“I’ll have her diary back in your hands as soon as may be.”
When he clenched his fist on his knee, Emma shrank back onto the floor. She crawled back to Katherine, who patted her to reassure her.
His voice thick with outrage and barely decipherable due to his slurred speech, Mowbry said, “You have no right to look at that. It’s private.”
“It might help to identify her murderer. Unless you happen to know the father?”
Mowbry flinched. He careened back into the chair. If it had been any less sturdy, it might have fallen backward with him in it. “I don’t know,” he admitted softly.
Tarnation. That would have helped. “What do you know?” Katherine asked.
He returned to staring at his hands. “She told me, of her… state. I told her it didn’t sodding matter. I didn’t care if she gave birth to a son and he became my heir. All I wanted in my life was Isobel.” He grew silent. After a moment, just as Katherine was tempted to prompt him further, he added, “I know, that night, she was going to see him. To tell him that she was to become my bride and end their liaison. Do you think…” His voice broke, and he raised his gaze. “Do you think he killed her? The father of her child? In doing so, he would have killed his own child.” His voice was vehement, thick with disbelief, as though he couldn’t fathom such an atrocity.
And yet it might very well have happened.
“It’s possible,” Katherine said softly. “No matter who committed this crime, I will see him brought to justice. I will see him hanged.”
A man cleared his throat behind them. When Emma stiffened, clearly as startled over the new arrival as Katherine, she turned to see Mr. Greaves.
“Mowbry, old chap, are you feeling quite the thing?” He held Katherine’s gaze a moment more before turning his gaze to his friend.
Leaning over, Katherine scooped Emma into her arms before standing and collecting her candle. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I don’t mean to intrude. Good night.”
Katherine hurried into the hall then slowed her pace, her thoughts centered on Mowbry’s obviously distraught state. It didn’t seem likely that he had killed Miss Smythe, unless his state was borne of guilt more than grief. The men’s voices drifted out into the hall as she made her way back to her room.
“I knocked on your door. You didn’t answer. Should I be worried?” Mr. Greaves, his voice still hard, didn’t sound the least bit worried.
Lord Mowbry didn’t appear to notice. Sullen, he asked, “Are you here to check up on me, Monty?”
“My family hasn’t held a title in generations. I’m no more a Montrose than you are a king. I wanted to borrow your bloody riding boots to go out in the morning. I didn’t bring any, and Lady…”
Katherine slipped down the corridor and out of earshot. When she reached the second floor, she set Emma on the ground and opened her door. The moment she was inside, she shut and locked it.
Even if she had gleaned new information regarding the investigation tonight, she shouldn’t have been out of bed. The Pink-Ribbon Killer had failed with Miss Young. And now he likely knew Katherine was trying to figure out his identity.
The manor wasn’t safe for anyone until he was caught.
Chapter Eighteen
Katherine must have mulled over the facts in her sleep, because when she woke, her next move was fresh in her mind. She either needed additional evidence to warrant looking at the suspects’ fingers to match them to the ribbon, or she needed to talk to Miss Young. She hoped that Miss Young had awakened during the night.
Due to her late night, she woke up late. After dressing and begging Harriet to look after Annie and Emma, Katherine slipped into the corridor. Straggling guests greeted each other sleepily as they descended for breakfast. Katherine waited until she was the last in the hall before she found Miss Young’s room. She rapped on the door.
Mrs. Young, a more mature model of her daughter, opened the door. Her blond hair, graying at the temples, fell in disarray around her shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot. She looked as though she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.
Gently, Katherine smiled at her, encouraging her. Did she, like Mrs. Fairchild, suspect Katherine of harming her daughter? “Good morning, Mrs. Young. I came to inquire after your daughter. Has she seen any improvement?”
The older woman’s face crumpled, and she hugged herself. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes as she shook her head. “She is the same as last night. Perhaps I was wrong to send the physician away without bleeding her…”
Katherine laid her hand over the other woman’s. “You did nothing wrong. This is an impossible situation. I am so terribly sorry that you were put in this position.”
“Mrs. Fairchild tells me you knew of the attack. You warned my daughter to leave?”
She nodded. “I did.” If only Miss Young had taken heed.
Caution rippled across Mrs. Young’s face. “How did you know? Do you know who did this?” Her voice sharpened with every word.
“If I did, he would already be on his way to Newgate, I assure you, Mrs. Young. I had my suspicions, is all. Your daughter greatly resembles the other two victims.”
The older woman clasped her hand to her chest. “You think there’s some monster going out and killing off young blond women?”
“Yes. I do.”
“You think he’s in this house?”
“I do, but—”
Mrs. Young took a step back as though struck. Katherine blocked the doorway, lest the other woman decide to shut her out.
“Mrs. Young, please, I implore you. The moment your daughter awakens, I must speak with her. We must find the person responsible.”
“You.”
Katherine jumped at the new, venom-laced voice. She turned as Mrs. Fairchild squeezed past her into the room. The matchmaker wagged her finger in Katherine’s face.
“Be gone, pest. It is your fault Miss Young is in this situation. You… you drew attention to her or… encouraged her disobedience!”
Seemingly, Katherine would learn no further information from Mrs. Young, not while the matchmaker remained within earshot. Katherine stiffly bid them both adieu and turned as they shut the door.
Without Miss Young’s experiences last night, Katherine would make no further progress as to the identity of the killer, at least not without finding further evidence. Again, Miss Young’s pallid face flashed in front of her eyes, the ribbon twined around her neck. Where had the attacker found that ribbon?
He—or she—must have brought it to the manor. Katherine hadn’t found any ribbon in Lord Mowbry’s room, and after seeing how distraught he was last night, she couldn’t in earnestness believe he was the villain, unless his distress was not about how the attack reminded him of Miss Smythe but instead about regret for not being able to finish the job with Miss Young.
The pink ribbon was the key. Did the killer have a supply of them? Katherine meant to find out.
However, she couldn’t predict when those below would return after breakfast. She needed an excuse for finding herself in someone’s chamber. She needed a dog more apt to misbehave than saunter neatly down the stairs.
Fortunately, when she peeked into her room once more, she found just such a volunteer. Harriet wasn’t within and must have been partaking in breakfast or attending to some other chore. Emma bounced around Katherine’s legs as she called the dog closer.
“Stay with me, girl,” she whispered as she beckoned the dog into the corridor. Emma seemed happy enough to do as she was told.
Katherine began by searching the gentlemen’s rooms. Wayland, unfortunately, had moved his notes to a different location. As she gave his rooms a cursory search, Emma trotted up and dropped a hairbrush at her feet. It was not Wayland’s hairbrush.
That little thief! Katherine groaned under her breath. To which room did the brush belong? She snatched it and entered the hall, meaning to return it once she peeked into a few doors and discovered which chamber lacked a hairbrush. It took her but mome
nts.
When she turned, Emma deposited a glove at her toe. That was followed by a handkerchief, a pocket watch, a slim volume of frighteningly erotic poetry, and a belt. Each time, Katherine hurried from door to door to discover the correct owner and return the items. She tried to keep an eye on Emma whilst she was inside to prevent her dog from pilfering anything else, but it proved impossible.
By the time she entered the hall again, Emma had found yet another item, and her time to search the rooms drew shorter by the minute. When Emma brought her a man’s set of drawers, she stuffed them in the nearest vase. Katherine did not care to examine them closely enough to determine their owner. How did Emma manage? She had to have a pile of items stashed somewhere along the corridor, but Katherine didn’t have time to search for it now. She had to find those ribbons.
And find them, indeed she did—in the most surprising place.
Mrs. Burwick’s chambers.
Would she be foolhardy enough to bring such an infamous color for her daughter? Or was she the murderer? Katherine’s head throbbed as she shut her eyes and tried to recall if the figure she had seen in the garden yesterday evening might have been a woman.
Had the silhouette been tall, short? Confound it, but she couldn’t remember. Lyle had been in front of her, bolting after the culprit when Katherine had tripped over the body. Miss Young’s face, she could recall in excruciating detail, but every other detail of the encounter was a blur. She would have to ask Lyle. For now, she stuffed the ribbon into her reticule.
The fan! Katherine made haste to rummage through drawers and in the armoire, but no fan could be found.
When she returned to the corridor, Emma dropped her rump to the ground and deposited a snuffbox at Katherine’s feet.
Sarding dog! She breathed deeply through her nose so she didn’t snap at her beloved pet. Once she had herself under control, she made certain the doors along the corridor were all shut. Where was that dog hiding the items she stole? Katherine sighed and snatched up the snuffbox.
It looked more like an heirloom than a box in use, the ivory lid pockmarked with chips that nearly obscured the monogrammed M. At least that was easy to place—only one Lord M in her acquaintance enjoyed monogramming everything he owned. As soon as she replaced the snuffbox in Mowbry’s chambers, she would shut Emma away and find her stash.
Katherine laid her hand on the latch, when a man stepped up the stairs and into the corridor, where she was in plain view.
Darn it! She’d been caught.
Chapter Nineteen
Katherine stuffed the snuffbox behind her back as she turned to face Captain Wayland. What was he doing here? He had an unfortunate habit of manifesting precisely when she didn’t want his presence. Not, come to think of it, that she ever craved the sight of him.
He stopped just out of arm’s reach and raised his eyebrows. “You look conspicuous.”
“As do you. Everyone is down at breakfast. Why are you not with them?”
His brows raised by another notch. “I finished eating.”
Had he? Or had he simply noticed her absence and sought her out? She scowled. “You’re following me.”
“Do I have a right to wonder at your activities? What do you have behind your back?” He craned his neck, but Katherine shifted to hide the snuffbox. Thank heavens for her height!
“What business do you have here?” He gestured behind her. “Here, being the door to my room?”
Damnation! She’d forgotten for a moment that his room was next to Lord Mowbry’s.
“Have you robbed me?” he asked. One corner of his mouth curled up as though he was amused.
“I have not.” Sadly, Katherine couldn’t speak for Emma. She still hadn’t found that wily dog’s stash.
The pug butted against Wayland’s leg, shamelessly begging for attention. For the moment, he ignored her in favor of scrutinizing Katherine.
Could he be following her to make certain she didn’t find the murderer?
It seemed ludicrous to suspect him, but she now realized that everyone had readily believed the lie that he had been with her at the time of the attack, which meant he hadn’t been in the parlor with the other guests. Was that why he’d lied for her? By providing Katherine with an alibi, he had also excused himself from suspicion. But he couldn’t be the murderer, for he hadn’t been a guest at the other house parties!
Or had he? A man of Wayland’s reputation might have been able to slip away or bribe his way out of the report given by Sir John’s men. Perhaps Papa had left his name off the list because he didn’t want to consider a fellow detective, even one whose methods he despised, as a suspect. If there was even the slightest possibility that Wayland might have been present for the other two attacks…
Her suspicions must have shown on her face, because he grimaced. “Please tell me you don’t suspect I am in league with the murderer. For the love of Jove, I’ve been begging you to join forces since the moment you arrived. I want to apprehend the killer every bit as much as you do.”
Katherine adjusted her hands behind her. The worn snuffbox was irrelevant, but if Wayland found the ribbons in her reticule, he would know that her main suspects had changed. In an effort to keep one step ahead of him—at the very least, until she discovered whether or not he was involved—she said, “You’re right. There is a murderer on the loose. We should share information.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
“The murderer is still at large. He might try again with Miss Young. A woman’s life hangs in the balance.” Guilt stung her chest as she spoke the words, for they were true. Was she being unduly stubborn in not sharing her every suspicion with Wayland? She didn’t want him to take credit for catching the murderer, but telling him might expedite their search, and as she’d told Lyle, this concerned something far more important than money.
For the moment, she held her tongue on the matter.
Fortunately, Wayland seemed to accept her answer. “Did you and your friend find anything at the crime scene?”
“Nothing conclusive,” she admitted. At least she could speak the truth about that. “Have you noticed the way Somerset favors his right arm?”
Wayland pressed his lips together as he thought. “I have. Do you think that excuses him as a suspect?”
“To the contrary,” she said hurriedly. “The violence of the crimes seems to have decreased drastically since the first. If his arm was injured in between the first and second murders, that might account for the discrepancy.”
“Or they were committed by two separate people,” he countered.
Katherine’s heart skipped a beat. Please, tell me I am not searching for two separate criminals.
Mrs. Burwick had a motive for every murder—the girls were prettier than Pru, perhaps in line to marry wealthy men that she hoped to connect herself with through her daughter. Not to mention, she had the ribbon. Then again, Pru shared the room with her mother. Perhaps the ribbons belonged to Pru.
She asked Wayland, “Do you know when Somerset injured his arm?” Her voice was a bit waspish, and she forced herself to soften her tone. “The information is pivotal to my theory.” To my secondary theory, at the moment.
“He injured it after his house party.”
Perhaps her secondary theory had more merit than she thought. “Are you certain?”
“I was there. He injured it during a phaeton race through London, competing with some of the young bucks. I believe Miss Rosehill was there at the time, and they were vying for her attention.”
Another tie to the murders. “Miss Rosehill? Not Miss Burwick, as well?” If they had been friends, something might have happened at that phaeton race to cause a rift between them.
“No. Her aunt—a widow, I believe—and a… friend of another racer, was her only company that night.”
So Miss Rosehill and Pru had already had a falling out by that point. The reason remained a mystery Katherine wanted to investigate, but she had no
more time alone with Wayland. As footsteps echoed up the stairs, Katherine quickly bid him adieu and gathered Emma. She turned away, clenching the snuffbox so hard it dug into her palm.
Could Lord Somerset’s injury be the reason for the decreased violence between the first and second murders? If not for the ribbons in her reticule, Katherine might have been inclined to think him the best suspect in the matter.
She didn’t know for certain. But soon she would.
Chapter Twenty
Mrs. Burwick hadn’t been among those to go out on a ride come the morning, because she was especially deft at evading detection when she didn’t want to be found.
Once Katherine located Lyle, she informed him of her discovery, and they agreed to confront Mrs. Burwick on the matter and hear what she had to say. After all, as Lyle pointed out, they were only ribbons. They held no traces of blood or anything nefarious, although they matched the ribbon found around Miss Young’s neck in both fabric and color.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to wear one in your hair?” Katherine teased. With everyone else resting from their morning ride or else occupied somewhere in the manor, they had the guest-wing corridor to themselves. The prolonged wait grated on her nerves. Where was Mrs. Burwick, and what mischief did she enact at that moment?
Ceasing his constant shifting from foot to foot, Lyle leaned against the wall outside the door to Mrs. Burwick’s chamber and countered, “I think the color suits you better.”
Katherine laughed, more a nervous sound than one of mirth. “Imagine the looks on everyone’s faces if I came down to supper with a pink ribbon in my hair. Perhaps the killer would be so shocked, he or she would reveal themselves.” Come to think of it, Katherine might just be desperate enough to try. Her playful demeanor sobered, and she stood straighter. “Do you think we might be able to bait the murderer into attacking me if I wore the ribbons?”
Lyle’s expression darkened. “No. Don’t think of it.” His words were cutting, his tone absolute.
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