by Amanda Quick
“You agreed to pay it.”
“Yes.”
“Pell helped you find Bristow?”
“He did, yes. But fate had already taken a hand. When I finally tracked him down, Bristow was alone and dying of a fever. He was delirious but he recognized me. He pleaded with me to pay for a doctor. Harry told me years later that it was unlikely a doctor could have saved him.”
“But that is not your point, is it?” Calista asked gently.
“There were things I could have done. I could have purchased some laudanum or another drug to ease his suffering. I could have paid for a nurse to tend him. But I walked away and left him there, Calista. Three days later they pulled him out of the river. Evidently in his delirium he had managed to drag himself to the end of a dock. He either jumped or fell in. We’ll never know and I don’t particularly care.”
“I am very glad that you were not forced to kill him,” Calista said. “I realize that you would have done it to protect your family and I understand. But I am glad you do not have to carry that particular burden.”
The atmosphere was very still in the library. He was afraid to shatter it but he had to ask the question.
“Do you?” he asked. “Understand, I mean? I did cross a line, Calista. I left Bristow to die. Had he not been dying, I would have killed him.”
She moved a few steps closer to him.
“I can see that the knowledge of what you did and what you know you would have done haunts you,” she said. “I am sorry that you were obliged to confront that aspect of your nature. I realize that knowing such a truth about yourself must be a hard thing to live with but you have mourned the death of your lost innocence long enough. It is past time for you to get on with living your life.”
He stared at her, stricken by the insight. “Do you think that is what I’ve been doing all this time? Grieving for the truth I discovered about myself?”
“That certainly appears to be the case,” she said. She bent down to scoop up a few more folders and pages of notes. “I suggest you give yourself more credit, sir. You are a man of honor who was willing to sacrifice himself for those who depended on him. I respect that. You should respect that about yourself, as well.”
“Calista, about tonight. And your own innocence.”
“I assure you I have not been innocent for a very long time.” She straightened and put the folders on the desk. “No woman who must make her own way in the world can retain her illusions. And that is what innocence is at its core, is it not? Illusions.”
“It seems we are both rather jaded.”
She gave him a wry smile. “We are, indeed. Nor are we alone. I certainly am not. Every governess and every paid companion I have ever met is just as realistic, I assure you.” She stopped and looked down at the folders in her hand. “The governesses. Yes, of course.”
“What are we talking about now?”
“The murdered governesses from the Grant Agency.” She put the folders on the desk and started shuffling through the pile. “The three women Mrs. Grant said were buried in modern safety coffins.”
“What are you looking for?”
“None of the women was a client of my agency. But as I mentioned, I did have two Grant Agency governesses as clients. Both were successfully matched. I seem to recall that one of them told me that she had referred another woman at the agency to me. But that woman never came for an interview.”
“Why is that important?”
“I don’t know. But it is troubling me. I have a vague recollection of making a note of the name.”
She sat down behind her desk and opened the folders. He angled himself across one corner of the desk and watched her page carefully through the notes.
“Yes.” She paused at a page, reading quickly. “Here it is. Virginia Shipley.”
She said it as if he ought to recognize the name.
“I don’t—” He stopped. “The secretary at the Grant Agency?”
“Wasn’t that her name? Shipley?”
“Yes, I think so, but what does that signify?” he asked.
“It occurs to me that Nestor Kettering selected his prey with some care. The three women who died all had a few things in common.”
“They were all young, alone in the world, and worked for the Grant Agency. What of it?”
“Think about it, Trent. How did Nestor go about selecting his prey? On his own, he would not have had any way to know which women were young and alone and attractive. Yet he managed to find three such ladies at the Grant Agency. It was only after they were dead that he started sending flowers to me.”
Understanding dawned.
“You think he had access to the Grant Agency files, don’t you?” he said. “Someone allowed him to select his prey.”
“Who would have better access to those files than the secretary?”
44
“I’M AFRAID MISS Shipley did not come in to the office today.” Mrs. Grant tapped one finger impatiently on her desk. “She did not even bother to send a note explaining her absence. I can only assume she fell ill during the night. She has always seemed quite healthy but one never knows, does one?”
“No,” Calista said. “It is very important that we talk to her. Would you mind giving us her address?”
“Why?” Mrs. Grant looked at Trent with obvious misgivings. “Are you going to put Miss Shipley into your new novel instead of me?”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Trent said. “But it is imperative that I speak to her to confirm one or two small facts. I would be grateful if you would be so kind as to give me her address.”
“What facts do you wish to confirm? Perhaps I can help you.”
“Very well,” Trent said. “Among other things we wish to know if Miss Shipley is acquainted with a man named Nestor Kettering.”
“I’ve never heard of him. I have no clients named Kettering. Why would Miss Shipley know him, and why is that information important to you?”
Calista decided it was time to take command of the situation.
“Let me put it this way, Mrs. Grant,” she said. “There is every reason to believe that Nestor Kettering is a very dangerous man. We think he may be responsible for the death of several women. If that is the case, Miss Shipley may be in grave danger.”
Mrs. Grant stared at her. “You’re serious.” She turned back to Trent. “This is not part of your plot research, is it, sir?”
“Unfortunately, our concerns for Miss Shipley are genuine,” he said.
Mrs. Grant did not appear enthusiastic about cooperating but it was clear that she was shaken.
“I’ll give you the address,” she said. “Miss Shipley recently moved to a very nice neighborhood. Said something about having received a bequest from a distant relative. I’ve been afraid she would give notice one of these days. I got the impression that she no longer needs the income from her post here at my agency. Fortune has evidently smiled upon her.”
45
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Trent stood in the center of a small but nicely furnished little parlor. Calista stood across from him. Together they looked down at the body of Virginia Shipley. The expensive silk necktie that had been used to strangle her trailed away from her bruised throat.
“Fortune did not smile upon her,” Trent said. “Someone murdered her.”
“Nestor Kettering,” Calista said. “It must have been him.”
“Perhaps, but she did not die like the others. That raises some questions.”
“He didn’t consider her prey the way he did the others, so he did not follow his usual pattern,” Calista said. “He murdered her so that she would not talk to us.”
“Which means she knew something that could lead us to him.”
“The same reason Mrs. Fulton, the proprietor of the mourning goods shop, was killed.”
“Perhaps.” Tren
t went out into the hall. “Let’s have a look around before I send for the police. We may find something that will link Miss Shipley to her killer.”
“I’ll search her bedroom,” Calista said. “It will be easier for a woman to spot something unusual in another woman’s bedroom.”
“I’ll deal with the ground-floor rooms,” Trent said.
He went down the hall toward the small dining room and kitchen. Calista hoisted her skirts and hurried up the narrow staircase.
She stopped at the first bedroom doorway and looked into the room. There was a small writing table near the window. The wardrobe stood open, as if Shipley had been interrupted in the midst of getting ready for bed. The towering hairpiece she had been wearing at the Grant Agency and the long, sturdy pins required to anchor it were neatly arranged on a dressing table.
There was a very large, expensive mirror on the table. The brush and comb set were backed with silver. A small jewelry box occupied a prominent position.
Miss Shipley was doing quite well on a secretary’s salary, Calista thought.
It occurred to her that many women would keep the things they valued most in their jewelry boxes. She went toward the dressing table.
She was reaching out to lift the lid of the jewelry box when a man appeared in the mirror. There was a gun in his hand.
Instinctively she started to turn, her mouth open to scream a warning to Trent but the newcomer was upon her so swiftly she could not get the words out.
He slapped a large palm across her lips and hauled her back against his chest. His eyes met hers in the mirror and she knew that he would murder her without a qualm.
“Not one word,” the man said. “I’ve already killed one inconvenient woman today. I don’t mind silencing another.”
46
SHE HEARD TRENT’S footsteps on the staircase.
“Calista?” he called.
She struggled in the stranger’s grip, trying to make enough noise to warn Trent, but her captor jerked her away from the dressing table and turned so that both of them faced the bedroom doorway.
Trent appeared, his walking stick gripped casually in his hand.
“One more move and I’ll shoot you first and then kill the woman,” the gunman said.
“I understand,” Trent said.
The gunman took his hand away from Calista’s mouth in order to get his arm more securely around her. He pinned her to his chest.
“You must be Hastings,” he said. “I assume this irritating female is Miss Langley. I knew Shipley was going to be a problem sooner or later, but I had hoped to deal with her before she became a liability.”
“You were too late, Birch,” Trent said.
Calista’s heart was pounding but she felt the jolt of alarm that went through the gunman’s body.
“How do you know my name?” Birch demanded.
“Well, as you clearly are not Kettering, I went with the next logical choice. Incidentally, a number of people are aware that Miss Langley and I came here today to interview Miss Shipley.”
“I was afraid of that. The two of you have ruined a very profitable business. It was so easy to sell the names of the young governesses to wealthy, jaded men who enjoy seducing innocent, well-bred women without having to bother with the nuisance of dealing with irate fathers and brothers.”
“You sold those young women?” Trent asked.
“I provided names, addresses, and descriptions for a fee. It was up to the client to seduce the merchandise. But you’d be amazed how many wealthy, jaded men enjoy the chase, so long as they know they can walk away when the game is finished. And it really is so easy with governesses. The nature of their work means that they spend a great deal of time alone with their charges. They take the children to parks and other sorts of outings and they generally stick to their routines like clockwork. There really is no great trick to starting up a flirtation with one if you know where to meet her.”
“And you knew their schedules because Miss Shipley kept you informed,” Calista said.
“Shipley kept track of the merchandise and their routines, yes. The women considered her a friend and confidante.”
“What happened to the women you sold to your clients?” Trent said.
“Who knows? I imagine most of them wound up on the streets. A few of the smart ones, like Shipley, no doubt managed to conceal their time as whores and find new posts as governesses. It wasn’t my concern. All I guaranteed my clients was that the merchandise was young, attractive, well-bred, and alone in the world. The rest was up to them.”
“Were you the one who murdered the three governesses?” Trent asked almost casually—as if the answer was only of passing interest.
“Why would I want to do that? I made a great deal of money off those silly women. They were all so willing to believe that a wealthy, respectable gentleman wanted to marry them.”
“It was a story they wanted to hear,” Trent said. “When did you make your business arrangement with Miss Shipley?”
“Shipley and I met when she was a governess. She was quite pretty in those days. But the looks didn’t last. I lost interest in her. Eventually she went to work as the secretary at the Grant Agency, and then, a few years ago, she approached me with her business plan. I think she actually believed that if she made herself valuable to me—if she became my business partner—I would find her attractive once again.”
“If you didn’t murder the governesses, who did?” Trent asked.
“Kettering, obviously. I began to wonder about him after the second one succumbed to a mysterious illness. When the third governess went into the ground I concluded that Kettering was a problem. I was about to inform him that I would no longer provide him with names from the Grant Agency list. It was simply too risky. But at about that time he pleaded with me to help him get rid of his wife. I saw an opportunity because I had recently learned of Miss Langley’s very interesting business.”
“Miss Shipley told you about my introductions agency, didn’t she?” Calista said.
“Yes. I was amused at first. You and I are in the same business, Miss Langley.”
“No, we are not, you bastard.”
“I had already begun to speculate about the possibilities of taking over your introductions agency but I could not see a clear way to achieve my objective.”
“Until you realized that one of your clients, Kettering, might be in a position to get his hands on my files, is that it?” Calista asked.
“I had been acquainted with Kettering long enough to learn that he had once seduced you, Miss Langley.”
“He did not seduce me.”
“Call it what you will. Kettering mentioned in passing that he had come very close to marrying you, only to discover that you were not an heiress, after all. He seemed to think he’d had a very narrow escape.”
“He was not the only one,” Calista said.
“My point is that I was aware of your past relationship with Kettering but I had not understood the exact nature of your business or realized the potential until Shipley outlined the possibilities for me. A list of single women, many with respectable incomes. So much more valuable than penniless governesses.”
“You thought you could use Nestor to get access to my roster of female clients,” Calista said. “You assumed that I would allow him back into my life.”
“In my experience, lonely women are usually eager to give a man a second chance,” Birch said.
“So you made a bargain with Kettering,” Trent said. “You told him that if he could gain access to Miss Langley’s list of clients, you would help him make his wife disappear.”
“That is a very shrewd deduction, Hastings,” Birch said. “Only to be expected from a novelist who specializes in detective fiction, I suppose. Yes, that was the plan, but things have obviously gone awry.”
“So you are tr
ying to snip off loose ends,” Trent said. “You had to get rid of Miss Shipley first because she could connect you to the three dead governesses and the brothel business you are operating. I imagine Kettering is next on your list?”
“He was until you and Miss Langley showed up here at Shipley’s house. Now you have the honor. You really are a damned nuisance, Hastings. I should have gotten rid of you first.”
Calista felt Birch’s body tense in preparation for the shot. Her arms were at her sides. She opened her right hand, revealing the long, sturdy hairpin with its two steel prongs that she had concealed within the folds of her skirts.
Trent met her eyes and she knew he understood what she intended.
She could not hesitate a second longer. Birch was going to shoot Trent. She set her teeth together and raised her arm as high as possible. She stabbed the hairpin backward, hoping to drive the steel into Birch’s eye and, at the very least, distract him long enough to give Trent a chance to act.
She felt the twin prongs hit flesh and thought she might be sick to her stomach.
Birch shrieked in agony and rage. Instinctively he shoved her aside with such force she fell to the floor. She heard the gun roar but Trent did not go down. She knew that in his panic, Birch had missed his target.
Trent leaped forward, the walking stick raised for a blow.
Birch staggered back, howling with fury. Calista saw that the hairpin had lodged in his jaw, not his eye. As she watched, he yanked it out. Blood spurted.
And then Trent was upon him, swinging the stick in a savage arc that caught Birch on the arm. Calista heard bone crack. The revolver thudded heavily to the floor.
Birch screamed again and fled toward the door.
Trent went after him. Both men disappeared into the hall. There was another panicky scream. Birch, Calista thought. Not Trent.
The scream was followed by a terrible cascade of heavy thuds on the staircase.
Calista scrambled to her feet, hoisted her skirts, and ran out into the hall.