Isaiah frowned. “Unremarkable? How do you figure that?”
“If there was something about him that stood out, might he not have been caught already?”
“Possibly,” he said. “But not necessarily.”
She shrugged. “Then we shall agree to disagree, because I think our assassin is hiding in plain sight and going about his business in a normal and unremarkable way until he decides to kill again. Which could be tonight, next week, or never.”
“I’m not sure if I disagree with you,” he said in that slow Texas drawl he sometimes used when he was thinking about something. “I’m just not sure I agree with you either.”
“That is fair. So tell me your observations, Isaiah. This is your town, and you know the people here, so I am hoping you have some insights I do not.”
“Insights.” He said the word on an exhale of breath. “Annie, I’ve been thinking about this case for a long time now. Since the first round of killings last winter. My father tried to move Miss Hattie into the house to keep her safe, but she thought he was just being fresh and nearly quit.”
Annie suppressed a smile. “I can see both sides of that argument.”
“Well, neither of them could.” He shook his head. “After the third attack at the end of May, Miss Hattie struck a deal. She’d move into the attic, but she wanted a door that locked only on the inside and a dog.”
“A dog?”
Isaiah nodded. “A big Irish wolfhound. She got it too, along with the lock on the door. She trained that dog to sleep against the door at night, but that’s not all. Before Miss Hattie was done, she’d also talked my father into a brand-new bedroom set for her attic room with Irish linen sheets mailed to her from back home in Armagh and lace curtains for the window.”
“Lace curtains in an attic? And an Irish wolfhound to guard the door? Oh my. She is persuasive.”
“You have no idea,” he told her. “Although Alfie hasn’t turned out to be much of a watchdog. He loves his master’s cooking too much, so he’s grown fat and lazy. Miss Hattie puts his bed in front of the door where she figures he will do the most good tripping anyone who might come in.”
Annie chuckled. Her father had a pair of wolfhounds that followed him around like lap dogs and were more interested in getting their bellies scratched than actually keeping anyone safe from an intruder.
“Where is Alfie now?” she asked, oddly homesick for her father’s pets.
“Likely in the kitchen.” He paused to wink at Annie. “If he isn’t in front of the fire gnawing on a bone from the stew, then he’s probably sitting at his master’s heels right by the door where she’s listening to our conversation right now.”
Miss Hattie stepped into the dining room. “Shame on you, Isaiah Joplin. I was not listening to your conversation. I merely wanted to be prepared in case your guest wanted more bread or stew. After all, it is my job to take care of you.”
“But you’ve left the stew pot and the bread and butter on the table in front of us.”
The older woman shook her head as she turned her attention to Annie. “Insufferable, he is.”
“I would agree,” Annie admitted. “But I’ve grown used to him.”
“As have I.” Miss Hattie’s eyes narrowed as she studied Annie. “England, yes?” At her nod, the housekeeper continued. “London would be my guess. Am I right?”
“You are,” she said.
“My first husband’s people were Londoners. Not a bit of good, the whole lot of them. But you look all right.” She narrowed her eyes again. “In fact, you look familiar. Should I know you?”
“I don’t see how,” Annie said, quickly growing uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
She had been told on more than one occasion that she and Beatrice strongly favored their great-grandmother when she was young. Annie had never given the similarity much thought, even as the portraits of young Victoria she had seen seemed to offer confirmation.
“No,” she said. “I never forget a face, and I’ve seen yours before.”
Chapter 8
When Miss Hattie set herself onto a problem that needed solving, she hung on like a dog on a bone. Fortunately, Alfie’s frenzied barking in the kitchen distracted her long enough for Ike to save poor Annie from any further Irish inquisition.
At least for the moment.
Ike watched the door close behind the housekeeper and then turned his attention to Annie. “Apparently you’ve got a twin in London.”
The look on her face told him the joke fell flat. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I believe you were giving me your insights as a local. Can we continue with that?”
It didn’t take a Pinkerton detective to realize Annie had something to hide. Something related to London and a familiar face to Miss Hattie. He’d have to tuck that knowledge away and do his own research someday when he had the chance.
Whatever he’d find, Ike was willing to bet it would be interesting.
“Yes, right. I was saying that by the end of May the women who worked as servants or housekeepers and lived on the property were considering this a crime that could happen to them. They were afraid.”
“And with good reason. The mother and daughter who were attacked in the August killing were sleeping in the kitchen of their employer because they were afraid to stay in the servants’ quarters.” She paused to shudder. “Little Mary was only eleven, and her poor mother will never be right again after what the fiend did to her.”
“With that attack, the perpetrator showed he was brave enough not only to raid the unguarded servants’ quarters for victims but also to go inside a home where he might encounter a much stronger defense. That’s the one that really shook the town, I think.” Ike paused. “It is the attack that, in my mind, told me this man had an agenda.”
Her brows gathered. “Explain, please.”
“Until Mary Ramey was killed and Clara Dick injured, it might be argued that the previous incidents were crimes of opportunity. By that, I mean it could be argued that the man was prowling alleys looking for some sighting of a woman who caught his eye or who maybe he’d seen earlier in the day or the week and followed home. The planning was minimal, if at all, and he never chose to harm a child before.”
“I can see that.”
“But with Mary Ramey’s death, that all changed. Now he’s standing in a kitchen. He’s leaving the mother injured and killing the daughter. What was it about that night or those two women that provoked such a daring move?”
“Anger,” Annie said. “Though that is never the primary reason. Anger is always caused by something else, be it disappointment, grief, revenge.” She shook her head. “There can be any number of possible triggers.”
“But we agree that this is where the crimes escalate?”
“If you mean in the choice of victim and the means of carrying out the crime, then yes, I agree. It was as if he would do anything to get at the victims, and then oddly he chose the child instead of the mother.”
“And then we end up with the Vance murder,” Ike said. “And the token from a previous crime that he places on her wrist. Could he have left that watch as a goodbye present for the police? It’s been three months, and there’s no further sign of him.”
Annie sat back and seemed to be considering the question. “It’s possible. I do hope so, actually. Though I would prefer if we could identify him and send him away so he doesn’t harm anyone in another place or at a later time.” She paused. “Today has given me plenty to consider. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll walk back to my hotel and put all of this down in my notes so I can give it closer thought.”
Ike rose when she did. “I’ll walk with you,” he said.
“No, truly, I need the time alone. Might we meet again tomorrow once I’ve had time to clarify my thoughts?”
“We might,” he said with a grin. “You do realize tomorrow is the day before Christmas Eve, right?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Her tone told him that
Annie had not realized this until he pointed it out. “Please convey my thanks to your housekeeper for the delicious meal. It’s truly the best thing I’ve eaten in a very long time.”
“I will. And I will put my notes together for us to compare later.”
Annie did not respond. Ike fell into step beside her as Annie retraced her steps to the front door. Then he reached around to place his hand on the door.
“I plan to visit your hotel later this afternoon to check on your progress. I will bring my notes.”
Not a question. A statement.
Annie looked up into his eyes, and Ike knew she was considering her response. Then she nodded. “If I am there, then I will see you and your notes.”
With that cryptic statement, the lady Pinkerton ducked under his arm and slipped out. Ike stood in the door and watched her go, trying to decide whether to follow.
“Queen Victoria!”
Ike turned around to see Miss Hattie standing behind him, her hands resting on her hips and Alfie beside her. “Excuse me?”
“Queen Victoria,” she repeated, then gave him a look like he ought to understand her meaning. “As petite as she is with her dark hair, your young lady looks like the queen herself, she does.”
Ike chuckled. “Miss Hattie, I have seen pictures of the queen, and I assure you she looks nothing like the monarch currently on the throne. Is there another Queen Victoria you were thinking of?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Don’t be daft, Ikey, there’s only the one.”
“I will try not to be daft if you’ll try not to call me Ikey.”
Miss Hattie shuffled back to the kitchen, shaking her head, leaving the wolfhound to settle himself where he’d been sitting. “Too far a walk back to the kitchen?” Ike asked him.
In response, Alfie snorted and closed his eyes.
Shaking his head at the lazy pup, Ike turned back to look out the door in the direction Annie had gone. Over the top of the neighbor’s tall shrubs, he spied her hat bobbing along on the sidewalk at a brisk pace.
Annie never had been one to take a leisurely pace, but this was quick even for her. Ike took a step out onto the porch where he could see her fully and noticed there was a man in a suit and bowler hat walking at the same speed a few paces behind her.
His first thought was that Cameron Blake had followed them here and was now attempting to squeeze a story out of whatever meager facts he might cajole Annie into sharing. But that wasn’t Blake. The man was too tall. Too broad across the shoulders.
Ike was just about to see for himself who the fellow might be and to satisfy his concern that he wasn’t following Annie when the lady Pinkerton abruptly crossed the street. The man in the bowler hat continued on without making the trek across the road, alleviating his concern.
Behind him, Alfie whimpered. Ike stepped back inside. “Need to go out, buddy?” he said, wondering not for the first time why he was talking to a dog.
Alfie whimpered again and cut his eyes toward the dining room.
“Oh, I see how it is. You’re waiting for stew.”
“Don’t feed him any,” Miss Hattie called from the kitchen. “He’s already had two bowls. If he has another, someone will have to carry him up to the attic tonight, and I promise you that someone will not be me.”
Ike chuckled at the thought. “Sorry, Alfie. The boss says no.”
Once again, the pup snorted and closed his eyes. Ike took another look outside. Annie was now out of sight, so he closed the door.
He glanced over at the table where his empty bowl awaited another filling. Annie was right. There was not much better than a bowl of Miss Hattie’s Irish stew.
But Miss Hattie had already removed the pot. Refilling his bowl would require a trip to the kitchen where the housekeeper would likely continue her chatter about Queen Victoria and who knew what else.
Ike frowned. Like Alfie, he’d be waiting until later for his next meal. Unlike Alfie, he had plenty to do in the meantime.
And the first thing he planned to do was check on Annie and make sure that man with the bowler hat wasn’t still trailing her.
Annie was far too busy to be interrupted. Yet the persistent man who had followed her—rather expertly—from Isaiah’s family home needed to be stopped.
She sighed. He’d managed to make her think for the slightest of moments that they were merely traveling the same path by some accident of time and occasion. When he continued on after she crossed the street, Annie figured she was done with him.
But here he was again, tracking her just enough paces behind to make the untrained person think he was merely out for a walk and going in the same direction as she was. She stopped, counted to three, and then turned abruptly and stalked toward him.
Rather than skitter away as one with criminal intent might, the man stopped short and met her gaze. She studied his features and found them unremarkable.
Unremarkable.
Her breath caught. Surely not.
Straightening her spine, Annie marched toward the man who’d been following her. “You there,” she demanded. “Identify yourself.”
Blue eyes and a lazy smile were the first two things she noticed about the stranger. A rather prominent nose, a firm jaw, and a breadth of shoulder that might have rendered him a man who made a living with his fists.
The stranger lifted his hat to reveal a thatch of sandy hair. “Good day, ma’am. I bring greetings.”
“From whom?” she asked warily, fully cognizant of the fact that he had yet to comply with her request to identify himself.
“A friend, Miss von Wettin.”
Annie stifled a cringe at the sound of her actual name being spoken aloud so casually. So publicly.
The man glanced to his right and then to his left before speaking further. “May I have a word? In private?” he quickly amended.
“No, I think not. Whatever you need to say, you may say it here.” She paused. “But I will have your name first since you believe you know mine.”
Rather than speak, he retrieved a small leather notebook from his pocket. Inside was a folded piece of paper, which he handed to her. “This should suffice as an answer to all of that. You are to read it now.”
She glanced down at the document. Then she turned the document over to look at the seal.
Simon Kent. Of course.
Running her finger under the crimson wax stamped with the Kent coat of arms, Annie unfolded the paper to read the message from the grandfatherly man who had single-handedly managed to extricate her from under the tight control of the British royal family and secure her an interview with Mr. Pinkerton in Chicago some three years ago.
The man without whom this life she now led would have been impossible.
Dispensing with any sort of greeting, the practical Kent went right to the message.
Do not blame the messenger for this missive, my friend. Pause in your reading to send him along his way with a thank you from me.
Annie looked up at the man. “I am to offer thanks from Mr. Kent and then send you on your way.”
The man gave a curt nod and walked away. After a moment, Annie returned to her reading.
I’m sure you have questions, but I shall be brief. I did not go to great effort to seek you out. My associate was already planning a sojourn to the colonies and was glad to oblige me in this. Thus the situation I am writing about is not yet dire. However, with inaction on your part, it soon shall be. I bring a warning in regard to your family.
“Annie.”
She jerked her attention from the letter to see Isaiah walking toward her. Folding the letter, she tucked it into her pocket.
“Why are you following me?” she snapped and then thought better of her temper. “Sorry. I am just surprised to see you again so soon.”
“You were being followed, but not by me,” he said, giving her an appraising look. “Bowler hat, dark suit. Did you notice him?”
The most expedient way out of this conversation would have been
to feign innocence and say she did not. But she was truthful in all things, even if it meant having to deal with Isaiah Joplin on this matter.
“I did. He was a messenger sent to deliver a letter…” She paused then added, “Which he has. Was there anything else you needed, Isaiah?”
“I, well, that is…” He shook his head. “No, nothing else. Although I’ve never seen a messenger who looked like that.”
Annie regarded him with what she hoped would be an expression devoid of emotion. “Like what?”
“Bowler hat, nice suit, looked like a fighter.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll just go on back home and work on my report to the captain.”
“All right.”
He looked as if he was trying to think of any reason to continue the conversation. Meanwhile, Annie tried to keep her frustration in check.
“You’ll be doing that too,” he said.
“I will,” she responded.
Isaiah opened his mouth as if to say something further, then appeared to reconsider. With a curt nod, he made his exit.
Annie watched him go and felt the slightest twinge of guilt. He’d only sought her to be certain she was safe.
Her response to his protective gesture had been less than enthusiastic. Annie sighed.
“Isaiah,” she called.
He turned around and walked back toward her. “Yes?”
“Thank you. Truly. I appreciate that you followed your instincts to be certain I was safe.”
“And you are.”
Only the slightest pause before she nodded. “I am. The message was personal. Nothing related to this case or any other one.”
Again he was studying her. Possibly trying to decide whether to pry. Finally, without comment, he turned and headed back in the direction he’d come from.
Annie waited until the Pinkerton detective was out of sight and then retrieved the letter from her pocket. I bring a warning in regard to your family, she read again.
Your father has come to me with concerns regarding your prolonged trip to America and the explanations which he tells me are wearing thin. I have no answers for him beyond that he should continue to write to you. Now, a warning for you: Answer his letters. Write him frequently. Speak of inconsequential things like flora, fauna, and the friends you’ve made on your sabbatical. Should you not heed my warning, he will come looking for you. Perhaps he already has.
The Black Midnight Page 6
