Druid's Daughter

by Jean Hart Stewart

  Rainley shuddered from his tow-blond head to his serviceable boots and Lance swiftly came around the desk and pushed his constable in the nearest chair.

  Rainley was one of the younger policemen and Lance gave him time to regain a little color. Still Rainley seemed anxious to get his story told and blurted out the rest soon enough.

  “We got a note brought round by a young boy, Sir, who scampered before we thought to stop him. It was poorly written but told us to go to Cow’s Head Alley. Somebody wanted to alert us without getting involved. Of course we went, Sir. There was a body there, Chief Inspector, a horrible body. Her throat slit from one side to the other by a big knife. She’d also been stabbed with a real thin knife in her back. Inspector Davis is with the body, Sir, waiting for you to come.”

  Rainley gulped again and Lance waited until the boy’s breathing became more normal.

  “There is something else bothering you,” he said gently. “Tell me the rest.”

  Seeing the pallor of Rainley’s face, Lance went to his desk and pulled out a small flask. He strode to Rainley and held the flask to the boy’s lips.

  “Drink a little,” he said. “Your news can wait a moment.”

  Rainley took a big swallow and his face flushed as the powerful liquor hit him. He quivered from head to toe before he recovered enough to speak.

  “The corpse is just horrible, Sir. She was facing away from her murderer, we think. Facing a wall. Her hands were holding up the back of her skirts and her bum was bare. We, that is, the Inspector and I, think the murderer paid her to have sex from behind so she couldn’t see him as he stabbed her.”

  Lance sat motionless and without speaking. A horror story which left him understanding why the youngster in front of him, actually seeing the mutilated body, was so distressed.

  “Do you think it’s Jack the Ripper again?” burst out the sergeant.

  Jack the Ripper had never been officially charged, but Scotland Yard felt fairly sure they knew the identity. Most experts in the case thought the guilty person fled to America. True, the Ripper also killed prostitutes and speculation was most had their hands busy lifting their skirts when attacked. But the Ripper killed with his victims facing him. Also, the Ripper usually carved a grisly piece of female anatomy from the victim, sometimes leaving the gruesome evidence beside the body and sometimes carrying a bloody bit away. There was a complete viciousness about the Ripper’s murders just a little different from this case. This one seemed to Lance just as vicious, but definitely not the same.

  No, he didn’t believe the Ripper was back, although he couldn’t blame the young sergeant for thinking so.

  “I doubt it.” Lance made his voice purposely cool and almost disinterested. The sergeant must go back with him and sympathy would be the worst emotion Lance could show.

  “Jack didn’t attack from the back, for one thing. And he never used a thin blade. No, someone is trying to make us think he’s the Ripper. And if you found her with her hands still lifting her skirts there was probably no overt sexual act. Merely a ruse to get her to turn her back.”

  The sergeant followed his Chief out the door when Lance beckoned to him. The boy stiffened as rigid as a plank, but forced himself to move. If his step was halting at first, Lance did not blame him.

  They were soon at the scene of the atrocious crime. A young woman, little more than a girl if one noted the pathetically smooth limbs. Their thinness also suggested a sparsely fed youth. She was lying on her stomach. The Inspector in charge must have pulled down her skirts, so she at least now had a modicum of respectability. Her garish clothing, the blazing red hair with dark roots, the short length of her dress, all proclaimed her calling.

  Lance stayed still for a long moment and then began circling the body. He bent over twice without touching her, but said nothing. The Constable had reason to be so revolted. This was a hideous crime, made more so somehow that a poor and young prostitute agreed to perform what must be a degrading act. That selling oneself was against the law of man and God made no difference to Lance. She was a pitiful creature, who’d been savaged.

  “Have you touched her?” he asked his Inspector.

  The man turned scarlet. “I did, Sir. I know that’s against the rules but it seemed indecent to leave her with her bottom exposed. I pulled her skirt down. And I closed her eyes, Sir.”

  “Against the rules, Inspector. But well done of you.”

  Lance finished circling the body and then squatting beside the corpse, lifted her head. Her neck gaped in an obscene slash. A well-honed and large knife, as well as a good deal of strength was necessary to accomplish this revolting deed. He tried to reconstruct the scene in his mind.

  The girl, although her trade made her seem older, must have faced the wall and leaned over, holding her skirts up and expecting the purchaser of her favors to penetrate her. Instead, he’d stabbed her in her back with a long thin knife which left little trace and then turned her enough to cut her throat with a stronger one. Then he’d flipped her over again on her stomach, her skirts hiked. He wanted the police to know she’d exposed herself to him. There was a manic deliberation suggesting to Lance the killer had never been interested in sex, but chiefly in humiliation.

  Where had he seized her? Lance had no way of knowing for sure, but he’d guess her shoulders. Yes, slight smudges on the left shoulder of her light blouse made it seem probable. If so, her murderer had at least one not-too-clean hand. Which meant nothing at all.

  After she’d been stabbed she’d fallen forward on her face. Gruesomely, the face was framed by a puddle of congealing blood. Not nearly so much as could be expected. Doubtless she was dead before the throat slashing. Looking at the position of the small tear in the back of her blouse, Lance wondered if the murderer had studied anatomy. Was he just lucky enough to do this job so neatly, or had he attended medical school? At least the bastard had been accurate. The tip probably hit the heart at once. Again the probability was she died before the monster slit her throat.

  Lance also noticed a small stain in her blouse at about her waistline. He fingered the material for a moment and then leaned over and sniffed. The murderer had probably ejaculated over her dead body. Not surprising at all in a crime of this type. But another strong indication the murderer had never completed sexual intercourse with her, nor had it ever been his intention.

  “Help me, Inspector, I want to turn her over. Gently now.”

  Together the two men grasped her and turned her on her back. The gaping throat was enough to make Sergeant Rainley gulp again. This time he could no longer control his nausea and went to the side of the alley and vomited. Neither Lance nor the Inspector paid ostensible notice.

  Lance spoke with deliberation. “I’m fairly positive he didn’t have sex with her, if you want to call this kind of perversion sex. No, he was trying to humiliate her by exposure and thus outdo the Ripper.”

  As they turned the girl over, they found a garish surprise. What no one could have possibly expected was a large letter “W”, torn out of cheap paper a child might draw on. The letter had been colored a bright red with crayons. The clue was positioned under her stomach and untouched by any real blood.

  Not a child’s work, however, but the deliberate and almost mocking clue left by a murderous villain. He’d wanted them to find the letter intact. Lance put on a glove from his pocket and picked up the “W”. It would be nice if they could find a fingerprint on it, but he doubted they would. Sir Francis Galton had recently published a book on detection by fingerprint details which at least gave them a little advantage over that lack of knowledge in the Ripper case.

  The possibility of fingerprints would have to be checked. Much detective work would now be required to find out who the victim was, if she had any enemies, or even if she knew anyone with violent tendencies. Besides the usual canvassing of the neighborhood for clues, his men must now visit stores selling stationery.

  He patted at her skirt pockets, but felt no money. So the wretch ha
d retrieved whatever he’d paid her to turn her back to him. Too bad, they might possibly have found fingerprints on coins.

  Lance sighed. He stared at the paper initial in his hand and then carefully inserted it in an envelope he took from his pocket. Probably impossible to trace the paper, but still they must try.

  Well, he’d chosen this life. Still, scenes like this made him wonder. With his background and intelligence he could have taken many paths. But then, how could anything be more worthwhile than finding justice for this poor, pitiful corpse of a girl?

  He thought of William Gladstone, who twenty-five years ago as Prime Minister, had walked the streets at night seeking prostitutes to rehabilitate. If only someone similar to Gladstone had found this girl and saved her from the vocation that probably contributed to her gruesome death. Not likely when there were thousands of young whores just like her.

  “Cover her, Inspector, until the medical men get here.”

  Dellafield took off his jacket and tossed it to his officer, who laid it with care over the stiffening corpse.

  Then the Chief Inspector turned and walked slowly away.

  Chapter Six

  Lance and Morgan were settled in the tenth row of the orchestra seats at Covent Garden. Although Morgan frequented the opera, she loved the lavish decorations and always viewed them with delight.

  “Don’t you relish these last minutes before the opera starts?”

  Lance smiled down at her. “I’d like to know why it’s so special to you.”

  “Oh, many reasons.” Morgan smiled up at him, delighted to be here with this handsome escort and about to enjoy one of her favorite operas. “For one thing, the very vastness of the concert hall always awes me. The gorgeous décor produces a mood of wondrous anticipation.”

  Lance looked around trying to see it through her sparkling eyes. Chandeliers of impressive beauty hung throughout the huge main chamber, winking and dazzling with their sparkling prisms. He smiled down at her.

  “Are the seats satisfactory, my dear?”

  Morgan snorted. A ladylike snort, but still a snort.

  “You know they are. They are beyond good, they’re excellent.”

  She beamed at him and leaned back to enjoy an evening of marvelous music.

  The glittering jewels of women and their luxurious dresses added to the glamour of the scene. To Morgan’s sensitive nose, there was too much scent in the air, both from corsages and private perfumes. Still she could will herself to conquer her distaste. The entire scene was fascinating. With a contented sigh, she settled in.

  At the end of the second act Morgan turned to her escort with a melting smile.

  “What excellent voices. I’ve always thought if Germont does not possess a deep and resonant baritone, it matters little how good the other leads are. This time Violetta, Alfredo and Germont are all wonderfully talented. We’re so fortunate.”

  Her enthusiasm snatched at Lance’s heart. This beautiful girl sat next to him, thrilled by the marvelous music, looking at him with elation. He could not resist. He picked up one hand and kissed her fingers.

  She snatched them back, blushing gloriously.

  “Lord Lance, we’re in the most public of places. The people in the boxes can see you.”

  “I think I must have intended them to,” Lance mused. “If you will look up and to your right, you will see three people well known to me.”

  Morgan glanced up, startled at his words and saw an older couple and a young man. The men were grinning, while the woman smiled pleasantly. The younger man gave a mock salute before leaning back to speak to the woman.

  “My father and mother and my next older brother,” Lance murmured. “I chose to sit down here so we could have some privacy, but if you care to we can join them in our family box. It’s quite comfortable and I’m sure they’d all like to meet you.”

  He’d caught her hand again and held it tightly as he felt her stiffen and try to draw away.

  She looked at him directly for a long moment.

  “I see no artifice in you at this time,” she said. “But I don’t care to meet members of your family. And I cannot believe you would want me to.”

  Lance looked at her downcast and troubled face.

  “My dear,” he said. “I spoke the simple truth. I chose these seats because I wanted you to myself and to have the chance to get to know you better. I would like you to meet my parents, but not necessarily tonight.”

  She kept her eyes on her hands for a while and then to his great relief, looked up and smiled at him.

  “I thank you for the thought. Now, are you prepared for the exquisitely melodious death scene? I always think I’m ready and then even though I know every word and note, dissolve in emotion.”

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

  “Then let us dissolve together,” he said.

  * * * * *

  Lance had instructed his driver to bring his carriage to the front of Covent Garden and in spite of the jostling of horses and cabs, he and Morgan didn’t have long to wait. Once inside the cab, she turned to him with a tremulous smile and gave him back his damp handkerchief.

  “I did warn you, you know. I’m a ridiculous water bucket when they reach the last scene.”

  Lance half-frowned as she scooted to the corner of the seat.

  “I think the more of you for being affected by the beauty of the opera. You would have a heart of stone did you not.”

  After a long moment of silence he put out his hand and took hers.

  “Have I offended you in any way, Morgan? I can feel you withdrawing from me with every clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.”

  She flicked a glance at him and then away.

  “No, of course you haven’t, my lord. You have given me a wonderful evening filled with beautiful music. You have my most sincere thanks.”

  Her eyes were on her lap as she spoke.

  “Morgan. Look at me.” He reached over and forced her chin up and her eyes to meet his. “What have I done?”

  She shook herself out of his grasp. “Nothing, my lord. Nothing. I do not blame you for the circumstances that exist. We are simply too different to continue to be friends, even though my heart tells me I would like to. I don’t think we should see each other socially again.”

  The blazing anger flushing his entire body startled Lance.

  “Do I have no say in this matter, my lady?”

  He deliberately emphasized the last two words to tell her how much he disliked her using his title and how he considered her his equal.

  She surprised him once again, as she suddenly sat forward in her seat and focused her intent glance on him. He didn’t think he’d ever been subjected to such an examination as she now gave him, the green of her eyes occasionally visible in the flashes of the passing gas lights.

  She eventually sighed.

  “I might be mistaken about this. Though your aura would be more clouded if I am. You are a fine man. I think you will soon want me to consult with you at Scotland Yard. There I will never deny you any aid I can give you, my lord Lance.” She looked down again at the hands in her lap as she continued in a soft voice. “But our friendship should remain businesslike.”

  Lance was too angry to speak. The hell with what she wanted. He desired to know her and learn what made her able to take hold of his heart and shake it like a limp muff. No woman had ever done this and he needed to understand her. He leaned back for a silent ride to her townhouse. Surely there was nothing wrong with a deepening friendship.

  Of course, there was no question of going beyond friendship.

  Maybe it was time he started learning about the history of the Druids so he could talk sense into just one of them. He truly wanted to be her friend. No more than that.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, Dellafield regarded the books Madison brought in from the library. There were quite a few, but still it was a surprisingly sparse stack. Evidently Druids were no longer the main interest of the
British public, even though they’d played such a vital part in their history.

  Sitting at his oversized walnut table, Lance read with his usual meticulous care, making notes and marking sections he wished to check again. To his utter frustration the information was fascinating in one book and he formed a grasp on the people and their religion. Only to have all he’d learned contradicted in the next. The Druids were responsible for the mighty slabs at Stonehenge, or they were not. Most authorities thought not. They once practiced human sacrifice, or they had not. But if they had it was only in a religious ceremony when the victim was willing. They could work magic, or only illusions.

  One story was especially interesting, the Druids sponsored the legendary King Arthur and propelled him to power as one of their own. They turned against him when he broke his vow as their priest and accepted the Christian religion, probably at Queen Guinevere’s urging. Arthur’s power supposedly diminished from then on.

  A solitary, shining premise in all the books riveted his attention. The Druids believed in One Goddess and her consort the One God, who encompassed all religions under her banner. All Gods were one and all religions were welcomed and accepted by them. Part of their downfall could be traced to this tolerance. It was anathema to the Romans and then the Christians who wanted to force universal belief in their own one God.

  A truly magnificent belief, this idea that all gods were equal. He could agree with his whole heart. How wonderful the world could be if everyone united on this simple concept. Wars would be brought almost to a standstill. Most intriguing of all, Druids were credited with using their knowledge only to serve and protect, never to harm as Viviane McAfee had plainly told him.

  Yet many Druid priestesses were reputed to work magic and cast spells. This idea Lance didn’t like at all. While he was fascinated by Morgan, he didn’t want to think he was ensorcelled. Still she’d made it plain she only wished she could do magic. He threw down his books, no more sure of what he felt about his green-eyed enchantress than before he’d started to read.