She patted his arm. “Thank you, you don’t know what a great help that would be to the inspector.”
“You seem to have a great deal of concern for the inspector’s well-being. Would that be a fair assumption?” His beautiful green eyes sparkled with curiosity.
She shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Just do what you can to be of assistance, that’s all. He’s always been supportive of the workings of Writers House.”
“Ah, yes, although not as much until recently, I’ve noted.” The corner of his mouth tugged with a smile. “Nonetheless, I will do as I said and help in any way I can.”
“Promise you will be careful, Wesley. The last note I received sounded like the writings of a madman. Let the authorities manage things.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it? No worries, now—I will stay out of the way and do what I’m told. Besides, as you said, Clarice is going to need me. I fear that she didn’t take it too well when I told her about my plans.”
“You saw her before you left? Did she mention anything that might give a clue to her whereabouts?”
He frowned as though thinking about it, and then shrugged. “Only something about going to visit a friend of hers at the Manor.”
“The Manor? McFarland Manor?”
“Not so unusual, really. You knew she once worked there as kitchen staff.”
Jane nodded. “Just the same, be sure to tell Randolph…uh, the inspector that information. It might be helpful in tracking her whereabouts.”
He hugged her again. “Don’t worry. We’ll find Clarice and everything will turn out, you’ll see.” He turned to leave just as the steward was making his rounds to clear the deck of visitors. “You’ll promise to write, then?” Wesley called to her before he headed to the boarding plank.
“I will. Be well, Wesley.” She watched him trot effortlessly to the pier. He turned and waved at her with a bright smile.
***
Journal entry, August 1887
God damn you.
I had no choice. The stupid bitch. I told her I would care for her, as I would have cared for you. But she wouldn’t listen and she threatened to tell you, Jane. To reveal everything. I couldn’t have that, not at least until I had garnered my grand prize, the epitome of my exotic collection. My rare, blue-eyed American beauty.
The others have adequately sustained my youth and their blood has nourished my skin, replenished my vitality. But you Jane, would have been my greatest treasure, the pinnacle of my collection. And the nectar your body would have provided…I shudder to think of you coursing through my veins, melding with my blood, giving me your passion, your vitality. But he tainted you for me, didn’t he, Jane? The bloody inspector used you most cruelly, then sent you away. I will first take care of him for you, Jane. Then, my darling, I will come for you.
***
The rain tapped against the porthole of her stateroom. In the flurry of activity following her departure, she’d been invited to dine with the captain and another family she’d met while walking on deck. There had been little time spent in her stateroom until the sixth day, when at dawn the ship fell into bad weather and it was advised that everyone stay to their rooms until the worst of it was over. Jane had enjoyed the company of others in those first few days. It softened the loneliness of leaving London and the concern she had for Clarice’s whereabouts, Wesley’s plans to join the army, and, of course, what might have been with Randolph.
A shift in the wind caused the rain to smack harder against the porthole and she drew her afghan around her shoulders. She held her teacup between her hands, warming them as she listened to the mournful howl of the wind. In an effort to occupy her mind, Jane decided that she should journal this experience—perhaps it might provide useful to women traveling alone.
She placed her tea aside and pulled her bag out from beneath her bed. She was digging for the journal Lady Hampton had presented her before she left when she spotted an envelope she didn’t remember seeing before. Jane turned the wick up on her small kerosene lamp and turned the envelope over in her hand. It was cream colored, sealed, and bore her name, written neatly in pen across the front. She pushed aside the fear that the person following her, sending her notes, had somehow managed to slip it into her bag when she wasn’t looking. Hesitantly, she told herself that there was little chance that the author was on board the ship. Jane slid her thumb along the edge, breaking the seal, wincing when the fine-edge of the paper made a thin slice across her flesh. With a frown, she sucked on the wound until the sting subsided and then carefully unfolded the paper. She held it higher, scanning the writing, and realized Randolph wrote it. He must have placed it in her bag while they rode in the carriage to the station. Jane held the paper closer to the light as she read his neat penmanship.
My dearest Jane,
By the time you read this, I pray that your venture at sea is going well and that you are not still terribly angry with me for sending you away. Though you would have every right to be—I give you that. Had we met under different circumstances, I cannot say what might have happened, but as I’ve explained, my work, my duty, is here and I have taken an oath to protect this city to the best of my ability. As of late, I feel as though I have not been able to provide her the security she deserves, but I can at least sleep easier knowing that you are thousands of miles away, an ocean apart from the madman who is terrorizing London.
I did not lie to you, Jane, when I said that no woman had ever made me feel as you do. But there is more that you don’t know about me. Darkness from my past haunts me still, and I wonder if I will ever truly be free of it. You see, I could not risk losing another person so precious to me. My past, my pain and guilt, is why I chose this profession, perhaps hoping to make restitution for my shortcomings.
Jane wasn’t aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks until a blotch spread across the paper, marring the ink. She found her hankie tucked in her sleeve and swiped it quickly beneath her nose. Blinking to clear her vision, she read on.
“Whatever may happen between us, however you may feel once you’ve read this note, please know that you are the only person I believe in strongly enough—that I trust— to share this with.
My father, as I told you once, was a well-known London physician. He was a strong man, passionate about his practice, about his public standing. He demanded perfection in everything. I often questioned what my poor mother might have ever seen in him, but when marriages are arranged there is little choice in the matter.
While his practice thrived and he drew the admiration of patients and colleagues alike, we saw the side of him that no one in public did. He had a most violent temper and when things went wrong, no matter how small, I was his whipping boy. I bear the scars— you kissed them that night, remember? I’d never allowed anyone to get that close to me—no one. You may have assumed they were from my decadent indulgences, but they are from my youth and I am not proud of them.
They remind me of a time when I was weak, unable to fight back, unable to save my sister from being sent to a butchering surgeon at my father’s insistence that she abort her child conceived out of wedlock. I was too young, too frightened, to save my mother from going mad when we found Beth’s mutilated body in the back alley warehouse. That monster whose very seed created me did nothing.
His punishment for the inconvenience was that we were forced to forget she existed. We were not permitted to speak of Beth again. To the public it was announced that she’d gone away to live with distant relatives. But it was my poor mother who had to live with the truth, and he told me if word got out, he would turn us out into the streets—both of us. We had no funeral, no closure. My father disposed of the body and we were not told where or how. His only concern was for the welfare of his practice, his reputation. Not until later, after he died, did I discover he was one of the founding members of McFarland Manor and had led a secret, decadent lifestyle. You see, Jane, the bad seed does not fall far from the tree….
&
nbsp; Jane drew in a sharp breath, bile rising in her throat. She fought not to be ill. What kind of man would make his family suffer so hideously? What nightmares, not of his own making, had Randolph carried deep inside of him all these years? She thought back to their night of passion, when she’d asked him about the raised scars on his back, wondering whether they were gained in the line of duty or in pleasure. She’d wondered about them, but hadn’t pressed him, sensing his discomfiture. It occurred to her suddenly that his self-proclaimed deviant behavior was how he’d survived the horrors of his childhood. He’d replaced his emotions—far too painful to face—with mindless passion to make himself feel better…perhaps, just to feel.
She placed the letter in her lap and stared at the flickering flame of the lamp. He was smart enough to know that if he’d given the note to her earlier, she’d have insisted on staying. He’d cleverly made sure that it was buried in her bag, so that she would find it after she had sailed from port. Part of her held this fragile information close, letting it seep into her heart, feeling a privilege deeper than simply being his lover. She’d become his confidant, someone he trusted. That meant a great deal more to her than she would have thought. She’d never before had a man confide in her, to open up the raw and wounded parts of himself, and yet Jane could not dismiss the notion that he did so because he knew he wouldn’t see her again. She took a deep breath and scanned the last few lines he’d written.
“I learned, I suppose out of survival, to bury my emotions deep, replacing them with pleasures of the flesh—strange pleasures that normal society might find eccentric and, perhaps, even repulsive. But it was my escape—the only thing that could make me ‘feel’ anything at all. I daresay, as bright as you are, you’ve already come to these conclusions, but I wanted you to hear them from me.
Because my father was one of its founding members, I found acceptance at the manor, no judgments. I found others like me who sought to cover the mistakes, the nightmares of their private lives and find a torrid escape, even as I tried to forget the pain of my past. This life that I have led is engrained in me now, Jane. I don’t know how to give it up. Somehow, you managed to touch a part of me that yearns for normalcy. You made me feel again, with less fear of those tender emotions than I have known in a long while.
These raw emotions, newly surfacing, are painful to me, though I do not regret one moment of rediscovering them in your arms. How can I ask you to wait as I sift through them? You have your life ahead of you, so many experiences yet to be had, so much to live for, to strive for. You may choose whether to believe this or not, but you are the closest I have come to loving anyone, ever. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t forget you, Jane.
So there it is, the truth that I keep hidden from public view. I have carried these secrets for so long that they are like a jealous woman, holding me at bay, blackmailing me with the possible consequences of leaving her. I can only hope that one day you can forgive me, and that you will find a man worthy of the passion you have to offer. Already I am insanely jealous of this phantom lover who one day will bring you all the happiness that you so richly deserve.
With kindest regards, Randolph.
Jane pressed the letter to her face, hoping to capture just a whiff of his rugged scent. She could not be angry with him, nor did she pity him for the nightmare of his past. He needed time to find the strength to put it all behind him and quit blaming himself. What she saw that he didn’t yet was a formidable man, strong in his convictions but lacking in the belief that he was worthy of being loved. Jane could love him with every fiber of her being, but if he didn’t believe in redemption—that what happened was not his fault—then there was nothing she could do to help him.
Jane understood now that the journey to recovery from his past must be his alone. Even though this knowledge didn’t lessen her pain, at least she knew that whatever they had between them was a bond not easily broken. She folded the letter and tucked it back in the envelope. He’d forgotten one thing—she was tenacious and resilient. Hadn’t Aunt Cornelia always told her so?
Jane sipped her tea, cautiously content in her belief that she’d not seen the last of Randolph Mansfield.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Randolph walked carefully through the empty house, sending the handful of servants to the street to wait with the other constables. He entered Madam McFarland’s office at the back of the house with caution, scanning his surroundings. All was quiet. He wanted only to have a quick and peaceful resolution to this situation.
He looked up, noting the massive painting that hung behind her desk. Generally, she kept a heavy drape over the painting. His eyes settled on an open door, set within the wall so that it blended with the wallpaper when closed. Instinct caused him to pull his small pistol from his coat pocket. Past conversations with madam flashed through his head. None of them made much sense on their own, but when placed in the light of current circumstances, they gave him a feeling of dread. She complained frequently about how difficult it was to keep good escorts and how terrible was the high turnover in good kitchen help. He’d never thought much about it, assuming that the women had simply gone off with clients, or they moved on to other employment opportunities. Now he wondered how many had actually left there alive.
Randolph motioned to Willoughby, who’d come with him, along with two other young constables. Stepping through the door, he entered into a narrow hallway, its walls and floor made of stone. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. One or two gas lamps provided minimal light along the dank passageway. From the looks of it, it appeared the manor had been built over an abandoned stop on one of the old underground rail lines. If his suspicions proved correct, the line could have easily led to the Thames pedestrian tunnel, making it easy to dispose of bodies. But how would she be able to act alone? Certainly there were enough good thugs about that would do her running if the pay was adequate. Regardless, what pressed more on his conscience was the fact that if she’d been doing this all along, how had he missed possible signs of foul play? Still, he had no proof yet, and though he fought jumping to conclusions, there was a strange niggling in his gut.
The discovery of Clarice’s body narrowed down the list of potential suspects to those who knew Jane and were involved in the manor. From the list, he struck off Jonesy, who had taken Clarice away from the manor. That left Vladimir, apparently away on his tour again, and Wesley, who was still missing. And, of course, Madam McFarland.
The muted sound of voices brought him to a stop. He held out his hand to halt the others.
“That was a stupid thing to do. Sloppy is what it was. You may not get by with it this time. You may have ruined everything.” The voice was low, calm, but sinister.
It sounded very much like Madam McFarland, but without a visual confirmation, Randolph couldn’t be certain. There was a pause, and then he cocked his head, hearing the sound of someone softly crying. He pressed closer, listening carefully.
“There was nothing I could do. She was in the way. She threatened me. That bitch would’ve ruined everything!” a high-pitched voice volleyed back before growing softer. “She was one of my favorites. We had something special…” Her words gave way to quiet sobs.
“They were all special to us. Part of our collection. Your problem is that you’re too soft; it gets you into trouble every time. You should be more like me.”
“I try,” the quieter woman responded, her voice weak.
Randolph edged closer, rounding the corner to see the light flickering through the partially open door at the end of the hallway. He hesitated, assessing his situation.
“I know you do, my love. I don’t mean to be so cruel, not to you. But I’m afraid that you may have given us away this time. And we can’t have that. No one must know our little secret. After all, we’ve worked so bloody hard to gather it together, and with that American woman we would have had our prize. What a beauty, that one.”
“And I let her get away.”
There was a low chuckle. “Not all is lost, my sweet. There are ways we can find her. Other ships will sail. It’s just a matter of time.” A short silence followed.
“Perhaps you’re right,” the other woman responded.
Another low chuckle. “Of course, now drink. You look haggard. Wipe your tears, freshen your face. We’ve got work to do.”
Randolph drew close to door and glanced over his shoulder to be sure he had backup. Willoughby and another constable nodded they were ready. He swallowed, shoved open the door with his shoulder, and poised the gun at the first person he saw.
Madam McFarland, seated in front of her vanity mirror, whirled toward him, her eyes wide. Black eye-paint streaked her face, and her cheeks were smudged in garish crimson. She looked like something out of a freakish circus. He spotted another open door and motioned to the young constable. “Check in there, the other one may be getting away.”
Madam’s eyes darted after the young officer, a flash of panic in them giving way to a serene expression.
The young constable bolted through the door, his nightstick held high as Randolph kept his gun poised on Madam McFarland.
A garbled sound, like someone retching came from the other room. Willoughby rushed forward to assist the officer.
“Mother of God!” Willoughby’s voice called out in stupefied horror. “Inspector…” Willoughby had his arm around the young constable as he stumbled from the room. He braced his hand against the wall and was sick again. “There’s no way to describe it, sir. Go on, take a look for yourself.” Willoughby held his pistol on madam, who smiled at him with red-stained teeth.
“I see you’re impressed by my little collection.” Her voice was deliberate…deadly. It was a dark, sultry version of Madam McFarland—the other voice Randolph had heard. The woman was clearly mad, suffering from duel personalities.
He stepped through the door, noting first the number of candles lit in a cathedral-like setting. The small room was lined with shelves from the floor to the ceiling. He turned full circle, taking in the macabre sight. Bile crept up his throat as he came face to face with Clarice. Her head, perfect in every way except for lack of a body, lay preserved like pickled eggs in a massive jar. He scanned the room—hundreds more filled the shelves. “Holy Mary—” he whispered, sucking in a deep breath, holding back the need to lose his stomach.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 29
