by Amanda Quick
“Did anyone notice either girl talking to a man earlier in the evening?”
“Can’t say about Bella Newport. But the tavern owner told me that Annie had bragged about a gentleman who had been watching her off and on for the past few days. She thought he looked very elegant, but she said he seemed a bit shy when it came to approaching a girl.”
“Thank you, Red.”
A carriage appeared momentarily out of the light mist, then rolled past. Red kept his attention on the night-filled alley. He thought he caught the faintest shifting of shadows, but he couldn’t be sure. The rattling of wheels and the clop of the horse’s hooves masked any sound of footsteps, assuming there had been footsteps.
By the time the vehicle had once again vanished into the mist, Red knew that he was alone. He went forward slowly. Sure enough, the usual envelope was there on the paving stones. There would be money inside, enough perhaps to buy his wife a new bonnet. Bessie would be thrilled. She did not approve of his new career as an assistant to a ghost, but she was happy with the income.
He stuffed the plump envelope inside his coat and hurried away toward home. Once he was sipping hot tea and sitting in front of a warm fire he would be able to convince himself that he was not really working for a dead man.
THERE WAS NO constable standing guard in front of the darkened, rundown building, no crowd gathered in the street. It appeared that Bella Newport’s murder had not yet been reported to the police, although, with the rumors already flowing through the underworld, it would not be long. Thaddeus knew that he would not have much time.
He listened carefully, all his senses wide open, making certain that he was alone in the street. He neither saw nor heard anything to indicate that there was anyone else about. No currents of energy stirred, at least none that he could detect.
Satisfied, he left the shadows of a stone doorway, gripped the iron railing and dropped down into the below-street-level front area of the old building. There was enough light from the street lamp above to reveal the debris and decaying leaves that had accumulated in the small space.
He heard a rustling, skittering sound. An instant later two rats, evidently annoyed at having been interrupted in their foraging, flashed up the steps and disappeared beneath the low edge of the railing.
The narrow windows designed to allow light and air into the below-stairs kitchens during the day were black and impenetrable at this hour. He tried the door handle with one gloved hand. It turned easily.
The stench of death struck him the instant he opened the door. He raised one arm to cover his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his coat.
He stood on the threshold for a moment, giving himself some time to become more accustomed to the dreadful atmosphere. After a few seconds he realized that none of the light from the street lamp penetrated the room through the windows.
He closed the door, struck a light and saw immediately why no illumination from outside passed through the glass. The windows were shrouded with the stained canvas that had once covered the kitchen floor. In addition, small squares had been cut out of the fabric and nailed over the glass panes set high in the door.
The murderer had made preparations before the kill. He had stalked his victim.
The body lay on the kitchen table, bound and gagged. Her blonde hair and faded gown were saturated in the blood that had spilled from the ghastly wound in her throat.
Thaddeus forced himself to move closer to what was left of Bella Newport. This was the first time he’d had an opportunity to examine one of the Midnight Monster’s victims.
He was prepared for the fact that the woman had been murdered with a knife. Word had circulated that the other two victims had died in the same fashion. Knives were, after all, the weapon of choice for most in the criminal underworld. Unlike guns they were silent, efficient and easily obtained.
What he had not anticipated was the little pot of rouge on the table beside the body.
29
YOU THINK ANNIE SPENCE was killed by the same man who murdered that poor woman we found in Delbridge’s mansion?” Leona could scarcely believe what she had just heard. Then again, she reflected, she was still reeling from the shock of discovering that Thaddeus was investigating the murders perpetrated by the Midnight Monster.
Victoria stared at Thaddeus, openmouthed. “Are you saying that the Midnight Monster was invited to Delbridge’s party? That he was a guest?”
“I do not know if he received an invitation.” Thaddeus rubbed the back of his neck. “But I am quite certain that he was there that night. I’m also sure that he is the hunter I’ve been chasing these past few weeks.”
It was shortly after five in the morning. They were gathered in the library. Leona and Victoria were in their dressing gowns. One of the cooks who had risen to start the preparations for breakfast had sent in a tray of tea and toast. Leona could not help but notice that the staff appeared unfazed by what would have been perceived as decidedly odd behavior in other households.
Thaddeus was the only one who was not seated. He stood at the window, still dressed in his black shirt, trousers and boots. A restless energy shimmered invisibly in the air around him. Fog had sensed it the moment he had walked through the door a short time ago. The dog now hovered near Thaddeus, pacing when Thaddeus paced.
“Remember that rouge pot beside the body in the gallery, Leona?” Thaddeus asked. “You kicked it with the toe of your shoe.”
She frowned. “I remember kicking some object when I tried to break free of your grasp—” She stopped suddenly, aware that Victoria was looking at her with a fascinated expression. Hastily she cleared her throat. “I meant to say, I recall my toe striking some small object. You picked it up, but I never saw what it was.”
“A rouge pot.” He went back to the desk and held up a little white porcelain pot decorated with tiny pink roses. “The one I found next to Bella Newport’s body tonight looked very similar to it.”
They all contemplated the rouge pot. Victoria turned back to Thaddeus.
“What is so unusual about a rouge pot?” she asked. “You said that poor girl was a prostitute. Everyone knows that women of that sort use cosmetics.”
Thaddeus frowned. “Women of that sort? Are you telling me that only prostitutes use them?”
Victoria looked at Leona.
Leona cleared her throat. “Actresses also employ cosmetics.”
“And Frenchwomen, of course,” Victoria added with a judicious air. “An English lady, however, uses only the most delicate of beauty aids. One may bathe one’s face in a gentle bath of purest rainwater infused with a few slices of cucumber or lemon, but that is all.”
“Well, one might occasionally apply a wholesome lotion made of cream and egg whites to the skin,” Leona offered.
“But never anything as vulgar as rouge,” Victoria concluded firmly.
Thaddeus planted his hands on his hips. “I don’t believe this. Are you two going to sit there and tell me the rosy blush one sees on the lips and cheeks of every lady in a ballroom is due to daily baths of rainwater and cucumbers?”
“The ladies’ magazines do provide some hints for achieving that youthful glow,” Victoria conceded. “The merest trace of artifice, you understand.”
“What hints?” Thaddeus demanded.
Leona leaned forward to pour more tea into her cup. “One is advised to bite one’s lips and pinch one’s cheeks quite vigorously before one enters a room.”
Thaddeus looked grim and irritated. “This is all rubbish, and well you know it. The makers of cosmetics and beauty aids do very nicely in England. Do not try to tell me that they are making their fortunes selling their products solely to actresses, prostitutes and the occasional French tourist.”
Leona sipped her tea, silently deferring to Victoria.
“Very well, Thaddeus,” Victoria said, tight-lipped. “I will allow that, in truth, there are a great many rouge pots sitting on the dressing tables of England. But you must not breathe a word abou
t that outside this room. Do you understand?”
Leona hid a smile. “The reputations of the women of England are in your hands, sir.”
Thaddeus shoved his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe all this nonsense about whether or not a woman uses cosmetics.”
Victoria gave him a repressive glare. “What respectable women may or may not do in the privacy of their bedrooms is not the point. What I am trying to make clear is that the use of cosmetics is considered quite vulgar.”
Leona pondered that observation and then looked at Victoria. “If a killer wanted to make a point about his victim being a prostitute, he might leave a rouge pot behind at the scene.”
Victoria nodded. “Yes, it would be a symbolic way of accusing her of being a streetwalker.”
The lines at the corners of Thaddeus’s eyes tightened a little. “In Bella Newport’s case, he did more than just leave the pot behind. He applied a great deal of the paint to her face.”
Victoria stared at him aghast. “The murderer put rouge on her cheeks? Are you sure it wasn’t the victim, herself, who did it before her death?”
“I could see where the Monster was forced to wipe away some of the blood before he applied the rouge,” Thaddeus said quietly.
“Good lord.” Victoria shuddered.
Leona frowned. “What of the woman in Delbridge’s museum?”
“I cannot say in her case,” Thaddeus admitted. “The light was very poor, if you will recall, and I did not have an opportunity to examine the body.” He studied the little pot he held. “But given that this rouge was at the scene, I think we can now be reasonably certain that whoever murdered that woman is the Midnight Monster.”
“A guest in Lord Delbridge’s house.” Victoria shook her head, amazed. “But why would he do such a thing? There is no logic to such an action.”
“There is no logic to slaughtering prostitutes,” Thaddeus pointed out. “I suspect that he enjoys the business. Perhaps the rouge pots at the scene are his way of leaving a signature.”
“The man must be insane,” Leona whispered.
“Mad, perhaps,” Thaddeus agreed, “but not dim-witted. He is clever, and he manages to keep to the shadows.”
“If Caleb Jones is right, and the Monster is a hunter, it is no wonder he has been able to avoid detection,” Victoria observed.
Thaddeus continued to study the little pot. “A hunter who, for one night, it seems, selected different prey. The question is, why would he change his pattern?”
Leona raised her brows. “You refer to the dead woman in Delbridge’s gallery?”
“Yes.” Thaddeus leaned back against the side of the desk. “Whatever else she was, the woman we found was not a common streetwalker. She was a fashionable and no doubt expensive member of her profession. What is even more interesting is that my friend at Scotland Yard tells me that her murder has not yet been reported to the police.”
“Delbridge is concealing the crime,” Leona said.
“Murder will out,” Victoria quoted softly.
“Not, it appears, in this case,” Leona said.
“Not yet, at any rate,” Thaddeus corrected. He looked at Victoria. “We need more information, and we need it quickly. I could use an assistant, Aunt Vicky.”
Victoria’s eyes widened. “You want my help in your investigation?”
“If you are willing,” Thaddeus said. “I’m quite certain there will be no danger involved.”
An unfamiliar animation lit Victoria’s normally stern face. “I would be delighted to help bring this dreadful killer to justice. But what can I do?”
“You clearly know a great deal about cosmetics. I want you to go on a shopping expedition this morning to see if you can locate the establishment that sold this rouge pot. It is obviously quite expensive. That should shorten the list of shops that might sell such items.”
“Yes, it will,” Victoria said, still looking somewhat dazed. “Indeed, I can think of only a handful of places that sell such fine cosmetics.”
“What about me?” Leona said to Thaddeus. “I’m certainly not going to sit around here waiting for my fitting while you and your aunt investigate.”
He smiled. “You and I are going to pay a couple of visits to certain individuals today. The first one, I think, has met the killer and will be able to give me a detailed description of him.”
“Really? That would be wonderful. Who is it?”
“Someone you know rather well.”
She stared in disbelief. “I am acquainted with a person who has met the Midnight Monster?”
“I’m afraid so,” Thaddeus said.
30
OW, SEE HERE, Mrs. Ravenglass, I’ve told you before, you can’t bring that dog into my shop.” Dr. Wagner Goodhew leaped to his feet behind his desk, nervously watching Fog. “It isn’t sanitary.”
“Perhaps not,” Leona said. She smiled behind the black veil of her hat. “But I have discovered that, thanks to the poor quality of the clients you have been sending to me lately, I require some physical protection.”
Fog, unaware that he had been insulted, settled down on the floor, paws outstretched, and studied Goodhew with an unwavering gaze.
Thaddeus entered the premises behind Leona and Fog. He now stood nearby, wrapped in his invisible cloak of stillness and shadows, and contemplated the doctor with an expression that, in Leona’s opinion, bore a remarkable resemblance to Fog’s. Both looked as though they would enjoy nothing more than going for Goodhew’s throat.
Goodhew noticed Thaddeus for the first time.
“My apologies, sir,” he said quickly. “I didn’t see you standing there. I expect you’ve come to inquire about the special sale on Goodhew’s Vital Elixir for Men. I’ll be right with you.”
“No hurry,” Thaddeus said. He infused his voice with just a touch of energy, enough to fill the room with a sensation of impending doom. “I’m with the lady.”
Goodhew went quite pale. He pulled himself together with a visible effort and swung back toward Leona. “What’s this about the quality of the clients?”
“We have an agreement, Dr. Goodhew,” she said crisply. “Your side of the bargain includes ascertaining that the people you send to me are legitimate clients in need of my crystal-working services. In return you receive a rather hefty referral fee from me. But the gentleman you sent to me the day before yesterday, Mr. Morton, seemed to believe that I am in a somewhat different line of work.”
Goodhew bridled. His gaze shifted uneasily from Fog to Thaddeus. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She took two steps closer to the desk. “Just how did Morton gain the impression that I might be agreeable to providing certain therapies designed to relieve congestion of the masculine nervous system?”
The instant she moved, Fog surged to his feet, growling softly. Goodhew started visibly and jumped back. He came up hard against the wall.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said forcefully. “If Morton made certain assumptions, that is not my fault.”
“On the contrary,” Leona said, “he specifically stated that you had diagnosed his dreams as the products of a congestion of certain masculine fluids which, in turn, created stress on his nerves and caused disturbing dreams.”
“I’m sure he simply misunderstood.”
“He said you promised him an hour of private therapy in an intimate setting.”
“Well? Isn’t that how you perform your crystal work, madam? Privately and in an intimate setting?”
“You know very well that you deliberately gave Morton the wrong idea of what to expect from a consultation. What’s more, you charged him extra for my special services.”
“Now, see here, business has been slow of late, you know that, Mrs. Ravenglass.”
“What does that have to do with marketing me as a prostitute?”
Goodhew spread his hands. “I was trying to be creative.”
“Creative? You were assuming the role
of a brothel keeper.”
“Morton had no luck with my Vital Elixir for Men, and, to be frank, he was not at all keen on trying your crystal therapy. Didn’t have any faith in psychical nonsense, he said. I would have lost him as a client altogether if I hadn’t come up with an innovative concept. I gave him no specific reason to expect other than some crystal work for his dreams.”
“Mr. Morton most certainly expected something more.”
“That is not my fault.”
“In that case, why did you charge him extra?”
Goodhew drew himself up and squared his shoulders. “I did it for both our sakes. I thought it time to increase our prices. I fully intended to give you half of the additional fees I collected.”
“Rubbish. You never even intended for me to find out that you were charging the higher fees. How many other clients have you diagnosed with masculine congestion?”
“Calm yourself, Mrs. Ravenglass.” Goodhew flapped his hands. “I only recently hit upon the notion of sending such clients to you, and I assure you that I only refer those gentlemen who do not first have success with my elixir.”
She took another step closer to the desk. “How many others, Goodhew?”
He cleared his throat, loosened his tie and glanced uneasily at Thaddeus. “Hardly any.”
“How many?”
Goodhew seemed to cave in on himself. “Two. Morton was the first. The second gentleman’s appointment is for today.”
Thaddeus stirred and walked toward the desk in a deceptively leisurely manner. “Show us your appointment book, Goodhew.”
Goodhew scowled. “Why?”
“Because I want to find out how many more clients with erotic dreams induced by masculine congestion I can expect to see in my consulting rooms,” Leona said coldly.
“I told you, there is only one other appointment of that nature.” Goodhew edged warily back to his desk, reached down and flipped open a leather-bound journal. “See for yourself. I told you, it has been a very slow week.”
