughs at her. “It’s time for you to get what you deserve, whore.”

  If you can remember everything you can catch him.

  He can read her mind. “There is nothing you can do to stop me. You had your chance. You could have behaved. But now it is too late. Now I am going to be your worst nightmare. Now you are mine, Tuesday. Mine.”

  It happens in front of her, in slow motion. The shadows moving together. His, large, standing, familiar. Hers kneeling, pleading. The knife above her, plunging down.

  “NO!” she screams, so loud it surprises them both. The shadow of the knife hovers in the air right above her, hovers there, startled, and then comes slashing down for her neck.

  But she is gone. Ducking under the arm, she runs, blood pounding in her ears like heavy footsteps behind her. She turns a corner and keeps running, staggering forward to the staircase ahead of her.
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br />   Don’t let him have control. Leave something behind. Leave yourself a clue. Thoughts rattle around her mind without registering, leave a clue, leave a clue, over and over. Barreling forward, she grabs the first thing she passes and carries it with her to the stairs.

  Her hand closes on the balustrade and she is running. She turns around to look at him and sees the fabric of his cape is caught in a crack between the steps. This is her chance, if she can just go fast—

  Sweet whistles the fabric as it rips, a low susurration over the clunking of his boots, and he is behind her again, reaching for her. She gains the top of the stairs, her burning feet find the landing, and she is nearly to the next flight—the next flight, freedom, the next flight, safety—when he throws himself on top of her, pinning her down.

  He smashes her body beneath his and the breath goes out of her in a single gasp. He wraps his arms around her, clamping her hands where they lay, one next to her side, one above her head. Everything stops as they lay like that, his chest rising and falling on her back, his sweat tickling her neck.

  “I loved you so much Tuesday,” he says to her, and now he sounds sad, small. A boy with a broken toy. “I loved you so much. How could you do this to me?”

  Her mouth is too dry to speak. She tries to wriggle free but she cannot fight against him. She feels like she is being smothered. Like she will die under his horrible weight.

  She sees where the joiner imperfectly matched the corners of a step. She sees the place where a newly polished boot scuffed the riser leaving a startled looking line. She sees, below her, a strip of his cape wafting like a desolate flag. She sees, above her, her own hand holding the bruised petals of a deep red rose.

  He raises one arm and touches her hair, blocking her view.

  “I loved you so much and you betrayed me,” he whimpers into the golden strands. “You betrayed me, with him.”

  “With him,” he repeats and his caresses change, become gruff, as if under the influence of a powerful memory. He is not stroking, now he is pulling back on her hair, hard.

  “You told him all about me. I heard you. I heard you laughing.” He says the last word like it is acid on his tongue. He twists her hair, jerking her head around toward him. “Look at me, you bitch,” he orders, seeing her eyes, smashed closed. “Look at me and tell me what is so damn funny.”

  She feels his ragged breath against her cheek, his hand tugging her hair. This is it, this is her chance to look at him, but suddenly she is terrified of what she is going to see. She swallows hard and makes herself open her eyes.

  She sees, right in front of her, the knife, pointed down at her throat. She sees his hand, the white cuff of his shirt, holding it. And behind it, she sees him.

  “No. Oh, God, no—”

  Tuesday awoke suddenly, clinging to the edge of the bed; her mouth wide to scream. She lay there, perfectly still, until the panting subsided, until she could swallow again. Then, careful not to wake Lawrence, she rose, went to her easel, and painted. Dawn was just trickling into the studio when she began to shift through the papers on the large table, looking for the calendar. She was suddenly afraid that she had been wrong, that—

  “Lady Arlington,” a voice whispered close behind her, making her jump. She whirled around and saw Tom standing right there.

  “I am sorry to startle you ma’am,” he said softly, taking a step closer to her so his voice would not bother Lawrence. “I saw the candlelight from under the doorway and since Grub is asleep outside I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

  Tuesday cursed herself for being so jumpy. “Thank you. I—I was just painting.” She pointed at the picture on the easel but did not turn back to it, not wanting to see it again. “I was looking for the calendar but I couldn’t find it. Do you know what day it is, Tom?”

  “What day?” Tom repeated, thinking for a moment. “Why it’s June 26, ma’am. Tuesday.”

  Tuesday reached behind her to steady herself, and found her hand clutching Lawrence’s arm instead.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked sleepily. “I woke up and you weren’t in bed. What have you—” his eyes fell on the painting. “Oh.”

  “It’s Tuesday, Lawrence,” she said, and her eyes were filled with terror.

  “Don’t worry.” He turned her toward him and wrapped her in his arms. “Nothing is going to happen today.”

  He smelled of sleep and bed and comfort and safety. Tuesday inhaled deeply. She desperately wanted to believe him.

  Over her head Lawrence spoke to Tom. “What are you doing here? I didn’t even know you were on duty. You look exhausted.”

  “My shift just ended. I was about to leave when I saw that Grub had dozed off at his post outside. There was a light under the door so I came in to make sure there was nothing wrong,” Tom repeated.

  “Good man,” Lawrence praised him. “But enough. You’re working too hard, Tom. Go home and get some sleep. I don’t want to see you again until tonight. That is an order.”

  “Yes sir.”

  At eleven o’clock the body of George Lyle, the well-known artist, was discovered on the staircase of an abandoned rooming house in Whitechapel. From the temperature of the body and the amount of blood, it looked like he had been dead only a few hours. He was lying on his back when he was found, his throat slit, his heart missing. Beneath him, caught in one of the steps, was a strip of fabric. Just above him was the head of a crushed red rose. When his body was moved, they discovered that a word had been written in blood beneath it. The word was “Tuesday.”

  A quarter-of-an-hour later the man assigned to the day shift guarding the studio stood looking at Tuesday’s painting and shaking his head and repeating, “No one’s touched it, sir, I swear.” For the first time in his life, Lawrence wished one of his men was lying to him. Because he was having trouble coming up with an explanation, that did not make the hair on his arms prickle, for how the word “Tuesday” had suddenly appeared on the left side of the painting. He had the guard remove the painting so that Tuesday wouldn’t see it.

  By noon the dogs had been sent out and were trying to catch a scent from the piece of fabric left behind in the staircase.

  Chapter 31

  She had tricked him. The Lion was so furious he could barely see straight. His Lady, his own lady, had tricked him. It had not seemed dangerous to leave the rose or the piece of fabric. But that was because he had not thought of the dogs.

  They had probably been all her idea. Punishing him still.

  He had been enjoying himself so much. Enjoying watching the guardsmen as they carefully scanned the buildings for clues. His Lordship wouldn’t let his Lady come, but the men had been so meticulous, searching for footprints or telltale hairs. He hadn’t left them any of that this time. Nothing that could be clearly linked to him. He knew every one of them and knew they didn’t stand a chance at catching him. He was practically right in front of them right now, and they did not recognize him.

  But the dogs could.

  The barking was getting closer, like a horrible chorus shouting for his death. They could smell him; he could almost smell himself, the disgusting smell of his own body, of his own fear.

  Shouting, footsteps now, closing in on him. There were dozens of people between him and them but he could almost feel the panting of the dogs on his heels. He had to find a way to change his clothes. He knew all about dogs and knew that he had only minutes until they picked up his scent. Calm. Patience. Think.

  He scanned the busy street he was on, two blocks from the scene of the crime. Stay calm. The thing to do would be to find a man of about his stature and kill him—patience!—tail him to a deserted alley, then kill him and trade garments. The dogs would have the corpse half eaten by the time their handlers got there. Calm calm calm—

  Barking at his ankles, barking all around him, barking coming for him, kill that man, kill all the men, kill—

  Patience!

 
God, he hated dogs.

  Think.

  He spotted a likely candidate on the other side of the street. The man’s clothes were nowhere near as nice as his green suit, but he would not be embarrassed to be seen in them. Good—stay calm—move slowly—barking!—don’t startle him, be careful, look around—

  Then he saw her. Saw her walking down the street, toward him, not recognizing him, like one of the damsels that always give succor to knights. Wench, his mind pointed out. Carrying Wine! He knew exactly where she was going. And he decided he was going there, too.

  Wine splattered all over the from of his cape and breeches as she collided with him.

  “Oh no, I beg your pardon sir, oh, I am so sorry,” she immediately began apologizing, mopping at the mess she had made of his lovely suit with her handkerchief.

  He looked down at her as if he was startled, surprised. As if he had not purposely Walked into her. He saw her scan his face and was certain she had no idea who he was.

  He flashed her a slight smile, the one he’d practiced, and said, “With beauty like yours in the neighborhood, no wonder there are robbers here.” He talked, smooth, slow. No rush. No fear.

  “Robbers?” the Woman repeated, her hand stopping in midair.

  He took the kerchief from her fingers and began daubing at the wine himself. “That’s what the dogs are for.” They were close now, very close. Hurry up, the Lion’s mind told him. Please let it work, he thought. Please let—

  “Robbers here? Right here?” She clutched his arm, realized what she was doing, and pulled her hand away.

  He looked at her as if just understanding what he was seeing. She was really pretty, the Wench. “You, look frightened. May I escort you home? To make sure they don’t get to you?”

  Gratitude flooded her face. “Would you? Even after I ruined your suit?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He slipped his arm through hers and she clung to him tightly. “Which way do we go, Miss—”

  “CeCe.”