“What did you read?” Kendra asked.
Amusement flashed in Mobray’s flat gray eyes. “Government reports, Miss Donovan. Classified, so I cannot share them with you or his lordship.” He flicked a look at Alec, pointedly ignoring Sam. Kendra didn’t need the captain to tell her that a Bow Street Runner had a place in this society, and it was way below a captain who worked in the Home Office.
Kendra glanced at Sam. His expression was impassive, but she had a feeling by the way he locked his jaw that Mobray’s arrogant dismissal irritated him as much as it did her.
Mobray asked, “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“Lord Cross was killed last night,” she said bluntly, and watched him closely. “In an alley behind the Bell & Swan. Do you know it?”
For a minute, Mobray froze. Then he shot to his feet, staring at her. “Cross is dead? How?”
Kendra rose as well. “Strangled. I’m assuming by a hemp rope. His tongue was cut out, and he was marked with a crucifix.”
“A crucifix? Good God. Why?”
His horror seemed sincere. But Kendra was sure that Ted Bundy’s sympathy had seemed sincere to the women who’d called into the rape crisis hotline at which he’d volunteered.
Mobray went on, “Maybe it is the bloody papists. They’re going to murder us if we don’t do something.”
She said, “I don’t think so. I think this has to do with Spain.”
Mobray’s face hardened. “Why do you persist in bringing up Spain? ’Tis the past.” He drew in a deep breath. “I must ask you to leave. Lord Cross was a friend of mine . . . I am naturally distraught.”
Alec and Sam had already risen. Sam said, “My condolences on your loss, sir, but if you should think of anything ter catch this fiend, please send word.”
Mobray didn’t respond.
Kendra waited a beat before saying, “I’d advise you to be careful, Captain. You may not think this has anything to do with what happened in Spain, but from where I’m standing, that’s the only connection you seem to share with Sir Giles and Lord Cross.”
He didn’t rise to the bait, saying only, “I will show you out.”
Sam waited until they were in the carriage before he spoke. “I don’t like the man, but he appeared shocked by the news of Lord Cross’s death.”
Kendra shrugged. “Maybe.”
Alec frowned. “Do you really think this has something to do with Spain?”
Kendra hesitated. “It’s like I told Captain Mobray—it’s the only link between him, Cross, and Sir Giles. And Evert Larson.”
“Ghosts,” Sam said suddenly. “Like Ruth said. I can’t imagine anything that would be more vengeful than the spirit of a young lad I’d sent off ter war, who died far away from home and country.”
“I can imagine one thing more vengeful,” Kendra said slowly, meeting Sam’s eyes. “The family who has been mourning the dead man.”
35
Eliot Cross was laid out on Dr. Munroe’s autopsy table. Even with the amber glow from the lanterns circling above, his skin still looked eerily pale, blanched of most of its color, except for the petechiae around the eyes, the raw ligature wound at his throat, and the crucifix carved into his torso. Kendra thought the bristly side whiskers looked as incongruous in death as they had when Cross was alive. And as incongruous as the cloth that Barts had hastily draped over Cross’s groin area when she’d arrived with the Duke, Alec, and Sam in the subterranean autopsy chambers at one o’clock.
Sam peered down at the corpse. “Not really sure what you can tell us about the crime that we don’t already know, Doctor. Had ter have been the same man that killed Sir Giles.”
“Yes, and I believe he did it with the same rope, as well,” said Munroe. “Like Sir Giles, the killer garroted his victim. This abrasion was deeper than Sir Giles’s, though, suggesting more strength was applied.”
“Adrenalin,” murmured Kendra.
Munroe looked at her. “I’m not familiar with the word.”
Oh, shit. How could she explain without opening herself up to more questions that she couldn’t answer? “It’s when the body becomes overly excited,” she finally said. “Adrenalin floods the nervous system. It can give a person more strength than normal.”
Behind his spectacles, Munroe’s gray eyes held a puzzled frown. He continued to stare at her for several more beats. “I suppose that would make sense,” he allowed. “I have witnessed similar behavior when men are in the throes of fury or fear.” He returned his gaze to the corpse. “Lord Cross’s death was quick and brutal. If the madman had used a wire instead of rope, I think there would have been enough force here to decapitate him.”
“Jesus,” muttered Sam.
“Instead, we’ve got a deeper than normal burn mark,” Kendra said. “Do you have—” She had to smile when Barts thrust a magnifying glass at her. “Thanks. I need to start carrying around one of these myself.”
As Kendra brought the magnifying glass toward Cross’s throat, Munroe said, “Before you arrived, I managed to lift several strands of fiber. If you care to look for yourself, they are under the microscope.”
The Duke moved to the counter, bending over the microscope. “Hmm. Hemp, I presume.”
Munroe nodded. “I cannot swear with one hundred percent accuracy that those match the fiber I found embedded in Sir Giles’s throat, but they are most similar.”
“Yes, I see that. Hemp, twisted,” remarked the Duke.
“Made of double ply yarns, nine yarns per strand,” Munroe added.
Kendra suppressed a smile. Munroe and the Duke sounded like any of the laboratory geeks she’d known in her own time.
“I assume the blade’s the same, as well,” Sam said, his gaze sliding from the mutilated tongue to the cut flesh on the stomach.
“It matches. The blade was wickedly sharp. Straight—not serrated or curved.” Munroe pointed to the cross. “This I thought was interesting.”
Sam leaned closer. “What?”
But Kendra saw what the doctor was referring to. “Hesitation marks,” she murmured, staring at the three small nicks on the sternum. “That is interesting.”
Alec looked at her. “Why?”
“It’s . . .” Kendra had to think of the right word. “An anomaly. We’ve got a killer who is bold enough to garrote a man in public, while the victim is engaged in sexual intercourse. He didn’t know what Ella would do, but I’d say it was a pretty good guess that she wasn’t going to stick around and be his next victim. That takes balls.”
Sam seemed briefly disconcerted by her description, but then grinned. “Aye.”
Alec coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Ah, yes, well, balls aside, the killer was rather occupied with strangling Lord Cross. That was his intended victim, not the doxy. He could hardly kill both of them at once.”
“He could have if he’d used the knife,” Kendra argued. “But he didn’t kill her, even though he must have known she’d run for help. He only had minutes before discovery.”
The Duke straightened from the microscope, looking across the room at her. “But we’ve already established that death by garroting would have taken only seconds, not minutes.”
“But then he had to slash through Cross’s clothes—waistcoat and shirt.” She glanced at Munroe. “As you said, a very sharp blade. Once the torso was exposed, he started to cut, then hesitated. One. Two. Three.” She pointed to each scratch. “It took the killer four times before he made the long stroke.”
“It’s quite deep—at least three inches,” Munroe said.
“Adrenalin,” she said. At least she wouldn’t have to explain it again. “He was pumped up by then. If you notice, there are no hesitation marks in the horizontal cross stroke.”
Alec said, “He also knew he was running out of time. He couldn’t hesitate any longer.”
“True, but I find it interesting that he hesitated at all. He’s bold. Aggressive. He’s murdered before. He’s got a woman screamin
g bloody murder inside the pub, but still he hesitates? That’s odd.”
Sam grunted. “I think it’s odd that the fiend feels the need ter make this mark at all. Especially when he could be discovered any moment.”
Kendra looked at the Bow Street Runner. “Maybe it’s a compulsion. Or he wanted to make sure this murder is tied to Sir Giles’s murder. That we’d know they were related.”
Alec asked, “Why is that important?”
“I don’t know. I’m hypothesizing here.” She frowned, her gaze on the symbol. “This is a much larger mark than the ones that were done in invisible ink. Amplified like this, it looks more like a lowercase letter t than a crucifix. I thought this little curl”—she pointed to the end of the long slash that curved slightly toward the right—“was an errant brushstroke on Sir Giles, caused by the way the killer held the brush. But he’s done it here as well, which means it was deliberate.”
The Duke joined them at the autopsy table. “Instead of a cross, he’s marked both bodies with a t? What does a t represent?”
“It’s the most commonly used consonant in the English language,” she said. When they stared at her, she waved her hand. “Sorry. That’s the only thing that comes to mind.” Good God, I sound like Ruth.
“Well, I don’t think that the murderer is trying to give us English lessons,” the Duke remarked drily.
Kendra huffed out a laugh. “No. He—or she—is doing it for a reason.”
“She. You still think Astrid Larson could have done this?” Alec sounded skeptical.
“I haven’t found any reason to eliminate her as a suspect. Adrenalin isn’t limited to men. It can give women considerable strength too.”
Alec said, “I’d think that Haymarket ware who’d been with Cross would have noticed if their attacker was a woman.”
“Ella swears the devil came up from the depths of Hell to kill Cross,” she said. “Even if we didn’t have her eyewitness account that we’re dealing with a demon with a red, scaly face, the killer was probably bundled up, and therefore unrecognizable.”
Kendra glanced at the clock mounted on the stone wall. “Before we interview the Larsons, I would like another chat with Lady Holbrooke. Woman to woman.”
The Duke shot her a look. “What you are really saying is that you would like to speak to Lady Holbrooke alone.”
“I think it would be best.”
Sam frowned. “You still believe Mr. Holbrooke had something to do with the murder of his father and now Lord Cross?”
“No. Which is why I think another chat is in order.” She smiled at the Bow Street Runner. “With her son no longer a suspect, Lady Holbrooke should be a lot more forthcoming. Instead of spending her time coming up with lies to protect her son, she might actually tell me the truth.”
36
The Duke insisted that Kendra take Molly with her, unwilling to give the Beau Monde any excuse to shun her. Kendra didn’t have the heart to remind him that being the recipient of Sir Giles’s tongue had probably already gotten her bumped off the Ton’s guest lists.
Without Rebecca accompanying her, though, Kendra wasn’t entirely sure if Lady Holbrooke would receive her. Being the ward of a duke was probably a lot further down the pecking order than being the daughter of an earl. It didn’t hurt, though, to be delivered to the Holbrooke door in the Duke’s plush town carriage with his family crest on the door.
In the end, Kendra had no idea why Lady Holbrooke agreed to see her; she was just happy the woman had. While Molly waited in the foyer, she followed the elderly butler down the depressing hallway decorated with its heavy black mourning crepe and into the drawing room.
“Miss Donovan,” Lady Holbrooke greeted as soon as Kendra entered, setting aside the book she’d been reading, and the butler departed, closing the door behind him. Lady Holbrooke didn’t stand up or smile, but instead gestured to the chair opposite her.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Kendra said as she took the seat, studying the other woman. Lady Holbrooke wore her widow’s garb and a simple linen cap. Her face was pale, but composed. Her pretty brown eyes were wary as she regarded Kendra.
“Do you wish tea? I can ring for it.”
“No, thank you. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few more questions.”
“If this is about my son—”
“I don’t think your son was involved.”
Lady Holbrooke raised her eyebrows, then just as quickly lowered them. Her face changed subtly, softening. “Of course, he was not. The very idea is ridiculous.”
Kendra didn’t necessarily agree, but there was no point in arguing, not when it looked like she was getting back into the widow’s good graces. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your husband. You mentioned before that he’d seemed preoccupied in the last month. I have to ask you again, Lady Holbrooke, did he give you any indication why?”
The older woman frowned, which caused the vertical creases to deepen between her brows. She was silent for a long moment. “I confess that I have given your question considerable thought since your last visit, Miss Donovan, and it occurred to me that my husband did say something odd,” she said slowly.
Kendra waited.
“As I told you, my husband spent much of his time at work. He had heavy responsibilities, so it was not unusual for him to be preoccupied, you understand.”
“I understand.”
“I hesitate even to mention this . . .”
“Lady Holbrooke, your son may not be under suspicion anymore, but your husband’s killer is still at large. Anything you tell me could help.”
“But that is just it, Miss Donovan. I don’t know how this could help.” She drew in a deep breath.
“My husband was not an atheist, but he was not a religious man,” she finally said, then seemed flummoxed as to how to proceed.
Kendra covered her surprise. Whatever she’d expected the widow to say, this was not it. Then the memory of the symbols painted on his body came to her. “Your husband mentioned a religious matter?”
“No, not exactly.” She surged to her feet. “I don’t know how to explain.”
Kendra stood as well. “Why don’t you tell me what you and your husband were doing before he said what he did.” Sometimes it was helpful to ground a reluctant witness in the mundane to tease out a memory.
Lady Holbrooke nodded. “We were having breakfast. Maybe that is why it struck me as so odd. I was telling him about a salon that I had attended, and he asked me something about hiding sins and finding mercy. There was no context, you see.” She frowned, even appearing to find the recollection baffling. “Of course, I asked him what he could possibly mean, and he said that he was making reference to a quote in the book of Proverbs.”
Kendra hesitated. “And that was odd?”
“It was not unusual for Sir Giles to quote text, but he tended to quote philosophers and politicians. But quoting religious text? No. That was very odd.”
“What was the quote? Exactly?”
“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that, Miss Donovan. In fact, I had quite forgotten all about the matter until your first visit.”
“He was upset?”
“Not upset. Melancholy.”
“When was this?”
Lady Holbrooke shook her head. “I cannot give you an exact date, but I think it was about a fortnight ago. I believe it was the morning after Mrs. Braxton’s salon.”
“Okay.” Kendra kept her gaze on the other woman. “What do you think he meant by that? Hiding sins and finding mercy?”
“I truly do not know. I did not pursue the matter.” Her brown eyes darkened. “Now I wish I had.”
Kendra waited a moment, but when Lady Holbrooke remained silent, she asked, “Did your husband mention a woman named Magdalena recently?”
She watched the widow carefully, but could see nothing deceptive about her behavior. No eyes refusing to make contact or telltale flush.
She shook her head. “Magdalena? No. Who is she?�
�
“I’m not sure. Someone from Spain, maybe.”
“Spain?” Lady Holbrooke’s lips parted, awareness rippling across her delicate face. “You persist in thinking this has something to do with Evert’s death?”
Instead of answering, Kendra threw out another question. “Did you know that Lord Cross was murdered last night?”
Lady Holbrooke’s eyes widened, her hand fluttered to her throat. “Good heavens. No, I have heard nothing. What can this mean? Do you think it has anything to do with my husband’s—with what happened to Giles?” she asked, her voice faint. “London is a violent city. The two murders might not necessarily be connected.”
“They were killed in the same manner,” was all Kendra said.
Fear leapt in Lady Holbrooke’s eyes. “You don’t think . . . Gerard is safe, isn’t he? This madman won’t come after my son, will he?”
“There’s no reason to think that.”
Lady Holbrooke was still for a moment, then expelled a sigh. She moved to the window. “I do not understand what’s happening,” she murmured, staring outside.
“The only thing that links your husband to Lord Cross is what happened to Evert in Spain.” Kendra said. “Did your husband ever talk about what happened in Spain? How Evert died?”
“Well, of course he spoke of it at the time. But not recently, no.”
“What did he say—at the time? Do you remember?”
Lady Holbrooke frowned. “He died in a fire. That’s all I recall,” she whispered, and shook her head. “Such a tragedy. I loved Evert—both Evert and David.”
Kendra kept her gaze on the other woman. “Do you think any of the Larsons could have killed your husband? And Lord Cross?”
Shock flashed across the delicate features. “No! No, of course not. The very notion is absurd. How can you think such a thing?”
“Is it so hard to believe that one of them might want revenge for what happened to Evert?” Kendra asked softly.
“But . . . I don’t understand.” Lady Holbrooke shook her head, her brow puckering. “What happened to Evert was terrible, and it drove a wedge between our families that will never be healed. But it was war, Miss Donovan. Evert was captured, and . . .” She lifted a pale hand, then let it fall. “He died. No one can hold my husband responsible for what happened in Spain. And Lord Cross . . . he had been captured by the French as well.”
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