'Til Death Do Us Part

by Amanda Quick

  Eudora opened her eyes. “You fear that Trent has developed warm emotions for you because he sees you as a lady to be rescued. He blames himself for what happened in the past and he is desperate not to fail a second time.”

  “Yes, that is why I cannot be certain of his true feelings for me. Like you, I want to know that I am loved for myself, not because Trent sees me as a lady to be saved.”

  “When it comes to love, you and I both demand a great deal.”

  Calista looked down into the fire. “That is probably the reason why neither of us has ever married.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Have you ever stopped to think that the reasons your brother never married might be similar to our own?”

  Startled, Eudora considered that while she set the poker back in the brass stand. “I see what you mean. I have never considered that men might have their dreams, just as women do. One thinks of them as being driven by more elemental emotions: physical desire, practicality, the wish to secure an inheritance—those sorts of things.”

  “All of which have their place, I’m sure. But I think that Trent is also very much a romantic at heart.”

  “An interesting thought.” Eudora smiled. “Perhaps that explains Clive Stone’s great interest in Wilhelmina Preston.”

  “We can speculate all we like. Trent is the only one who knows how he truly feels.” Calista straightened her shoulders. “Speaking for myself, I feel the need for some more tea. As there has been no sign of Mrs. Sykes, I think we can deduce that she and Mr. Sykes did go to bed, after all. I’ll go to the kitchen and put the kettle on.”

  “I’ll come with you. I do not want to be alone tonight.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Eudora paused at the end table and glanced at the Kettering journal of financial accounts. “Trent was right about one thing. It’s amazing how much one can learn about a person from a record of his personal expenditures. I must say, Kettering did not stint when it came to his tailors.”

  “Or memento mori items,” Calista said grimly. “He must have been as mad as that killer he hired. It is unnerving to know that he was able to conceal his true nature so well.”

  “I suppose that is why evil is so dangerous. It can so easily be masked behind an attractive façade.” Eudora moved toward the door. “I must say, Kettering kept excellent accounts, though, and in a very neat hand.”

  A shiver of uncertainty iced Calista’s neck. She was at the door, about to open it and go out into the hall. Instead, she paused and glanced back at the Kettering journal.

  Her intuition whispered to her.

  “Did you say that Nestor Kettering had a very neat hand?” she asked.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  Calista turned away from the door and went to the end table. She stared at the journal for a few seconds before she picked it up.

  For the first time, she opened it and studied the pages of neatly penned entries.

  “Because this is not how I remember his handwriting,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  Calista carried the journal to the desk and set it down. She opened a drawer with shaking fingers.

  “What are you looking for?” Eudora asked.

  “Back at the start of this affair, Nestor sent me two bouquets of flowers before he made the appointment to meet with me.”

  “He was trying to woo you. What of it?”

  “I instructed Mrs. Sykes to toss the flowers into the rubbish but I kept one of the cards.”

  “Why?”

  “Mostly because it infuriated me. I wanted a reminder that I could never again trust him.”

  “As if you needed such a reminder,” Eudora said. “But why do you want to see the card now?”

  “Because I have just had a very odd thought.”

  She sat down at her desk and riffled through her personal correspondence until she found the elegant white card that had accompanied the second bouquet of flowers.

  She removed it from the file and placed it on the desk. Then she opened the journal of household accounts that Trent had brought out of the Kettering residence.

  Another jolt of awareness nearly shattered her nerves. She stared at the card and then at the last page of the journal of accounts.

  “Dear heaven,” she whispered.

  Eudora leaned over the desk and read the card aloud.

  I have known only loneliness since we parted. Please tell me that you have some feelings for me. Together we shall find true happiness on the metaphysical plane.

  Yours,

  N. Kettering

  For a moment Eudora simply stared at the short note. Then she, too, studied the last page of the journal.

  Calista watched her, hardly daring to speak in case she was wrong in her conclusion.

  But when Eudora looked up there was shocked comprehension in her eyes.

  “The handwriting does not match,” she whispered. “The card and the journal were written by two different people.”

  “Nestor Kettering wrote the note that accompanied the bouquet. But he is not the one who kept the journal of accounts.”

  “A secretary, perhaps? Many wealthy families employ one.”

  “Andrew never mentioned a secretary. I’m sure he would have done so.”

  Eudora put a hand to her throat. “We’ve been looking at this affair from the wrong perspective all along.”

  “Yes.” Calista leaped to her feet, rounded the desk, hoisted her skirts, and ran for the door. “Come, we must wake Mr. and Mrs. Sykes.”

  Eudora hurried after her. “What are we going to do? Send for the police?”

  “The first order of business is to get a message to Trent, assuming he is still at the knifeman’s house. There is no telling where Andrew is at this hour. No way to warn him.”

  “Surely Andrew is safe,” Eudora said. “Trent gave him stern instructions not to let the killer see him.”

  “I pray my brother has the good sense to follow those instructions,” Calista said. “I just hope we are not too late.”

  She rushed down the hall to the kitchen and swept into the room.

  She came to a halt so abruptly that Eudora nearly collided with her.

  “Sorry,” Eudora said, stepping back quickly.

  But Calista did not respond. She stood, transfixed with shock, at the sight of the ghastly tableau assembled around the kitchen table.

  Mr. Sykes was crumpled on the floor, one hand flung out to the side as if he had made a desperate effort to ward off a blow. An overturned coffee cup was on the floor next to his hand. It was impossible to tell if he was dead or alive.

  Mrs. Sykes was slumped over the table. She did not move.

  Anna Kettering stood over her, a large meat cleaver in her elegantly gloved hand. The sharp edge of the blade was poised above Mrs. Sykes’s neck.

  “There you are,” Anna said in the bright, charming tones of a lady welcoming guests to a garden party. “When I heard the service bell ring a short time ago, I thought you might eventually come to the kitchen to see what was keeping your housekeeper and butler. Really, one cannot rely on anyone in service these days, can one?”

  65

  “IT WAS YOU all along, wasn’t it?” Calista said.

  A strange, eerie sense of detachment settled on her. She was amazed by her own unnaturally calm voice. But she knew she needed to maintain that cool, controlled edge because she and Eudora were dealing with a madwoman. The smallest spark might ignite Anna’s fevered brain.

  “Yes, of course it was me,” Anna said.

  “You were the one who hunted all of us—the three governesses and me. How many other women did you torment with your little game?”

  “There were only the four of you this past year,” Anna said. Her voice abruptly tightened with rage. “And it wasn’t a game. I pun
ished my husband’s whores because they seduced him and turned him away from me. He loved me back at the start, you see. He thought I was beautiful. He wanted me. But after our honeymoon he took up with that first governess.”

  “Elizabeth Dunsforth,” Eudora said.

  “She was nothing,” Anna said. “Nothing. Just a governess. But she made Nestor desire her. I had to teach her a lesson.”

  “You sent her the memento mori gifts from Mrs. Fulton’s shop and when you finished terrifying her you sent someone to murder her,” Calista said. “Then you paid for a very fine safety coffin.”

  Anna snickered. “I knew she would never ring the bell. None of them ever rang the bell. It was a little joke, you see.”

  “You controlled the household accounts,” Eudora said. “You made all of the purchases from Mrs. Fulton’s shop.”

  “The money is mine.” Anna got very fierce for a moment. “Papa left it to me. But as it happens, Nestor was content to let me deal with the household accounts. He didn’t want to be bothered with the details of managing a fortune. As long as he had everything he wanted, he was happy.”

  “So you paid all his bills,” Calista said. “And you began to realize that some of the money you gave Nestor was being spent on other women.”

  “Really, I don’t know how he expected to hide that from me. But that was the thing, you see. He didn’t even care enough about my feelings to conceal his affairs. He flaunted them.”

  “I noticed that you gave yourself a rather generous allowance,” Eudora said.

  Anna frowned. “How did you know about that? Well, I don’t suppose it matters. Yes, I gave myself an allowance.”

  “Why not just pay your own bills?” Eudora asked. “You just said that Nestor never questioned the household accounts.”

  Anna giggled. “I was afraid that if he ever did examine the records he would become suspicious of some of my expenses. I did not want to have to explain them so I simply paid them out of my allowance.”

  “But not the house in Frampton Street,” Calista said. “You bought that outright, didn’t you?”

  Anna looked startled. “You know about that, too? Yes, the house was a major purchase. I couldn’t cover it out of my allowance. But Nestor never even noticed. He was obsessed with his other women.”

  “He was obsessed with them?” Calista repeated.

  “Yes, I’m afraid Nestor was cursed with an obsessive personality. I tried to cure him.”

  “By destroying the objects of his obsessions,” Eudora said, “the other women.”

  Anna gave her an approving smile. “Precisely. Sooner or later Nestor always tired of his whores—usually sooner. When he was done with them I sent them the memento mori gifts. They thought the presents were coming from Nestor, you see. They became quite unnerved.”

  “And finally you sent your hired killer to murder each of the women,” Calista said. “But I rejected Nestor. Why hunt me?”

  “Because he wanted you before he married me,” Anna said, the rage seething again in her voice. “And then, a few weeks ago, he wanted you again. He sent you flowers—flowers purchased with my money. He never wanted me the way he wanted you. All he cared about was my inheritance.”

  The atmosphere in the kitchen was charged with an ominous tension. Calista struggled to find some means of distracting Anna. She knew Eudora was also searching for a way to buy some time—time for Trent and Andrew to return.

  “You seem to know a great deal about obsessions and how to cure them,” Calista said. “How did that come about?”

  “I have studied the science of psychology since I was a girl of twelve, Miss Langley. Indeed, I am an expert.”

  “An unusual subject for a lady,” Eudora said.

  “I had an excellent teacher.” Anna smiled. “Dr. Morris Ashwell.”

  “Who is he?” Calista asked.

  “The doctor who tried to cure me of my obsession with death. I tried to explain to dear Papa that the emotions associated with the great transition from this world to the next are the strongest of all the passions. Papa did not understand. When I turned thirteen he sent me to Dr. Ashwell.”

  “Evidently Ashwell was unable to rid you of your fixation,” Calista said.

  “Quite the opposite.” Anna chuckled. “He became obsessed with me, you see. Amusing when you think about it—the doctor developing a great passion for his patient. I was just thirteen at the time but quite pretty, if I do say so.”

  “How old was Dr. Ashwell?” Eudora asked.

  Anna grimaced. “Old enough to be my grandfather. Not at all pleasant to look upon, I must say. I hated the feel of his beard and his thick body disgusted me.”

  Eudora took a sharp, shocked breath.

  Calista was stunned. “He assaulted you? You were just a girl.”

  Anna gave her a serene smile. “No need to feel sorry for me, Miss Langley. I assure you, I soon realized that his obsession with me gave me a great deal of power over him. And in the end I used that power to escape.”

  “From where?” Eudora said.

  “Brightstone Manor,” Anna said impatiently. “I hated that place. I was locked up every night. We all were.”

  “Dr. Ashwell ran a private asylum,” Calista said, comprehending at last. “Your father had you committed.”

  “For nearly three years,” Anna shrieked. “That bastard, Ashwell, conducted experiments on us. He told Papa that it was necessary to keep me in Brightstone Manor because I was a danger to myself and others. But every night Ashwell came to my room. Every night I pretended that I was dead. I got rather good at it.”

  “How did you escape?” Eudora asked.

  An artificial calm settled on Anna. She smiled her angelic smile. “My brave knight in shining armor slew the monster and rescued me. And then we burned Brightstone Manor to the ground.”

  “The man with the knife who tried to murder Mr. Hastings and me that night in Mrs. Fulton’s coffin display room,” Calista said. “He’s your knight, isn’t he?”

  “Oliver is devoted to me. He is obsessed with me also, but not like Ashwell. Oliver lives a strict, celibate life. He is purifying himself by serving his lady.”

  “You,” Calista said.

  “Yes. I saved him. He had been locked away in Dr. Ashwell’s asylum for years. Oliver was born a gentleman and educated as one but his family signed commitment papers when he was seventeen years old.”

  “Given his habit of slitting throats, that is not terribly surprising,” Calista said. “So he murdered Dr. Ashwell for you, the pair of you escaped, and you burned down the asylum.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the other inmates in the asylum?” Eudora ventured. “There must have been some besides you and Oliver.”

  “A dozen, perhaps. I’ve forgotten. Why?”

  “You didn’t rescue the other inmates, did you?” Calista asked. “You left them to die in the inferno.”

  “They were all quite mad. I’m sure their families were relieved not to have to pay Ashwell’s fees any longer.”

  “You shot Nestor, didn’t you?” Calista said.

  “Yes. I waited for him in his dressing room. He never saw me until I put the gun to his head. And by then it was too late, of course.”

  “And then you had Oliver carry his body into that locked chamber,” Eudora concluded.

  “I hadn’t planned to get rid of Nestor that evening,” Anna said. “I wanted a more suitable death for him. But I was forced to take action.”

  “What constitutes a more suitable death?” Calista asked.

  “I wanted him to die much more slowly.” Anna’s eyes heated with a dangerous fire. “I wanted to watch Oliver slit Nestor’s throat. I wanted to see the blood flow slowly but surely from the wound. I wanted Nestor to know that I was watching him die. But I had just discovered that he intended
to try to have me committed again. I had to move quickly.”

  “Having you committed would have violated the terms of your father’s will,” Eudora said.

  “Nestor conspired with his friend Dolan Birch. They were going to make it appear that I had gone away for an extended stay in the country and that I had put Nestor in charge of my financial affairs. No one would have questioned the papers. Everyone is accustomed to the notion of the husband dealing with such matters.”

  “They planned to send you to an asylum that disguises itself as a hotel and spa outside a village named Seacliff,” Calista said.

  “You know everything, don’t you? I don’t understand, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  “How did you discover that Nestor was conspiring to have you locked up again?” Eudora asked.

  “That was a matter of sheer luck,” Anna said. She shuddered. The blade of the meat cleaver dipped lower toward Mrs. Sykes’s neck. “Oliver followed Nestor everywhere, but Nestor never paid any attention to him. Recently Oliver overheard Nestor and Birch discussing the plan to get rid of me. They were quarreling. Evidently Nestor had not yet fulfilled his part of the bargain. It seemed he still owed Birch.”

  “What did he owe him?” Calista asked. But she was quite certain she knew the answer.

  Anna laughed. “Nestor claimed that he could deliver access to your client files to Birch. Amusing, isn’t it? Just think, if it hadn’t been for you, I might have been locked away in another asylum by now.”

  “Why did your father marry you off to a fortune hunter?” Calista asked.

  “I chose Nestor.” Anna’s voice rose again, this time on a thin, fragile note. “I met him while he was visiting at a nearby country estate. There was a party and all of the local gentry were invited. Nestor danced with me and I thought him the handsomest man in the world. I fell in love with him that night. He told me that he loved me and I believed him.”

  “He lied to you.”

  “At the start he truly did love me,” Anna insisted. “He was quite passionate. But partway through our honeymoon he developed a profound disgust for my person. He said that making love to me was like making love to a corpse. I didn’t understand. Dr. Ashwell liked it when I pretended to be dead.”