Lady Lavery was a cold-looking woman. Her features were like ice. Her dress was impeccable. Not a bad word could be said about it. But when Wilbert mentioned the Viking, something seemed to pass through her. She shivered, and walked to the window, so her back was to Lucia and Wilbert.
“I have heard of him,” she said.
“He is going to kill here, tomorrow night,” Wilbert said. “You want us here, to stop it.”
“Do you think you can stop him?” Lady Lavery said, in a voice full of disbelief. “Do you think anybody can stop him?”
“Yes,” Lucia said. “Why, do you disagree?”
“What would I know?” Lady Lavery said at length. “I am just a lonely widow. My children are gone, to America, to the Colonies, to Wales. My husband is dead. Lady Lavery is just a lonely woman, living out the last of her days. What would I know of killers? The only pride I have is in the painting of the garden that caused delight in society. And what was that, twenty years ago?”
“Well,” Wilbert said, casting a questioning look at Lucia, “we would be obliged if you could give us rooms for the night, and perhaps some supper. We mean to stop the Viking, my lady. On that score you can have no doubt.”
“Yes, yes, very well,” she said. “I will see to it.”
She walked from the room with slow steps. “She is hiding something,” Lucia said. She had seen it immediately. She had gone to the window so she did not have to look upon them as she withheld something from them. Lucia was annoyed; she did not immediately see what it was. Why this house? Why would the Viking choose to kill somebody here?”
“We must look at the garden before we dine,” Lucia said. “Perhaps there will be some clue.”
“Perhaps,” Wilbert said. “Fine, let’s go.”
“Wait, wait,” Lucia said, touching his arm. “We should wait for Lady Lavery’s permission. It will make things easier.”
“Lucia Skiffins, a slave to propriety,” Wilbert smiled. “You are a constant source of surprise.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” Lucia said.
Something within her wanted to reach out and touch him then. Touch his face, perhaps. Or lay her hand upon his shoulder. She recalled the carriage, when she had laid her hand upon his leg. Had she wanted to move her hand further up? She tried to view these details as she viewed a case, but they were too close to her. They were too personal. Inside her mind, there were two factions. One faction detested these lesser feelings and wanted her to sever all ties to her emotions, to exist as a wholly intellectual being. The other faction wanted her to thrown herself into Wilbert’s arms and demand to be kissed. Hitherto the first faction had been by far the strongest, but now, after spending time with him after an absence, the latter faction was beginning to gain ground.
“It is a compliment,” Wilbert said, moving forward.
“Wilbert, what are you doing?”
He moved forward until he was standing exactly opposite her. For some reason, an event from five years ago came into Lucia’s mind. They had just finished a case, and Wilbert was walking with her back to her flat. As they approached the flat, a whine had sounded from a nearby alleyway. Lucia bade they continue, but Wilbert ignored her and found the source of the whine: a malnourished, dying cat. Lucia watched as Wilbert picked up the small, dying thing and held it in the light. It was shivering, its bones showed through its skin, and its fur was patchy and thin.
Wilbert had left her then, to return home alone. Weeks later, she saw a cat roaming the neighborhood. There could be no mistake; it was the malnourished cat Wilbert had found. She later learnt that he had nursed it back to health, ensured that it was sprightly enough to hunt and sustain itself, and then set it loose once again. Lucia still saw the cat from time to time. It was in the prime of its life. It was actions like this that set them apart. Lucia would never have tended to the cat. Wilbert was a kinder person than her.
Wilbert was standing close to her now.
“Just one kiss,” she murmured. “We have work to do.”
The words escaped her as though by accident. Wilbert laid his hands upon her shoulders and then leaned in and kissed her. His lips were warm. For a moment she just stood still, and allowed him to kiss her. Then she kissed him back, moving her lips. Warmth rose within her, and she found herself laying her hands upon his shoulders. Her hands wanted to go other places, too, and she wanted to kiss him more and more—
The door opened and a footman entered. Lucia and Wilbert jumped apart, smiling with embarrassment.
“My lady wishes you to know that supper is ready, if you care to follow me.”
Lucia looked at Wilbert. He grinned at her like a naughty schoolboy. After a moment, she returned the smile.
*****
Lucia, by observing other people, had learnt that ladies loved when one lavished praise upon them. Knowing this, Lucia adopted her most groveling tone, and aimed at nothing more than expanding the lady’s ego. She felt no shame at this. It was merely an intellectual ploy, and she did not get embarrassed when it came to intellect. “The garden looks so, so incredible in the painting,” she said, smiling widely. “It would please me so to gaze at it. It would be like gazing at a god! How beautiful it must be, living so close to it. I hardly think the painting can do it justice. Would you mind, terribly, if Wilbert and I had a peek at it after supper? Please, do say yes, my lady.”
The ploy worked, Lady Lavery all but swooned, and eight o’clock saw Wilbert and Lucia in the garden. Lucia could not look at Wilbert for any extended length of time. She kept thinking about how kind he was, about how utterly different from her he was. They were like two strangers in their attitudes toward life, and yet they got on so very well. Indeed, Wilbert was the only person Lucia could tolerate to be around for any extended period of time. Wilbert walked close to her, and every now and then their elbows brushed. Lucia felt a distracting – and unprofessional – thrill run through her.
“The painter deserves credit for making this place beautiful,” Lucia said, casting an eye around. The roses were dying. Weeds sprouted up between the flowerbeds. Even by light of torch, everything looked damp and ignored.
“She has let her gardener go, by the looks of it,” Wilbert agreed. “One must remember, that the painting was finished a long time—My god!”
Wilbert clutched at his collar, as though he suddenly found it stifling. Lucia ran to him and began unbuttoning the top bottoms. He was struggling to breathe. Lucia put her hands on his face. “Calm down,” she said. “Wilbert, dear, calm down. There is nothing so frightening in this world that it cannot be approached calmly.”
Life swam back into his eyes. He grinned at her. “I lost myself for a moment,” he said. His grin fled. “But there is a reason for my reaction. Look over there, beside the worm-eaten bench.”
Lucia walked over to the bench and looked down. She gasped. Wilbert’s pipe, which he had left at the scene of the murder earlier that day, sat upon the armrest of the bench. Beneath it was a folded-up piece of paper. “I cannot look at it,” he said quietly. “Lucia, would you?”
She unfolded the note and read—
A wayward son,
A scare little lady,
A darkening sun,
A squalling, unwanted baby.
An abandoned child,
Left feral and ghoulish,
Alone in the wild,
Oh, my lady, how foolish!
Now the Viking hath returned,
And he hath earned,
His right to retribution.
Let’s see this house burn!
Ha-ha, ha-ha!
Hurrah!
“Quite the poet,” Lucia muttered. She read the note to Wilbert. “It seems Lady Lavery has been keeping a dangerous secret, Wilbert.”
“You don’t think—”
“What else?” Lucia interrupted. “You were right. It’s the Viking, back again. He was here, whilst we were here. If I were a lady, I should be quite frightened right now.”
; “Maybe I can be frightened enough for the both of us,” Wilbert muttered. He made to pick up his pipe.
Lucia laid her hand on his. “I wouldn’t,” she said. “Madmen have been known to leave nasty surprises in pipes.” She withdrew her handkerchief, carefully wrapped the pipe in it, and then laid it upon the floor. She lifted her boot and crushed it down upon the pipe. Wilbert watched with that look of fascination that Lucia secretly adored. It was a look that said he had never seen a woman like her, that he could never love another woman, that if she willed it he would have her right there. Color rose in her cheeks. She tried to ignore it but failed.
She knelt down and unwrapped the handkerchief. She took her tweezers from her pockets, and picked up a crystalline rock. “Opium,” she said. She laid it down and picked up a smaller rock. “And cyanide. It seems the Viking wanted you to fall asleep and never wake up, my dear Wilbert.”
“Blast it!” Wilbert cried, kicking the bench. “What infernal man are we dealing with?”
“We must talk to Lady Lavery,” Lucia said. “We must find out what this poorly written poem means.”
“What about the pipe?” Wilbert said.
“Pick it up, would you? It may come in useful.”
Wilbert bent down and did as she asked. Lucia watched as he knelt down. His muscular legs showed through his britches, and for a wild moment Lucia imagined what it would be like to touch those legs. She remembered once, four years ago, when they had been chasing the Coffin Killer (named for his habit of burying people alive). They had hidden in an unburied coffin together for a half-hour, their bodies pressed together, their breath hot on each other, peering through their peep-holes. His hand had brushed her breast, by accident, and Lucia had felt something her mind ran from even as her body ran toward. That feeling came back to her, and for a moment she wished Wilbert would kiss her again.
But the case was on. Emotion had to be cast aside. They left the garden and went to find Lady Lavery.
*****
Wilbert had lost count of how many times Lucia had saved his life. She never seemed to think it was a big thing. She never mentioned it afterwards. And if he ever dared to thank her for it, she brushed it aside as though it was of no concern. He tied the pipe in the handkerchief, wrapped it once more, and put it in his jacket pocket. Here he was, an officer of Scotland Yard, with cyanide and opium on his person! How his superiors would scream! Lucia was watching him. Her eyes were wide and bright, even in the torchlight—bright as only a case could make them. Wilbert thought she had never looked more beautiful. Her lips were slightly parted. Wilbert thought – madly – that she was getting ready for a kiss.
But then she turned and left the garden. Wilbert followed, and soon they were in the drawing-room, where Lady Lavery sat, an ignored novel open before her.
“My lady,” Wilbert said. Lucia melted into the shadows. Wilbert did the “emotional parts” (as Lucia called them) because Lucia claimed she was stunted in that way. “I fear there this something you need to tell us, my lady,” Wilbert went on, standing a respectful distance from her. “It concerns the Viking, Malcolm Radfoot.” She flinched at the name. “You know him, do you not, my lady? You do not need to be afraid. I have no desire to make this secret known. I just need to confirm that we are correct.” He paused, and then went on: “I need to confirm that he is, in fact, your son.”
“How dare you!” Lady Lavery cried, rising from her seat. “What scandal do you bring into my home! What lies! I am a quiet widow! Yes, yes, a quiet widow and nothing more! How dare you imply otherwise! I have never heard such nonsense, such slander, in my life! Oh, oh, if my husband were alive! He would tell you where to get off!”
Wilbert waited for her outburst to end, and then produced the poem. He read it, ignoring her looks of anguish, and then handed her the note so that she could read it for herself. “He has been on the grounds,” Wilbert said. “I believe the only reason he killed the boy, in fact, was to get us all on the grounds together. Me, because I almost caught him last time. You, because you are his mother. And Lucia because she is the best detective in England. Oh, it would make quite an article, would it not? Quite a return for the Viking? My lady, we need answers.”
“He’s taught himself to read and write,” Lady Lavery muttered at length.
“I beg your pardon?” Wilbert said, moving closer.
“I’ll tell you the story,” Lady Lavery said. “But you must promise to keep it a secret, forever!”
“I promise.”
Lady Lavery turned to Lucia. “And you.”
Lucia shrugged. “You have my word.”
“Very well,” Lady Lavery said. She slumped down upon the chair. “I was a young woman, not much older than a girl, when it happened. He was a brutish man. He—he fouled my honor, you understand? I did not wish it, but he did it anyway. He was the son of a very wealthy man, a merchant, but not a highborn man. He kept me prisoner – as his ‘guest’ – in Scotland in the middle of nowhere to nine months, as the child grew within me. It was horrid. It will sound abhorrent, but I wanted nothing so much as to lose the child. It was a parasite, feeding off me, a reminder of this evil man. When the baby was born, he took it from me and commanded me to leave and never return. I admit I did not fight. I let him have the child, and I returned to England where I met Lord Lavery. To the day he died, he never knew of the vicious affair.
“But sixteen years later, the merchant’s son sent me a letter. It detailed what he had done to my son. I can hardly speak of it. He left the boy in complete darkness, without companionship, for the first twelve years of his life. In a locked room, the child waited, not once hearing the sound of a voice, or feeling the touch of human skin. And then, on his twelfth birthday, he began to teach the boy violence. He brought him live animals and—and you can imagine what he did! You see, Malcom is not like other men. He was born in the dark. He knows only violence. He has taught himself to read and write, but he is not a person like me or you. His father died, thank God, but the son lives on. I suspect—” Her voice dropped lower. Wilbert was forced to lean in. “I suspect that Malcolm killed his father.”
Lady Lavery rubbed her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks. “So you see,” she said, “that we are dealing with a wild man.”
“I see,” Wilbert said. “Then we must ask ourselves a question. How does one catch a wild man?”
“Oh, that is simple,” Lucia said, stepping into the light. “There is one thing that wild things cannot resist. Bait.”
“Bait?” Lady Lavery said softly.
“Yes, my lady,” Lucia said, without a hint of emotion in her voice. “You must present yourself as bait to your son. There is no other choice. Come, Wilbert, it is time for us to leave. He will not strike until the morrow.”
“You would leave me!” Lady Lavery cried.
“Lucia—”
She waved a hand, cutting short his protestation. “We will wait in the woods on the outskirts of the estate,” Lucia said. “One does not fear sleeping in the mud, does one?”
“One does not,” Wilbert muttered.
“And we will watch,” Lucia said. “When he approaches…” She clapped her hands. “The game is won!”
Wilbert leaned into Lucia and whispered into her ear: “Is this likely to result in the lady’s death?”
“Not if we are fast,” Lucia said. “Only if we are slow. I can assure you one thing. We will catch him if we follow this plan.” Lucia did something strange then; she hugged him. Then she leaned back. “Now, leave us, Wilbert. Lady Lavery and I must discuss something in private.”
Wilbert, bemused, left the room.
But he trusted Lucia. She had never left him down before.
She was, after all, the smart one.
*****
They returned to London, slept, and in the morning took a carriage back to the Lavery homestead. They arrived at the woods at about ten o’clock. Wilbert fear that the lady may already be dead. Perhaps the Viking had been lying in his note. Bu
t the Viking proved as honest as ever, and the lady admitted them with a wan smile. “I merely wished to make sure you were well, my lady,” Wilbert said. “We cannot stay here, now. We must retreat to the woods, and wait.”
She nodded, seeming not to care either way.
Wilbert and Lucia crouched down in the woods, looking toward the house. They were as out of sight as it was possible to see, almost buried in leaves. Lucia was close to Wilbert’s arm. He could feel her there. Her presence seemed to reach out and bring him in, drawing him toward her. There was something magnetic in Lucia, something dangerous. One found it impossible to ignore her aura. At length, Wilbert turned and regarded her, and saw that she was regarding him.
“Is there something wrong?” Wilbert said.
“No,” Lucia said. “Not wrong, precisely. I am at war with myself; that is the truth of it. I know I should be focusing on the case, and yet I cannot stop looking at you, Wilbert.”
Wilbert blushed. He felt as though he had just been complemented by a goddess. A foolish thought, of course; Lucia was flesh and bone and imperfections and perfections. But his feeling was sincere. “Why is that?” Wilbert said, his voice naught more than a croak.
“Perhaps I am looking back over our time together. We’ve had some adventures, have we not? I am looking back to that time with the cat, thought. Do you remember when you nursed that cat back to health?”
Wilbert remembered all too well. His landlord despised cats, so Wilbert had had to hide the poor thing in his coat every time he left the house with it. Weeks of watching it sip weakly at his saucer of milk, chew halfheartedly on a little piece of bird. Try to jump upon the chair—fall back to the hard floorboards with a squeal. And eventually, the triumphant moment of its recovery. He saw it outside Lucia’s house at times, full of life and strong. It didn’t seem to recall him, but that was okay.
“I remember,” he said. “What of it?”
The Duke of Ice Page 33