Druid's Daughter

by Jean Hart Stewart

  “We’ll be giving most of the facts to the newspapers. What we’ll not tell them is about the letter ‘W’ which figures in both cases, even though in different ways.”

  “And what you fear is even the act of leaving the talisman letter behind is getting more violent.” Morgan’s tone was now more sympathetic.

  He silently appreciated her quick comprehension.

  “Yes, that’s part of it. The other worry of mine is our villain, having evaded us twice, will feel flushed with success. I think we can expect another corpse soon.”

  Morgan breathed out in horror. “Dear Goddess, no! Do you really think so, Lance?”

  Pleased beyond reason she was again using his name naturally, Lance took her hand in his.

  “I do indeed, Morgan. Please stay home as much as possible. If he branches out I want you to be safe. I’m sure our latest killer is insane and we can’t count on his following a pattern when he strikes again.”

  She smiled at him, a little wistfully and turned to leave.

  “I would appreciate it if you keep me informed as much as you can, Lance.”

  He nodded, delighted to have easy communication between them again. She waved her hand at him, a slight gesture he couldn’t readily interpret. Her skirts swishing around her long legs, she left the room with her graceful half-glide, half walk. Her own natural stride combined well with her mother’s Druid teachings.

  He did not move until minutes after she disappeared from his sight. Then with a deep sigh, he called to Shriver.

  “Come in, man, we have much work to do. Let’s get at it.”

  A feeling he was working against a maniac’s timetable grew more daunting as he tried to pierce an insane mind.

  * * * * *

  Once again Lance scrutinized all the data his men had compiled on the shops who sold the paper used in cutting the first “W”. There was no helpful information at all, as the paper was far too common. The medical report was a little more promising. Not many instruments could produce such a deep, thin wound. Almost certainly a type of stiletto was used, as Lance had suspected. Perhaps a longer one than usual. The knife had to be thin, sharp and long enough to penetrate to the heart. And sturdy. An Italian stiletto from the seventeenth century could do the trick although he couldn’t rule out others he didn’t know about.

  The second victim’s name was Rosie McDonald. She was twenty-one years old and also solicited on her own. While she might have made more money working without a protector, this also left her more vulnerable. Lance thought it significant both victims operated alone. No one claimed either body and they were both buried by the township of London in a plot as miserable and neglected as their pitiful lives.

  Nothing at all distinguished them from the thousands of other prostitutes scouring the London streets. They were young, but by far not the youngest. Girls of ten and less were sold by their parents or kidnapped and put on the squalid streets. The letter “W” seemed a calculated clue, one the murderer wanted to flaunt. First on paper and then in blood. A furious expression of psychopathic loathing. There were many possibilities of the significance of the letter “W”, but Lance was sure it stood for “whore”. Knowing the proper spelling of whore would be another sign their man had some education.

  They were up against a nasty killer who hated prostitutes for some dark reason of his own. Lance could think of many grounds for this kind of virulent hatred, but until he had some other clue he could only guess.

  He decided to concentrate on the idea of an Italian stiletto. An exotic weapon like this was not an item easy to obtain. His men would have to comb the city, visiting all shops selling foreign weapons, as well as pawn shops and street fair vendors. Not a simple job and perhaps a useless one. He’d tell his men to question if the shopkeepers knew of a similar dagger.

  Certainly this was the best idea he’d had for a while. A possible place to start.

  God knows they needed to start someplace.

  He grinned and leaned back for just a moment before beginning to compile new orders to his staff. Morgan would have said “the Goddess knows”.

  He frowned as he realized she’d once again popped into his head. Unbidden. When he had time he’d worry about this ridiculous propensity for mental lapses. Morgan, his ever-beckoning Druid. He shook his head. He’d not ride that horse just now.

  He pulled his notes toward him and examined them once more. Then he went to his door.

  “Shriver, will you come in? I have an idea that might possibly help.”

  * * * * *

  Commissioner Devon Randall turned to his secretary.

  “I’m not making sense of my thoughts, Miss Stanton. I think we might as well let this go ’til tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have this new batch of reports sorted out by then, Sir.”

  He barely noticed her leaving. Damn, but he was unhappy with his world and with himself. Just when he needed his clearest thinking, Viviane McAfee’s lovely face floated before him. He’d not seen her since she refused his offer of marriage. Rather definitely refused.

  He’d been without her vital companionship for two long weeks. He could summon up no new argument for their marriage except how much he loved her. Which was hardly new.

  Perhaps his need was the key. Her presence was truly a requirement for the happiness of his son as well as himself. Jamie was miserable without Viviane’s frequent visits. He’d requested Cynthia to bring a footman for protection and take the boy to the park daily as an extra treat. He’d been reluctant to hire a new woman when the former nursemaid quit. Although he didn’t think Jamie was any longer in danger. Word of Cuttering’s imprisonment for many long years had sobered London’s underworld.

  Randall looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk with disgust. He really must see to getting a second secretary. Poor Miss Stanton was definitely overworked.

  He lifted his suit coat off the rack. He usually walked home to get a little of the exercise he missed. He stopped once to watch some children playing a skipping game with a rope. Did Jamie have a rope? Would he like one?

  He neared his home along Hyde Park anticipating how gleeful Jamie would be to see his papa at an earlier hour than expected. Running up the steps he let himself in, appreciating the coolness of the hall and the pleasing furnishings. His first wife had done well in this respect. In fact she’d tried hard to be all he could want. It wasn’t her fault he’d never loved her as much as she loved him. He often felt guilty he regarded her death with less than sorrow. In spite of a brief infatuation, they were not well suited. Still, he held her in undying gratitude for Jamie. His truly wonderful son.

  His butler was not in the hall. Randall stopped and listened for a sound and dimly heard Cynthia wailing. Wailing in a despairing way that quite frightened him. He headed for the stairs on a run and took the steps two at a time. If anything else had happened to Jamie— He couldn’t even finish the thought. Surely the gods wouldn’t torture him twice.

  The minute Lady Cynthia saw him her keening became louder. He rushed to her and knelt in front of her.

  “Cynthia, has anything happened to Jamie?”

  She buried her face in her hands and kept weeping.

  He shook her, at first gently and then with harsh strength. Still she sobbed, moaning into her hands and refusing to look at him.

  He finally took her hands from her face and slapped her, although not harshly.

  “Where is Jamie?”

  Either his expression or his voice must have frightened her, for she shrunk away from him. He felt hard put not to slap her again and harder.

  Millson entered just then, breathing heavily and with red spots in his cheeks. The thought flashed into Devon’s mind his butler was old enough to be retired. He pushed it away. He could not afford distraction now.

  “Well?” he asked tersely.

  “I’ve done a second search of the garden, sir. I looked under every bush and tree. Jamie’s not been seen since Lady Cynthia ordered him to take a nap.”r />
  Devon raised his brows at the word “ordered”. He knew his man spoke precisely. He’d used the word deliberately.

  “Cynthia, you’d better start talking sense and quickly. What happened here today?”

  She gulped and sniffled and tried to evade him but Devon took her chin between two iron fingers.

  “Talk, madam,” he ordered.

  Her words came in gasps.

  “Jamie was out of sorts because I refused to take him to the park. It’s simply too dangerous for him. He sulked until I told him to go to his room.”

  He didn’t bother screaming at the fool woman for disobeying his orders.

  “When did you find he was gone?”

  “Millson went to check on him about a half hour ago.”

  “Millson did? Not you, Cynthia?”

  She flushed an unnatural red unbecoming to her puffy face and eyes, but did not answer. Devon glared at her for a moment in silence, too angry to trust himself to speak to her. Evidently Millson was taking care of his son better than his aunt. When Millson did get around to retiring and it would not be at Devon’s suggestion, he could expect a sizeable annuity.

  He turned to his man.

  “Can you add anything, Millson?”

  “The young master was quite upset when he went to his room, sir. I worried about him and when it got late went to check on him. His room was empty. I don’t think he stayed there long.”

  Devon couldn’t shake the fear of another kidnapping, but his analytical brain told him Jamie left on his own accord. Even so terror gripped his whole being. He’d try briefly to find Jamie and then call in Lance. Surely life wouldn’t be so unfair as to make his beloved child suffer a second time.

  “I’ll deal with you later, Cynthia. I need the whole story first. Come, Millson, let’s go to the library. Be thinking of any thing that might help. If Jamie left on his own he not only had a good reason, but a destination in mind. I’m sure he wouldn’t just wander the streets.”

  Millson had little to add at first, seeming reluctant to discuss the matter. On further questioning he volunteered Jamie had been unhappy for some time.

  “Can you tell me why he’s been unhappy, Millson? Please remember I’m deeply concerned and afraid for my son. And you owe your loyalty only to me.”

  With a sigh Millson let down the bars. “He’s been restless, sir. He’s shut up in the house most of the days, except for a small stint in the garden.”

  Devon started. “Lady Cynthia’s not been taking him to the park, then. I wonder why Jamie didn’t tell me.”

  Millson cleared his throat. “I’ve heard her tell Master Jamie more than once not to bother you, you’re a busy man. Also to remember no gentleman tells tales on others.”

  “By God,” Devon exploded. “He left on his own then. I’d wager to Mrs. McAfee. He’d know she’d give him time and sympathy even without knowing why. ‘Telling tales’ indeed!”

  He strode from the library and down the hall to the front door, calling Cynthia the names in his mind he couldn’t permit a servant to hear.

  “Sir, can I come with you?”

  A brief glance at Millson’s distraught face convinced Devon he owed it to the man, yet he knew Millson would slow him down. He intended to run as fast as he could to the McAfees’. Since the distance was only about a mile, running was speedier than having his team hitched.

  “I need you to stay here and get a message to me if one comes, Millson. I’ll depend on you to take care of this important task.”

  Millson’s shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly.

  “Yes sir,” he said and opened the door for his master.

  Devon’s emotions were completely scrambled. Anxiety about his son mixed with guilt he’d not seen the signs of Cynthia’s selfish domination. His job definitely would have to go. He couldn’t afford nor did he want these long work days.

  If fate gave him another chance, the good of his son would come before so-called duty.

  Pray God for that chance.

  * * * * *

  As Millson held the door open for his master, both of them heaved identical and heartfelt sighs of relief.

  Jamie and Viviane, hand in hand, stood on the top step.

  “Thank you, God,” Devon murmured. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes and he stood stiffly still, not able to say another word.

  One look at his son’s face and Devon knew Viviane had done his parenting for him. Jamie’s stricken expression told him all he needed to know. Jamie’s act had been one of desperation. A temporary escape from the despair caused by his unheeding father. Jamie’s face was white as he dropped Viviane’s hand and marched sturdily to his father.

  “I’m most awf’lly sorry, sir. I ‘spect you’ll want to punish me. But honest, I didn’t mean to worry you. I just needed to see Mrs. McAfee.”

  Devon’s throat clogged as he dropped to his knees beside his son and took him in his arms.

  “I know, my son.” He buried his face for a long moment in Jamie’s curls. “Would you like to discuss later about how to avoid something like this in the future? I’m sure we can work something out, you and I. For now, I’m grateful you’re home and well.”

  He turned with as much of a smile as he could manage to Viviane.

  “I’ll express my gratitude to you later, my dear. Shall we all go in now? I don’t think you need any punishment, Jamie, but I do think we all need dinner. If you can persuade Mrs. McAfee to stay for something to eat I’ll forgive you for anything.”

  “Not fair, Devon,” Viviane murmured. In her normal tone she said of course she’d be glad to stay and swept into the hall.

  The men followed her, Devon with a grin and Millson struggling against one. Jamie held his father’s hand, looking up at him. Seeing his bewildered small face, Devon mentally cursed Cynthia. He’d never been fond of her, but when Marian had died it seemed simplest to allow her sister to move in and take care of Jamie. In spite of his dislike for Cynthia he’d never imagined her capable of neglect and treachery. She’d be gone as soon as he could speak with her. He wished he never had to see her again, but he would once more and with finality.

  They were all still in the hall and Millson spoke.

  “Shall I tell Cook we have one more for dinner, sir?”

  Devon hoped he didn’t look as grim as he felt. “No, Millson, but would you inform her Lady Cynthia will be eating her meals in her room tonight and from now on.”

  The look of total relief suffusing Jamie’s face made his father even angrier. And even more guilty. Jamie had been compelled to coerce his father’s action in a way possibly disastrous to them all.

  By God, he’d not see Cynthia’s sour face across the table from him ever again. Why he’d put up with her so long he didn’t know. Yes, he did know. His wife had adored him and after a brief infatuation, he’d thought her a silly creature. He’d let Cynthia take over as silent penance for the love he could not give his wife.

  He saw Vivian looking at him with a penetrating gaze, as if she could divine his thoughts. She doubtless could.

  He smiled at her and offered his arm to his love and led her into the parlor.

  He quietly asked Millson to fetch wine for the grownups and a little, well watered, for Jamie. When the wine was poured, Devon lifted his glass and spoke to the two persons he loved.

  As his son’s eyes widened he said in his most solemn manner, “This is one of the most propitious occasions of my life. My son is returned to me once again and this time I will make sure he’s content to stay. I propose happiness for us all.”

  When he saw the grown-ups drink Jamie took a sip and wrinkled his nose.

  His father smiled at him and raised his glass again in a silent toast to Viviane. She looked torn between amusement and something like dismay. He smiled beatifically and held her gaze.

  No matter the reluctance with which she returned his ardent glance. He knew now how to break down her defenses. It was simple. His conceit must have kept him fo
cused on his own desperate yearnings. Like any skillful card player he would now focus on his opponent’s weakness.

  Jamie. Jamie would help him achieve what they both wanted. Jamie was his winning card.

  As Millson appeared to summon them to dinner, he took Jamie by the hand and placed Viviane’s on the curve of his other arm.

  “Shall we go in to dinner, my dears?”

  Viviane gave a small snort and Jamie looked at him with love in his big brown eyes. He smiled at them, not caring if the depth of his emotion was evident. The three of them belonged together. He’d made many mistakes in his life, but this time he intended to see everything went the way it should. Nothing else would ever matter to him as much as these two precious people.

  He must lay his plans with meticulous care. There was no room for error in his planned pursuit of the elusive Viviane McAfee.

  Chapter Nine

  Once again Lance called for Shriver. Seated at the table of his office in Scotland Yard, he was surrounded by the paperwork accumulated from the investigation of the Light Skirt Murders.

  “Do you have information as to how the newspapers started calling this the Case of the Light Skirt Murders? It’s a little too close to the truth to suit me.”

  Shriver shook his head. “No covering up the fact that they’re prostitutes, Sir. In fact we haven’t tried to do that.”

  “Just so long as the press doesn’t find out about the ‘W’s. It’s the best clue we have.”

  “Not likely, Sir. Our men are well primed to keep that fact to themselves.”

  Lance nodded and picked up his stack of papers again. Suddenly he smiled. He’d gone stale on the case and would drive out and call on Morgan. Unsuitable for him and not at all understandable, still she fascinated him.

  Although he longed with all his heart to kiss her breathless and teach her a little about the art of passion, he couldn’t afford to even consider such a foolish act. The only true conclusion with a girl as innocent as Morgan was to marry her, an entanglement he wasn’t prepared to even consider.