by Amanda Quick
“Why do you need the necklace? Surely you have earned a nice income working for the Russians.”
“Not nearly enough to allow me to live in the style I deserve. But the Rose Necklace will change all that.”
“Where will you go?”
“Who knows?” Leona shrugged. “Perhaps I shall take some guidance from one of your essays in the Flying Intelligencer. What was it you wrote? ‘In the American West, there is no past, only the future. One is free to reinvent oneself.’”
“I don’t think that’s going to work for you, Leona.”
“It will work. Give me the bloody necklace.”
“Or you’ll shoot me? Don’t be silly. Benedict is out in the hall. He will hear the shot and come at once.”
“But that will be much too late to save you.”
“Very well.”
Amity reached up slowly to unfasten the long, sweeping cloak. She pulled the folds of the domino aside at her throat, revealing the spectacular necklace.
Leona’s eyes widened. “It is even more amazing than I imagined.”
Amity reached up slowly to unclasp it.
The door opened behind her. Benedict walked into the room. Logan and Cornelius, dressed in black dominos like so many others at the ball, were directly behind him.
“I think we’ve heard enough, Inspector, don’t you?” Benedict said.
“Yes,” Logan said. “With your testimony and that of Miss Doncaster there will be no problem sending Lady Penhurst away to prison.”
“No.” Panic and fury lit Leona’s eyes. She edged toward the door behind her. “If you arrest me you’ll never get the Foxcroft notebook.”
“Actually, the notebook isn’t all that important,” Cornelius said. “What I was really after tonight was the Russian agent. That would be you, my dear.”
“It’s over, Leona,” Amity said. “Put the gun down.”
“No, stay away from me,” Leona whispered. She leveled the gun at Amity. “Stay away or I’ll kill her, I swear it. She deserves to die. This is all her fault.”
No one moved toward her.
Leona was at the door. She opened it with her free hand, revealing the dimly lit hall. At the last instant she whirled and fled, the folds of her domino whipping out behind her.
Her footsteps rang in the hall and then grew faint.
Amity looked at Benedict.
“You’re sure this plan is going to work?” she asked.
“It was the best I could do on the spur of the moment,” Benedict said. “We knew it was unlikely that she would deliver the notebook in exchange for the necklace. But now that she hasn’t got the jewelry, the only thing of value that she has left is that notebook. She will try to retrieve it and attempt to sell it to the Russians.”
“She will escape into the street and hail a hansom,” Logan said. “There are three waiting. She will have her choice. My men are driving all three of the cabs. They have been directed to accept no fare unless the customer is a lady who is alone.”
“Leona is a clever woman,” Amity warned.
“Yes,” Cornelius said, “but now she is a very desperate woman. I am convinced that she will get the notebook and lead us to her Russian contact. As Benedict said, whoever that person is, he or she is Leona’s only hope now.”
A crack of muffled thunder sounded in the distance. For an instant they all froze.
Cornelius frowned. “Odd. There was no sign of rain earlier.”
“Gunshot,” Logan said.
“The ballroom, I think,” Benedict said.
A woman screamed somewhere in the distance.
Both men broke into a run, heading down the hall toward the ballroom. Cornelius followed.
Amity found herself fighting the long folds of the domino and the skirts of her gown. In addition, she had a great fear of losing the Rose Necklace so she kept one hand clamped on it beneath the costume. It made for awkward sprinting.
She caught up with the three men at the edge of the shadowy ballroom. The music had come to a crashing, discordant halt. The dancers were milling about in confusion. An earthquake of exclamations—shock, horror and confusion—rumbled through the crowd.
“Police,” Logan called out in a voice that rang with great authority. “Stand aside.”
No one argued with him. The crowd fell away to reveal the body on the floor. The domino had fallen open, displaying skirts and petticoats.
Logan and Benedict crouched beside the figure. Cornelius loomed above them, looking down as Logan removed the victim’s mask.
Astonishment reverberated throughout the room. Amity heard the whispers around her.
“It’s Lady Penhurst.”
“Shot herself in the middle of a ballroom. It’s unbelievable.”
Amity stopped at the edge of the scene. A number of people were already hurrying discreetly away, heading for the front door and their carriages. Benedict, Logan and Cornelius were not paying any attention to the murmurs of the crowd or the retreating onlookers. They were conducting a quick search of the body.
She was about to move closer when she caught the stale odor of cigarettes scented with exotic spices.
She felt something sharp press against the back of her neck.
“I have your sister,” Virgil Warwick said into her ear. “If you call out or try to run I will vanish into the crowd. No one will see me. I will escape but your sister will die. Get rid of your nasty little fan. Do it now or I will leave here without you and pretty Penny dies.”
Amity reached beneath her domino and removed the tessen from her chatelaine. There was so much commotion in the room that no one heard the fan when it fell to the floor.
Thirty-eight
He’s got Amity and Penny,” Benedict said. He did not take his eyes off the tessen where it lay on Penny’s desk. “The bastard was there in the crowd tonight. He kidnapped her while I was no more than a few yards away.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Logan said. “It’s obvious he used Penny to force Amity to leave the ballroom quietly. That’s the only thing that makes sense, the only reason for taking both of them. He probably terrified Amity by telling her that he would murder her sister if she didn’t go with him.”
“I thought he was a new constable,” Mrs. Houston whispered. She rocked back and forth in the chair, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “I can’t believe I offered him tea and a fresh muffin.”
“You were overpowered, Mrs. Houston,” Cornelius said. “He used chloroform on you and very likely on Mrs. Marsden, as well.”
They had arrived in Exton Street to find Constable Wiggins unconscious in the park and Mrs. Houston sprawled on the kitchen floor. The house was dark. Penny was gone.
Fury and fear were stirring up an icy witch’s brew of emotion in Benedict. It was all he could do to tamp down some of the toxic sensations so that he could think. When he met Logan’s eyes across the short distance of the study, he knew the other man was exerting the same exacting self-control. They were both well aware that their only hope now was to remain coolheaded enough to think through the logic of the situation.
The knocker sounded on the front door. Mrs. Houston leaped to her feet and hurried away to answer it. Benedict heard voices in the front hall. A moment later Declan Garraway appeared. He looked as if he had just been dragged out of bed and given only a few minutes to dress—which was, indeed, the case, Benedict thought.
It had been his idea to send for Garraway, but Logan and Cornelius had welcomed the plan, such as it was. They needed all the insights they could get.
“What is it?” Declan asked. He clutched his hat and stared at the small group in the study. “The constable said that Mrs. Marsden and Miss Doncaster have been kidnapped by that monster they call the Bridegroom.”
“The bastard’s name is Virgil Warwick and he’s got them both,”
Benedict said. “We have to find them by morning. Our only hope is to locate the studio where he photographs his victims.”
“I’ll help you in any way I can, of course,” Declan said. “But I don’t know how I can be of service.”
“We know considerably more about the son of a bitch than we did the last time you gave us your opinions.” Logan swept out a hand to indicate the small notebooks on the desk. “Stanbridge and I have arranged everything for you to review with us. If there is any clue in our findings, we must discover it and soon.”
Declan took a deep breath and moved closer to the desk. He looked down at the notes.
“Tell me what you have learned about him in the past few days,” he said.
A short time later Declan put down the notes that he had made while Benedict and Logan filled him in on the new discoveries.
“I think,” he said, “that Virgil Warwick would value control above all else. He is a perfectionist when it comes to his photography. It takes time to get a portrait right. He will need a secure studio, one in which he can be assured of privacy. He’ll take his victims to a place in which he is certain he will not be discovered.”
Cornelius shifted in the depths of the reading chair. “That makes sense. But he won’t risk taking them to his own house or his mother’s, either. He will know that we are aware of both of those locations.”
Benedict looked at the notes spread out on the desk. A great certainty settled on him.
“There is only one way Virgil Warwick can be relatively certain that he won’t be discovered,” he said.
Thirty-nine
Charlotte Warwick sat rigidly upright in the chair behind her desk. She had been in bed when Benedict and Logan had arrived on the doorstep. She had sent word that she would see them in the morning. When Benedict had informed the butler that the visit concerned her son, she had donned a dressing gown and slippers and come downstairs to meet with them. The three of them were now closeted in the library.
“You said this was about Virgil.” Charlotte gripped the polished wooden arms of the chair as though hoping it would keep her afloat in the storm that had overtaken her. She stared at Benedict and Logan. “I have told you everything I know. What do you want from me?”
“Your son abducted two women tonight,” Logan said.
“Dear heaven, no.” Charlotte’s face twisted in anguish.
“He will murder them both before this night is over if we do not stop him,” Benedict said.
Charlotte released her desperate grip on the chair and buried her face in her hands. “This cannot be happening.”
Benedict planted both hands on the top of the desk and leaned toward her. “Look at me, Mrs. Warwick. You know what your son is. You have known all along and that is something you will have to live with for the rest of your life. All we want from you tonight is an address.”
Charlotte raised her head, her eyes wet with tears. “Virgil’s address? But you already know it.”
“Not his house,” Logan said, “his studio—the place where he takes his victims to photograph them before he murders them.”
Charlotte looked dazed. “I don’t know what to tell you. If he is not at his house there is no telling where he may have gone.”
“We have reason to believe that he will have established his killing ground in a place that he believes is safe,” Benedict said. He saw the tremor that went through Charlotte when he used the words killing ground but he ignored it. “We know that he takes his time with his victims. He is a perfectionist when it comes to his photography. That means he requires privacy.”
“We have concluded that the most logical way that he could be assured that he won’t be discovered or interrupted is if he has established his studio in a building that he owns or controls,” Logan said.
Benedict saw comprehension begin to filter into Charlotte’s expression.
“When Miss Doncaster and I came here to ask you about your son, you mentioned that you managed the details of his life, including his finances. Inspector Logan and I stopped at Virgil’s house before we came here. There are no financial records at his house. You keep his accounts, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But I don’t see how that information can help you find him.”
“Does he own any property here in London?” Logan asked.
Mrs. Warwick blinked several times. “Yes, as a matter of fact. My husband left him several properties that were intended to provide income for him. The majority of the properties are rented to shopkeepers and the like who live in the rooms above their establishments.”
“Perhaps there is one that is not rented?” Benedict prodded.
Charlotte hesitated. “One of the properties is an old house near the docks that has been standing empty for nearly two years. My business manager has mentioned on a number of occasions that it should be leased or sold.”
“Why are there no tenants?” Benedict asked.
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again there was nothing but resignation and a mother’s grief in her gaze.
“Virgil told me that he had plans for the property,” she said. “He insisted that the old house be left unoccupied until he was ready to remodel it. He said he was working with an architect. I was pleased that he was finally showing some interest in financial matters. But when I asked him how the project was coming along, he said that he had changed his mind about the original design and fired the architect. Shortly thereafter he had his first nervous breakdown and I was forced to send him to Cresswell Manor.”
“Have you ever been to the house that he said he intended to remodel?” Benedict asked.
“No.” Mrs. Warwick shook her head. “There was no reason to pay a visit to the property. My manager kept an eye on it while Virgil was being treated at the Manor to make certain that no one broke in or attempted to take up residence.”
“What did the property manager tell you about the house?” Logan asked.
“Very little,” Mrs. Warwick said. “He just mentioned that the windows were boarded up and that the locks on the front and back doors appeared to be very modern. He was satisfied that the house was secure.”
Forty
The photography studio looked very much like other studios Amity had seen—except for the large, ornate, wrought-iron cage in one corner. Penny was huddled on the floor of the cage. She was dressed in the plain housedress and soft shoes that she had been wearing earlier in the evening. She staggered to her feet when Amity walked into the room with Virgil Warwick.
“Amity, my dear sister.” Penny’s eyes were stark with horror and dismay. “I was so afraid of this. He said you would come with him willingly once you knew that he had taken me.”
Amity looked around. There was a large, expensive-looking camera on a tripod in the center. The lens of the camera was aimed at an elegant, white satin chair. A small vase filled with white lilies sat on a nearby table. In one corner there was a folding screen of the sort designed to provide privacy for dressing. The panels of the screen were painted with an elaborate floral design.
“What else could I do?” Amity said briskly. “Don’t worry, we shall both be leaving in a short while. Warwick is quite insane. By definition that means he cannot think logically. Benedict and Inspector Logan, however, are eminently capable of rational thought. They will find us soon.”
“Shut your mouth, you lying whore,” Virgil hissed. “Or I will kill your sister while you watch.” He walked toward the cage and pointed the pistol at Penny.
Amity looked at him and said nothing.
Virgil gave her a cold smile.
For some reason the most jarring thing about Virgil Warwick was that he appeared so normal. There was nothing remarkable about his neatly combed light brown hair, his thin face or his lean build. It would have been quite easy to pass him by on the street without taking any notice
of him whatsoever. But that was the thing about the true monsters of the world, Amity thought. They were so dangerous because they were able to hide in plain sight.
“Excellent,” Virgil said. “You seem to have grasped the fact that you are not the one in control here tonight.” He gestured toward the privacy screen. “Time to change into your wedding gown for your sitting.”
Amity looked down at her bound wrists. “How am I supposed to take off one gown and put on another with my hands tied?”
Virgil frowned. She realized that he had not planned for this particular eventuality.
“How did you manage the changing of the gowns with the other brides?” she asked, keeping her voice at a conversational tone.
“I made them dress inside the cage,” he said.
He looked annoyed. For a horrifying instant Amity realized he might murder Penny in order to solve the problem.
“There is room for both of us inside,” she said quickly.
Virgil came to a decision. “Very well. The gown you will wear for your portrait is over there behind the screen. Get it.”
She went around the screen and took the white satin-and-lace gown off the peg. A shiver went through her when she recognized the design of the bodice. It was the same gown that the victims had worn in the photographs.
“It’s very beautiful,” she said.
“Nothing but the best for a pure and virtuous bride,” Virgil said. “Of course you are not exactly pure or virtuous, are you? No, you are tainted. Stanbridge may not realize it but I am doing him a favor. When he comes to his senses he will thank me. After all, once a whore, always a whore. Take the gown to the cage. Hurry.”
The dress was very heavy. The dressmaker had used a vast amount of fabric in the skirts. There was so much beading on the stiffened bodice that Amity suspected it alone weighed several pounds.
