by Amanda Quick
“I understand. Events tonight have been nothing if not chaotic.”
“It is not the events at J. P. Fulton’s that are clouding my brain at this moment. It is you, Miss Langley.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” He crossed the room in long strides, heading toward the door. “I will call on you tomorrow so that we can discuss our plans in detail, but I believe that our first move should be a consultation with my brother, Harry.”
“I would very much like to accompany you when you speak with him.”
“Certainly.”
Sykes was waiting in the hall. “Shall I summon a cab, sir?”
“No thank you, Sykes,” Trent said. “I’ll walk.”
Sykes led the way toward the front door.
Calista followed, stopping at the threshold. She watched Trent go down the front steps.
“Are you sure it’s safe for you to walk home tonight?” she asked.
Trent paused to look back at her. “The killer failed and he is wounded. I doubt he can do any more serious damage tonight. As for Kettering, if he is, indeed, behind events this evening, he will need time to concoct a new scheme. It’s not easy to find reliable talent when it comes to murder.”
“A sobering thought,” Calista said.
Trent looked at Sykes. “You will check the locks on all the doors and windows, will you not?”
“Of course, sir,” Sykes said.
25
TRENT WENT UP the steps of his town house and took his key out of his pocket. The walk home had, indeed, proved clarifying but not quite the way he had anticipated. He did not gain any new insights into the investigation, but by the time he let himself into his own front hall he was certain of one thing. He wanted Calista.
Furthermore, his desire for her had not lessened now that the violent emotions aroused by the confrontation in the coffin chamber had dissipated. If anything, his need had only grown stronger. Leaving her alone tonight ranked as one of the most difficult things he had ever done.
She was safe, he thought. At least for now. She was not alone in the big house.
But he could not escape the knowledge that she was being hunted. The need to protect her was so powerful he almost turned around.
He let himself into the darkened hall, hoping that Eudora was fast asleep.
She appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching her wrapper at her throat. He suppressed a groan.
“Trent, what happened? I expected you home hours ago. I have been very worried. Are you all right?” She descended a few more steps and got a closer look at him. “Good heavens. Were you involved in a carriage accident?”
“It was a bit more complicated than that, but I am all right.”
“Thank goodness. But you must tell me everything. I will not be able to sleep if you don’t.”
There was no evading the questions, he thought. Eudora had a right to the answers.
“Come into my study and I will explain,” he said.
• • •
Eudora was both appalled and fascinated by his tale so it was another half hour before he finally succeeded in climbing into bed. He lay there for a long time, arms folded behind his head, and contemplated the shadows.
It would not be easy to find the sort of evidence required to have a wealthy gentleman like Nestor Kettering arrested for murder. If he had, indeed, hired someone else to do the deed, as seemed likely, it might well be impossible to prove it.
As for the nasty gifts that Calista had received; she was right, there was no law against sending memento mori presents to a lady.
Trent contemplated the memories of the one other occasion when he had confronted a similar problem. Sometimes a man’s options were limited.
Sleep finally descended, bringing with it the old dream.
• • •
He heard Eudora’s screams echoing from the laboratory. Desperate to get to her he tried to run up the stairs but he was ensnared in a dark fog. The staircase twisted away into infinity. He was consumed with the icy fear that he would be too late, just as he had been too late the last time . . .
• • •
He came awake in a cold sweat. Out of long habit, he sat up on the side of the bed and breathed deeply for a time. The dream fragments slipped back into the shadows but he knew he would not be able to go back to sleep.
After a while he got to his feet and reached for his robe. He had another chapter of The Affair of the Missing Bride due soon. He might as well get some work done.
He made his way downstairs, went into his study, sat at his desk, and started to reach for a sheet of paper and a pen.
But Fulton’s journal was in the way. He opened it instead. The pages were filled with neatly recorded transactions that went back for three years.
As he had told Andrew, money always left a bright trail.
It was the matter of motive that concerned him the most. Committing murder always involved some risk. Furthermore, a man—even a madman—needed a reason to cross the sharp boundary between civilized behavior and violence. According to Harry, for some warped minds it was simply the dark thrill of the business that drove the killer. Nevertheless, even that constituted a motive of sorts.
Others were driven by greed or passion or a desire for vengeance. He knew a great deal about that last motive. He touched the side of his jaw where the skin was drawn tight and rigid with scars. When he realized what he was doing he lowered his hand.
If Nestor Kettering had employed a hired killer to murder Mrs. Fulton in order to assure her silence, perhaps it was because he had something more damning to conceal than the purchase of a few memento mori items.
26
“YOU SAY NESTOR Kettering purchased the same set of memento mori items, coffin bells, and coffins four times over the course of the past year?” Harry asked.
“According to Mrs. Fulton’s records, yes,” Trent said. “The pattern never varied. First the tear-catcher, then a ring, then a safety coffin bell. The only thing that changed were the initials inscribed on the items. Eventually a coffin was purchased but each time it was sent to a different funeral director.”
“Patterns and repetitions are always of considerable interest in situations such as this,” Harry said. “They indicate an obsessive nature.”
They were gathered in Harry’s comfortably cluttered study. Trent had been prepared for the fact that Calista would accompany him. Last night she had made her intentions clear and she had every right to be there. But at breakfast Eudora had surprised him by insisting on attending the meeting, as well.
She seemed so determined—even enthusiastic—about the prospect of becoming involved in the case that he did not have the heart to refuse her. He was, in fact, not at all certain that he could have kept her away.
He had to admit that it was good to see Eudora excited about something besides her gardening and her novels. It dawned on him that perhaps she felt the same way about him. We have been dragging each other down for years, he thought.
He shook off the flash of insight and watched Harry move around behind the desk.
Harry had inherited their mother’s blue eyes and their father’s fascination with science, especially chemistry. His interests had led him into the medical profession but he still maintained a well-equipped laboratory. He distilled and concocted his own medicines using plants and herbs from Eudora’s greenhouse. He maintained that one could not trust the quality of the products that could be purchased in chemists’ shops and apothecaries.
Harry adjusted his reading glasses on his nose and looked at one of the pages of the journal that had been marked.
“It appears that coffin bells are rather expensive,” he noted wryly. “Especially when one considers that there is no record of such a device having been successfully employed.”
“Is that so?” Calista asked.
“I’m quite sure that if there ever is an instance of successful use it will be a great sensation in the press.” Harry turned to the next page in the journal. “Those in the grave-digging business will tell you that there have been some false alarms, however.”
“What do you mean?” Eudora asked.
“The problem is that the natural decomposition process creates swelling and bloat of the tissues and even small twitchy movements of the body, which, in turn, can cause the bell to sound,” Harry explained.
Eudora made a face. “Something to think about when one walks past a graveyard.”
“According to Mrs. Fulton’s records, over the course of the last month Kettering bought a tear-catcher, a jet-and-crystal ring, and the bell inscribed with Calista’s initials,” Trent said. “But he had not yet purchased the coffin.”
“Interesting,” Harry said. He sounded as if he were listening to a patient describe his symptoms.
“As I said, the pattern of the purchases has been repeated four times during the past year, including the items given to Calista. In the last three instances, all of the items were delivered to N. Kettering of Number Five Lark Street. But that was not the case with the earliest orders.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly in understanding. “Those first few items were sent directly to the victim?”
Out of the corner of his eye Trent saw Calista’s mouth tighten at the word victim.
“So it appears,” he said. “Mrs. Fulton’s notes indicate that they were sent to Miss Elizabeth Dunsforth in Milton Lane.”
“That provides you with a starting point.” Harry leaned back in his chair. “It certainly would be illuminating to talk to one of the other people who received the memento mori items and bell.”
“But why would the pattern change?” Calista asked. “Why would the first set of memento mori go directly to the intended recipient but the rest directly to Kettering’s address?”
“I cannot say for certain, of course,” Harry said. “But I can speculate that in the case of the first round of gifts Kettering was new at the business. He was still discovering how he wished to torment his victims. As his obsession grew, he may have found it more satisfying to take possession of the memento mori items first so that he could savor them before sending them to the women.”
“An unnerving thought,” Eudora whispered.
“It is also possible that he simply did not trust Fulton to see that the items were sent to the right person,” Harry continued.
“Or he did not want her to know where they were going,” Trent said.
“Yes,” Harry said. “But I think it’s more likely he discovered that he rather enjoyed delivering them himself.”
“Trent and I intend to call at Miss Dunsforth’s address after we leave here,” Calista said. “Is there anything else you can deduce from the pattern of the gifts?”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Langley.” Harry took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The study of human behavior is still a very new science. There is much we do not know—perhaps much we cannot know. But the manner in which this man is tormenting you convinces me that he has fixed on you in what can only be described as a dangerously obsessive manner.”
“It is as if he is haunting me.”
Harry looked at her, his eyes grim. “If I am correct, it would be more accurate to say that he is hunting you, not haunting you. He is stalking you the way one does a deer in the forest.”
“Before one makes the kill,” Calista said.
Eudora put a hand on her shoulder. “You are not alone.”
Calista gave her a tremulous smile.
“There is one very significant difference,” Trent said. “In the case of the deer, the hunter makes every effort to conceal himself from the quarry before he strikes. But in this case Kettering seems to be playing a very cruel game.”
Harry looked at him. “I agree. You must stop him before he gets any closer to Miss Langley.”
“Do you really believe that he intends to murder her?” Eudora asked.
Harry kept his attention on Trent. “You have disrupted his pattern. There is no way to know how that will affect his mind. If you are correct, Kettering arranged to have Mrs. Fulton murdered last night. We must assume he will be willing to send his killer after another victim.”
Calista took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I do wish you would stop using the word victim, Dr. Hastings.”
“My apologies, Miss Langley. But I fear the only other word that springs to mind is prey. He sees himself as the hunter.”
“I suppose that there is little point in going to the police with this information,” she said.
Harry’s mouth tightened. “Not unless Trent can find a way to identify the man who murdered the proprietor of J. P. Fulton’s.”
“I will meet with Inspector Wynn at the Yard but I doubt there is much that he can do until Kettering makes his next move,” Trent said. “Meanwhile, you must not go out alone, Calista.”
She looked at him with shadowed eyes. Her whole world had been turned upside down by the bastard who was stalking her, Trent thought. He had to use considerable willpower to suppress his rage and another emotion, as well. Fear. He could feel the killer circling Calista, closing in on her. The thought of her being alone and unprotected tore at his insides.
“I understand,” she said quietly. “But I cannot live with such constraints indefinitely. I have a business to see to. There must be something we can do.”
Harry used his glasses to motion toward Fulton’s journal. “I agree that your next step is to interview Miss Elizabeth Dunsforth of Milton Lane. She may be able to provide some insights into the mind of Nestor Kettering and perhaps give you some clue as to the identity of his hired killer.”
“Assuming she is still alive,” Eudora said.
“And assuming that Kettering actually did hire a killer and that the assault last night did not come from an entirely different direction,” Trent said. “We are looking at circles within circles.”
Harry shook his head. “We are not dealing with a set of random coincidences. There must be some connections.”
“I agree,” Trent said.
He could only pray that the assumption was true.
Rebecca Hastings appeared in the doorway. She was an attractive young woman with an intelligent gaze. She had very little close family of her own but she had created a warm and loving home for Harry and their infant son. In addition, she had become Harry’s assistant when he saw patients in his surgery. Harry often proudly declared that she had a great aptitude for medicine.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but a boy just arrived with a message.” She looked at Harry. “Mrs. Jenkins’s son is feverish. She hopes you will be able to see him today.”
Harry got to his feet. “I am on my way.” He came out from behind his desk, took his coat down off a hook, and picked up a large black satchel. “Please keep me informed about this situation involving Nestor Kettering. And be careful, Miss Langley. I don’t mind telling you, I believe there is cause for grave concern.”
He disappeared out into the hall.
Rebecca looked at Trent, Calista, and Eudora. “Will you stay for tea?”
“Afraid that won’t be possible,” Trent said. He picked up the journal. “Calista and I must be on our way to Milton Lane to see what we can learn from Elizabeth Dunsforth.”
“They are going to take me home, first,” Eudora explained.
“I see.” Rebecca fixed Calista with a thoughtful expression. “Some other time, perhaps, Miss Langley?”
“I would like that very much,” Calista said. “Mr. Hastings tells me that you
often assist your husband in his medical practice. That sounds quite fascinating.”
Rebecca smiled. “Yes, I do find great satisfaction in the work. At one time I dreamed of becoming a doctor but that is virtually impossible for a woman, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Eudora made a soft little sound of disgust. “None of the leading medical schools will accept female candidates.”
“True, but I have learned a great deal working with my husband,” Rebecca said. “I believe he finds me useful.”
Trent smiled. “What Harry says is that you are indispensable. Now, you must excuse us.”
Rebecca gave Calista and Eudora a polite but rather pointed smile. “The traffic is rather heavy at this time of day. Perhaps Calista and Eudora would like to take the opportunity to refresh themselves before setting out.”
Calista and Eudora both looked as if they were about to decline the offer. But the two exchanged an unreadable expression and then Calista smiled at Rebecca.
“Thank you,” Calista said.
“Excellent notion,” Eudora agreed.
Rebecca appeared satisfied. “Mrs. Bascombe will show you the way.”
The stout housekeeper appeared in the hall. With a last, curious glance at Rebecca, Calista and Eudora allowed themselves to be escorted down the hall.
A moment later footsteps echoed faintly on the stairs that led to the landing where the water closet was located.
“Am I missing something here?” Trent asked.
Rebecca ignored that. She lowered her voice and fixed him with a determined look.
“What is going on, Trent? The news of the murder of the owner of the mourning goods shop is a great sensation in the papers today. Neither you nor Miss Langley were mentioned in the piece but I know you were nearly murdered, and I heard Harry say that the situation is dangerous. Surely this is a matter for the police.”
“The police are investigating Mrs. Fulton’s death. They may, indeed, succeed in arresting the killer, but even if they do, there is still the problem of proving that Nestor Kettering hired him.”