“Lord Eliot Cross,” Kendra told him, pulling the collar of her pelisse closer to her throat. The weather had changed yet again. The earlier sleet had stopped, but now the temperature was cold enough to turn everyone’s breath into icy puffs of steam. “He was one of the murder suspects on my list.”
Munroe’s black brows quirked. “I guess he’s off that particular list.”
“Yeah. There are easier ways to get off it, though.” She shook her head, and looked over at Sam. “Let’s go and find out what our witness has to say.”
They stepped into the shabby interior of the Bell & Swan. Lanterns hung from the low, beamed ceiling to cast a warm light over the heavy wood chairs, tables, and long bar. A coal fire was burning in the stone hearth, but that couldn’t chase away the damp cold in the room. Only a handful of customers lingered, mostly men, mostly hunkered around the bar. They’d been talking in low voices, but that came to an abrupt stop when Kendra, Sam, and the Duke entered. Kendra could feel the weight of their eyes on her as she moved into the room. Ignoring their scrutiny, she let her gaze drift over them to the heavily rouged blonde at the end of the bar. The only other woman in the room was slumped over a table, one arm stretched out, revealing a hand with fingerless gloves. Those fingers loosely clutched at an empty glass.
“Don’t expect much outta the lass,” Sam warned Kendra, moving toward the woman.
“Ella!” The Bow Street Runner grasped her shoulder and gave her a shake. “Ella, lass. Wake up!”
Kendra caught the strong piney scent of gin as she approached the table.
The woman’s face was pressed to the table, her velvet bonnet crushed and tipped to the side of her head. Most of her red hair had escaped her hairpins, falling in front of her face. “Sard off!” she muttered, jerking her shoulder away from Sam’s hand.
“C’mon, lass!”
“Bloody ’ell!” she groused, and came awake with a start. Straightening suddenly, she took a wild swing at Sam, which he blocked easily.
“Ella! Calm down, lass. I mean you no harm.”
“Oy! Pardon!” Green eyes blinked owlishly through the snarls of red hair. She pushed the mess out of her face, dislodging her bonnet. “Yer the thief-taker, ain’t ye?”
“Bow Street man,” Sam corrected, his lips thinning. “Wake up, lass. You need ter answer questions on account of what happened in the alley.”
“I told ye. I didn’t do it!”
Kendra scanned the thin face with its light dusting of golden freckles. The woman looked like she might be in her thirties, but Kendra suspected her lifestyle choices had aged her beyond her biological years, and she was probably only in her early twenties. “We know that you didn’t do it, Ella,” she assured. “But you were with the victim when he was murdered. We need to ask you a few questions.”
The girl frowned bleary-eyed at Kendra. “And ’oo the bloody ’ell are ye? Where’s George?” She turned to look at the bar.
Sam told Kendra and the Duke, “George is the publican. He’s the big fella out in the alley.”
Kendra nodded, and pulled out a chair, the legs scraping against the floor, so she could sit next to the girl. “Ella, I need you to tell me what happened with Lord Cross.”
“Gawd! Me ’ead feels like a fokking mule stomped on it.” She rubbed her temples, cutting Kendra a sideways look. “’Oo’s Lord Cross?”
“The man you were with in the alley.”
“Oh. Aye. I think ’is friend called ’im somethin’ like that, now that I’m remembering properly. And George ’ad said ’e was a lord.”
“His friend? He didn’t come here alone?”
“Nay. Selena was wit the other bloke. The coves were out caterwauling, so I went ter see if ’e wanted a bit o’ fun. Fer a shilling. Wasn’t gonna tup fer less! Cheeseparing nob wanted ter only give me a farthing!”
Sam said, “Selena’s the yellow-haired Haymarket ware over at the bar. I spoke ter her. She said Lord Cross’s friend was named Wentworth. A viscount. He was gone by the time I got here.”
“Lord Wentworth,” murmured the Duke. “I’d have to ask Caro, but I believe he is Lord Standish’s heir.”
Kendra nodded. “We’ll need to interview him, see if he saw anything.” She shifted her gaze back to the woman. “What happened, Ella?”
The sex worker smacked her lips together. “Can I get meself a drink? Me throat is as dry as cinder, it is.”
“All right.” Kendra glanced at Sam, who gave a grunt. He pivoted on his heel and crossed the room to the tap.
“Gin, if ye please!” Ella called after him.
Kendra was of the mind to order her a strong cup of coffee, but let it go. “Ella, look at me. Look at me. You need to tell me what happened.”
The thin face convulsed, and Kendra saw horror shine in the green eyes. “I didn’t ’ave a room ter take the cove, so I-I took ’im inter the alley.” She swallowed hard, rubbed her mouth. “I do that with the blokes, never ’ad no trouble.”
Ella brightened when Sam returned and set the glass on the table. Before the woman could snatch it up, though, Kendra put her hand over it. She said calmly, “Talk first, then you can drink.” And pickle your liver.
Ella scowled, but Kendra met the other woman’s eyes squarely. “Talk.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “I told ye. I brought ’im out back and . . .” Her breath suddenly hitched. “’E began ter twitch somethin’ fierce against me. I-I reckoned he was, ye know . . . but it weren’t that. And that’s when I looked up, and I seen ’im . . .” She licked her lips before whispering, “The devil.”
Kendra frowned. “What did this devil look like? Describe him to us.”
“Nay, ye’re not understandin’, miss.” Ella shuddered, and her eyes went glassy with the memory. “It weren’t a man. I told ye. It was the devil ’isself.” She reached for the glass, and her hand trembled violently. “Please, miss.”
Kendra met Sam’s flat cop gaze. His face was impassive, and she suspected that he’d already coaxed this story out of the woman. “Describe what this devil looked like,” she said to Ella.
“Like the devil,” Ella hissed, sounding both exasperated and fearful. She lifted her hands to her face, made a circular gesture as she grimaced. “’Is face wasn’t right, red and all scaly-like. ’Is eyes were black as pitch, they were. And evil. That’s when I knew . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper, choked off by fear.
Kendra found herself leaning toward the woman, her gaze intent. Ella’s eyes were almost black, her pupils dilating to the point where they swallowed up the green.
“What did you know, Ella?”
“That’s when I knew that ’e weren’t a man,” Ella whispered. “’E was a demon straight from ’ell.”
“Her wits are addled by gin,” Sam said as he and Kendra stepped outside back into the fog and cold.
“Hm,” was all Kendra said in reply.
A wagon had arrived, and a couple of men were hoisting the remains of Eliot Cross into the back of it. Munroe, observing, now came around to meet them. “I’ll begin the autopsy tomorrow. As it is Sunday, I shall wait until early afternoon. One o’clock, if you wish to attend.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said the Duke. “We’ll be there.”
Munroe hesitated, and looked at Kendra. “It appears as though the madman has struck again. Will there be more victims by the time this thing is finished?”
Kendra shook her head. “I wish I had the answer for that.”
He let out a pensive sigh, then inclined his head. “Until tomorrow, then.” The doctor turned on his heel and strode to a nearby carriage.
The Duke turned to Sam. “Do you require a ride to your home, Mr. Kelly?”
“That would be most kind, sir.”
“One minute,” Kendra said, and moved toward the alley. The gawkers had vanished, leaving the narrow ribbon that ran between the Bell & Swan and the haberdashery shop next door empty.
“What are you doing, lass?” Sam asked.<
br />
“Checking something out.”
Slowly, she walked to where Cross’s body had been sprawled, and spun so her back was pressed against the stone of the tavern. The alley stunk of decay, urine, and vomit. “Mr. Kelly, if you could stand before me, and Your Grace, if you could position yourself behind Mr. Kelly.”
The Duke smiled. “Ah, an experiment.”
Kendra studied him carefully as he stood behind Sam. The shadows here were thick, but it wasn’t absolute. The glimmering light from the street lamps managed to penetrate the alley, and she could see the pale cameo of Sam and the Duke’s face. “Okay,” she nodded, and turned. They began walking toward the street. “She saw something.”
Sam raised his eyebrows, glancing at her sideways. “A demon?”
“I don’t think we need to conduct an exorcism, Mr. Kelly,” she said drily. “I’d like to interview Ella again when she’s sober to get a better description of the murderer. One that hopefully won’t require us to travel to Hades.”
33
Kendra took a long, slow sip of coffee, needing the jolt of caffeine to strip away the cobwebs from her sleep-deprived brain. She’d finally tumbled into bed around three A.M., but strange dreams had chased her through what was left of the night. Even though she couldn’t remember anything, she got the sense that severed tongues and devils with sly, scaly faces featured prominently in those nightmares.
She’d woken up at 7:30 and contemplated sleeping for another hour, but after tossing and turning a bit, she’d given up. Rolling out of bed, she’d stumbled to the dressing room, where she gave herself a quick sponge bath and then wiggled into one of the more loose-fitting morning dresses. Even though she knew it would cause an uproar among the servants, she ventured belowstairs into the kitchens. Mrs. Danbury was there, her gray eyes cool with disapproval—what else was new?—but Kendra wanted coffee more than she feared the housekeeper. She managed to snag a cup on the spot, with the promise of a fresh pot delivered to the study.
By 8:30 she was comfortably ensconced behind the Duke’s desk, drinking coffee and enjoying the hushed Sunday atmosphere both inside the mansion and outside in the square. Soon the Duke and Lady Atwood would leave for services at the Anglican Church, along with half of the staff. The other half, she knew, would continue their duties after saying prayers in the servants’ hall.
She allowed herself a moment to savor the rare silence. Then she got up and moved to the slate board.
Eliot Cross’s murder changed everything. Silas Fitzpatrick was already an outlander, but unless something turned up between the Irishman and the viscount, she thought she could knock him off the list completely. She also thought it knocked Gerard Holbrooke down the list, if not eliminating him altogether too. Holbrooke had known Cross while they were boys at Eton, but it didn’t look like they’d had a friendship then or now. Their lives may have overlapped a bit—same parties, similar social circles—but as far as she could see, they were virtual strangers.
Unless . . . Unless the two had formed an alliance, with Cross helping Holbrooke kill his father.
But no, she decided, it was too much of a stretch. Nothing in it for Cross, and everything in it for Holbrooke. Besides, Cross had been the last person to be seen with Sir Giles in what appeared to be an argument. Not smart for Cross if there’d been some sort of alliance with Sir Giles’s son. If Cross had had a partner, it would’ve been Captain Mobray.
Her gaze drifted over to the name on the board that, though it was no bigger in size, seemed to dominate the other names she’d written: Evert Larson.
The man had been dead for two years but her gut was telling her that he was somehow involved in what was happening now. Instinct wasn’t as ethereal as most people believed. It was formed by thousands of tiny moments that processed through the brain and settled into the subconscious. Six years as an agent at the FBI, and the years of education and training before that, had made her trust her gut instinct. Logic and looking at the slate board added to that feeling. Evert was the common denominator that connected Sir Giles to Cross and Mobray.
Kendra found herself tapping her index finger against the coffee cup as she considered that. If she eliminated Fitzpatrick and Holbrooke from her pool of suspects, Evert then became the central figure. So what could a dead man have to do with what was happening now?
Evert had died in Spain. It had been wartime, she reminded herself. God knew, atrocities were committed on the battlefield—and in a prisoner of war camp. Human nature was unpredictable. War could transform a modest individual into a hero who demonstrated amazing acts of valor. Or it could unleash a man’s darkest impulses. People did things, vile, unspeakable things to survive.
What would they do to keep a secret once the war was over?
An image of Mobray’s watchful gray eyes came to mind. There was something implacable about the man, more so than Cross, who’d struck her as . . . weak. Weak enough to spill secrets if pressed too hard? She thought so. She believed she could break him, if she could just get him alone.
If Mobray and Cross shared a secret from their time in Spain, the captain no longer had to fear Cross talking. Dead men didn’t talk.
Her gaze drifted to another name. Magdalena. Another link to Spain? The name was Spanish, but that didn’t mean the woman was. And perhaps Magdalena wasn’t a woman at all. What if it was a code for an operation, or another spy? Still, it was a strange coincidence that Evert Larson had died in Spain, and a month or so ago Sir Giles had received a letter from someone with a Spanish name. And if Magdalena was a woman, what were the odds that Sam could find her in a city of more than a million people? They had no last name, no description. Was Magdalena a member of the nobility, gentry, merchant class, or lower classes?
Kendra sighed. Even in the 21st century, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But at least she would’ve had databases to work with. And it was a digital age, with Facebook, credit cards, CCTV cameras on every corner. You could hide, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide forever. In the 19th century, the search for Magdalena seemed hopeless.
She turned her mind to the letter itself. Sir Giles’s decision to burn it suggested that it must have held some incriminating or dangerous information. On the other hand, Sir Giles was a spymaster. Maybe this was his common method of disposing of letters.
Somehow, Kendra didn’t think so.
She glanced around when the door opened, and a maid came into the room, carrying a tray with the promised pot of coffee, a plate of hot cross buns, and small dishes of churned Epping butter and marmalade. “Do ye need anything else, ma’am?” she asked after depositing the tray on the table.
“Thanks, no. Is His Grace awake?”
“Aye. He and the countess ought ter be leaving for church in a bit.” She dipped into an abbreviated curtsy and left the room.
Kendra splashed more coffee into her cup, added sugar, and stirred. Her stomach growled as she reached for a bun, still warm enough to be steaming as she tore it in two. She slathered butter and marmalade on the bun before taking a bite, and nearly moaned. Modern life had put anything with carbs on the Do Not Eat list—unless the carb in question tasted like tree bark. She’d certainly been cautious about her carb intake. Now she wondered how she’d ever live without fresh, made-from-scratch buns and bread.
Chewing, Kendra resumed her position before the slate board. She shifted her gaze to the other names written there. Bertel, Astrid, and David Larson. Each member of the Larson family had a direct link to Sir Giles, but only Evert and David had a direct connection to Lord Cross through their time at Eton.
She dismissed the boarding school. It was too long ago, and they’d been boys at the time. That left the more recent connection between Evert and Cross in Spain.
The rattle of carriage wheels and the clomp of horses’ hooves interrupted Kendra’s thoughts, drawing her to the window. Below, she saw the purple plume of Lady Atwood’s bonnet before she ducked into the carriage, followed by the D
uke. Benjamin slammed the door shut and folded up the steps, and then the coachman hurried around to climb back onto his perch. He picked up his lines, and the vehicle began to roll away. Kendra surveyed the square. The fog had lifted, and the sky was a soft pale blue, lightened by sunshine. Whether it would still be that way in two hours or more was anybody’s guess.
Polishing off the bun, Kendra moved to the coffee pot, replenished her cup, and grabbed another bun. Pacing, she ate and drank coffee, her mind circling back to Spain again. Two years was a long time. There had to have been a recent trigger. The mysterious Magdalena? she wondered. The timing certainly fit.
She was wide awake now, pumped up on caffeine and a sugar-and-carb high from the bun and jam, but she was no closer to figuring out anything. A few suspicions had begun buzzing like annoying insects at the back of her brain—although that could be the caffeine. She needed more information. She needed to find Magdalena.
Kendra finished off the second bun, still pacing. Maybe she needed to take it from a different angle.
Why cut out the tongue? To send a message to someone? Or was it a ritual only to satisfy some impulse in himself?
She paused and closed her eyes. She needed to compartmentalize, to think about the act itself—not the victims. What did it mean when someone had their tongue cut out? In biblical times, it was punishment for crimes like bearing false witness, slander, and perjury. She opened her eyes, lifting her cup to take another swallow of coffee. The Code of Hammurabi allowed a person’s tongue to be cut out if they had defamed someone. Did the killer believe Sir Giles and Lord Cross had defamed him in some way? Or borne false witness?
And why the crucifix? A religious symbol, though crosses were symbols that had been found in many non-Christian cultures. Fitzpatrick was Catholic. She assumed the Larson family and Captain Mobray were members of the Church of England. Still, crucifixes were nondenominational. Regardless, it had been important enough to the killer to put the symbol on Lord Cross.
Betrayal in Time Page 27