by Jill Jones
“Comfortable?”
“Yes,” she said, “and no.”
His face clouded. “What’s the matter?”
She squirmed. “This is embarrassing.”
“What is? Taking a bath together? Seems like it’s a little late to go all prudish.”
She splashed water in his direction. “I’m not prudish!” Her cheeks burned, and she sunk lower in the water. “Or maybe I am.” Her mother’s image loomed before her eyes. Barbara Wentworth Thomas would not be happy if she could see her daughter at the moment. But then, Barbara Wentworth Thomas hadn’t approved of much she had done since Meghan’s death. “It’s just that…hell, Jonathan, this time last week I didn’t even know you.”
“Thank goodness it’s this week,” he said, taking one of her feet in his hands and beginning to massage her toes. Her belly tightened at his touch, but she didn’t pull away. “What’s the matter?” he asked gently. “Is your libido feeling guilty?”
Guilty? She supposed she did feel just a little bit guilty. She’d been taught that “good girls” didn’t do things like she’d done with Jonathan the past few days. Especially with strangers. Guilt wasn’t something she was accustomed to either. She’d always been the good daughter, for the most part, going along with her parents’ rules and wishes, until Meghan’s death, when she’d bailed on her mother’s desire for a “proper” marriage and her father’s plan for a junior partner. They hadn’t liked it, but neither had they thrown her out of the family. Victoria put the brakes to her runaway thoughts. What the hell was she doing thinking about her parents at a time like this?
“It’s not that. It’s just that…well, I’ve never felt like this toward a man.”
His hands paused. “Like how?”
She didn’t like being pressed in a direction she found distinctly uncomfortable. “You know, there’s a real pushy part of you I don’t like.”
“Show it to me and I’ll cut it off.”
He laid her foot along the crease of his groin, where it nestled softly against his genitals.
Victoria took in a sharp breath. “That’s not the part I meant.”
“Good God, I hope not. I’d have to rethink my offer.” He picked up her other foot and worked on it. “You were saying?”
“I was saying…I don’t know quite what to make of us.”
“That makes two of us.” He ran his fingers between her toes, scrunching bubbles where their skin met. “Do we have to make anything of us? Other than that we’re two consenting adults with crazy hungry libidos?”
A shard of disappointment cut through her. He was right, of course. What had she expected? A marriage proposal? She wasn’t even interested in that kind of thing. But she’d hoped she was more to him than just a good lay. Obviously, that wasn’t the case.
Suddenly, she felt naked and vulnerable. She had behaved deplorably. She’d allowed him to see her in a way no other man had, and she regretted it down to her toenails, which she now withdrew from Jonathan’s grasp. She sat up in the tub and hugged her knees to her breasts. “Maybe it would be best if I go home,” she said, feeling miserable. “Whose decision was it that I had to stay on anyway?”
“Victoria, what’s wrong? What did I say?”
She reached for the large towel he had set out for her on a nearby chair. “It’s nothing you said, Jonathan. It’s my own stupidity. I have a life. A career. And I need to get on with it.”
Stepping out of the tub, she covered herself with the towel and went into the bedroom, where she dried off hastily and slipped into her clothes before Jonathan had time to get out of the water. By the time he came into the room, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, she had her suitcase shut and in hand.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t need a bodyguard, Jonathan. You and I both know why I came here. Well, we did our thing, and now it’s time for me to go.”
Chapter Thirteen
King’s College, Cambridge
Fourteenth June 1888
I have been estranged from Eddy since his frightful and foolish foray into the East End alone last February, where he stabbed a whore with a clasp knife. He lost his nerve and ran, leaving her alive and possibly able to identify him. For the first time, I comprehended the colossal mistake I made in introducing him and his simple mind to the deed, for he gave no forethought to the consequences. It was his good fortune she died later of other complications and never identified her attacker. In my fury, I banished him from my quarters, but have regretted it ever since.
Today my wish for reconciliation was granted. My beloved Prince has just departed after stopping for an unexpected visit on his way to Sandringham. He dismissed his entourage with uncharacteristic authority and entered my rooms with an unusual air of confidence. It pleased me to see him in such high spirits, for when I saw him last, in the dark days of February after his dreadful error, he was a simpering fool.
This visit, he said, was to apologize for hunting without me. He lost his confidence at this point and fell to his knees, begging my forgiveness. I was gladdened and relieved to learn I still controlled his heart and, to some extent, his actions. He seems to understand the terrible risk he took, and yet he fears in the future he might not be able to control himself. The bloodlust torments him as unmercifully as it does me, and he begged that I come to London and join him in a hunt. We have arranged it for the Bank Holiday on sixth August. It fills me with unspeakable joy that in spite of our estrangement, I still own his heart, and he remains in my power.
Jonathan swore he would never understand women as long as he lived. One minute things were going swimmingly, so to speak, and he had every expectation the libido-feeding might go on long into the night. The next minute, Victoria was pissed and on her way out.
“Wait,” he said. “It’s late. You have no place to go. And I think you owe me at least an explanation before you fly out of here.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” she said. “I just changed my mind, that’s all. Or else, my libido got full.”
“That’s a crock,” he said, going to her. “You said you don’t know what to make of us. Well, neither do I. If you’re looking for an answer to that, I can’t give it, Victoria, because I don’t have one. Do you think this is any easier for me than you? I’m a bachelor, for God’s sake, a confirmed bachelor with no plans for a woman in my life, ever. Then you come waltzing in and my whole world tilts upside down. I can’t think. I can’t work. When I’m around you, I’m as hot as a teenager, and as helpless. I ought to stay as far from you as I can manage, but I can’t.” He broke off, thinking if she left he would die. “Victoria,” he said. “Don’t go.”
The phone rang.
“Don’t go,” he said again, holding up his hand as if that would somehow stop her. “That…that might be the lab.” If nothing else, maybe she would stick around to see if they’d come up with anything. He rushed past her into the living room where the phone continued to ring insistently. He picked up the phone set in one hand and the receiver in the other, hoping his towel wouldn’t slide off. “Blake here.” He turned to see if Victoria had gone, but she stood in the doorway, watching him, suitcase still in hand.
It was Hensen at the lab, and he was excited. He’d just finished running some tests on the old note that had been sent to Victoria, along with the warning. “I’m quite certain the paper is authentic to the late 1800’s,” he told Jonathan. “I collect samples of papers from different times for our files, and I found an identical match in the royal stationery collection from the year 1888.”
“The royal stationery collection?” Jonathan had not known the Yard had any such resource.
“Yes, sir. It’s…sort of a hobby of mine. I get a little obsessed with my work, I suppose.” Hensen sounded both abashed and proud. “I have made it a point to gather dated letters, legal documents, and other written artifacts from history for this very purpose, to provide materials in case we needed them for forensic comparisons. This kind o
f paper, sir, was used by Queen Victoria for her personal correspondence.”
“V.R.” Jonathan murmured, astounded.
“It could be a forgery, but I’d wager a week’s pay that’s her royal highness’s initials written here. As for what the message means, I haven’t a clue.”
“You’re due a bonus for this one, Hensen,” Jonathan said, ringing off and raising his eyes to meet Victoria’s gaze. “Our man at the lab says he’s dead certain that old note you were sent today was written by Queen Victoria.”
Victoria let the suitcase fall to the floor with a heavy thud. “He’s sure?”
Jonathan explained how his man had arrived at that conclusion. “He could be wrong, of course. But he’s an expert in the field when it comes to forensically verifying correspondence.”
“What does it mean, Jonathan?” She came toward him, and he suddenly remembered that all he wore was a towel.
“Let me get some clothes on, and we’ll talk about it.” He touched her arm before leaving the room. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
She gave him a smile that bespoke surrender. “I’d already changed my mind before the call.”
They talked long into the night, sitting at opposite ends of the sofa in front of a warming fire. They talked about the curious old note. They talked about the mysterious warning letter, and the letter sent to the London Times. Even about the delivery of the human liver. They talked about the old Ripper murders, and killers in general, and what drove them to kill. For the first time, Jonathan realized the depth of Victoria’s commitment to her profession, and why she had become a profiler in the first place. It wasn’t just about her sister’s death, although that had sparked it. It was about understanding the mind behind the killing. It was about knowing the killer better than the killer did himself in order to stop him.
Bottom line, it was about saving lives. Although they disagreed on technique, in the end, they were after the same thing.
“Do you think you could pull together a profile on our killer?” he asked, surprising himself.
“Do my ears deceive me? The scientific-method-only cop asking for a profile? Don’t patronize me, Jonathan.”
They had remained at a safe distance for as long as he could stand it. Sliding across the sofa, he put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m not patronizing you. I would really appreciate your help.” What surprised him even more was that he meant it. What could it hurt? Maybe she’d come up with something…
She drew her head back and looked at him long and hard, as if trying to decide whether to believe him or not. Then she gave him a slow smile. “Very well. I’ll start tomorrow.” She touched his chest. “But now, isn’t it time for bed?”
He lit his pipe and looked at the game board. Although he had intended to follow the master’s timetable, he found he could not. He had more to do than the master. A larger territory to work. So he had created a timetable of his own.
Also unlike the master, he chose a different kind of whore for his work. Where the master cut the dregs from society, the apprentice chose to slice away at society itself, those hypocritical whores.
He’d selected his starting point carefully, for there was a pattern to fulfill. His victim, however, was a totally random selection. She was an easy mark as she left the opera house and walked alone down a side street to her car. He’d watched from the shadows across the street, waiting, on fire with the bloodlust. The bitch was dressed to kill, so to speak, in white satin. Perfect. The blood would look exquisite against it.
As she dug in her purse for her keys, he crept up behind her. From the way she swayed unsteadily on her feet, he guessed she’d been drinking. He touched her shoulder, and she whirled about in surprise. Seeing him, she smiled. An instant later, when his hands encircled her neck, her smile turned to surprise, and then to horror. It was the horror that made him hard.
The kill was swift and silent from there. He simply choked the life from her. But unlike the last place he’d worked, this street was not a safe enough place to finish his job. Others would come this way soon when the opera was over. She must have been bored and left early. He didn’t blame her. He hated opera.
When she went limp, he dropped her onto the pavement, took her keys, and opened the back door. He slid her onto the seat and tucked her feet in, making sure he had both shoes. There must be nothing to indicate that she had died on that spot. It wasn’t part of the master’s plan to move the whore, but he had no choice.
He drove to a secluded park, where he took her body out of the expensive foreign car and laid it across the wide hood, where the engine’s heat would warm her, then went to work, feeling the power welling in his loins.
He finished quickly and stood back to admire his work. He wondered if the police would notice that the incision resembled a music note. Before leaving, he took a small digital camera from his pocket. Aiming it at his masterpiece, he snapped a shot and gazed at it on the small screen, satisfied. He smiled. Too bad the master had not had a such way to record his work. This was historically important.
He took another picture just for good measure, then walked quickly off into the darkness of the night.
The next day, Victoria and Jonathan turned what he believed to be phony police records from 1888 over to Erik Hensen, telling the examiner he must have them back in twenty-four hours. In just under that, Hensen returned them, authenticated. “Where the hell’d you get those?” Hensen had wanted to know, his eyes bright with curiosity.
Victoria had bit her tongue, knowing she could not give the secret away.
“I can’t say just yet. If we’re lucky, there’ll be more where this came from,” Jonathan answered the man enigmatically, not telling him they were about to return the priceless treasures to their anonymous donor. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention this to anyone until we see what else turns up.”
After making careful photocopies of this first batch, he and Victoria paid another visit to the Rabbit Hole Antiquarian Book Shop, where he reluctantly handed them over to Roger.
“I hope to God this guy wasn’t lying about providing us with more documents,” he told Victoria as they left. “I would never let these out of my hands unless I thought it would lead to others that will shed more light on the truth of those old murders.”
Victoria spent the next few days in a conference room near Jonathan’s office, working on the case from a criminal psychologist’s point of view. She hoped he wasn’t just throwing her a bone, giving her something to do to keep her out of his hair. Whether he believed in the value of profiling or not, she knew its worth, and she was determined to prove it to her hardheaded Englishman. She was glad of the opportunity.
It was difficult, however, because there was so little to go on. She’d seen the crime scene photos and read the coroner’s report, but the forensic exam was not yet complete. And as far as victimology went, there was even less for her to work with. The dead woman’s family had not come forth to claim her, and she apparently had few friends. She did not believe, however, that the victim had known the killer. From the physical evidence, it appeared she may not have even been aware of the killer until he reached to strangle her from behind.
Jonathan had provided her with a laptop, which she used to communicate with Mike and the others back at Quantico. Mike had called her every day as well, not only to keep her informed on their search for Billy Ray, but also to check on her well-being. He was upset that she’d become involved in the case when she was in personal danger. It wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d insisted she take a vacation.
She didn’t feel endangered, she assured him, working in the offices of Scotland Yard and spending her free hours with Jonathan. And her work was less than demanding. So far, it had consisted mainly of collecting and entering what data she had on the case, and spending hours trying to get her mind wrapped around the mind of the killer.
Why here? Why now? Why this victim?
It was nearly two o’clock on Thursda
y afternoon when Jonathan popped his head in the door. “Ready for a break? I’m starving.”
Victoria was concentrating so deeply it took a moment for his invitation to register. “Uh, sure,” she replied, “let me just check one more thing here.” She finished downloading the case study she was using as a comparison, then put the laptop to sleep. “Lunch sounds great,” she said, turning to him, and her heart skipped a beat.
Damn. She wished she didn’t harbor such feelings for him. This whole affair was impossible. And soon it would come to a screeching halt.
“I know the perfect place,” he said, taking her arm. But he wouldn’t tell her where they were going. “It’s a surprise.”
A few minutes’ ride on the underground and a short walk brought them to a classic English pub, with a dark facade and multi-paned windows facing the street. Victoria looked at the name painted in gold lettering above the windows.
“The Sherlock Holmes Public House and Restaurant.” She laughed. “With all that’s happened the last few days, I’d forgotten about this place. I looked it up on the Internet and really wanted to visit it while I was here. It’s got a replica of the sitting room and study Holmes and Watson occupied at 221-B Baker Street, doesn’t it?”
“Except there never was a 221-B Baker Street. Or a Holmes and Watson, for that matter,” he added, opening the door for her. “But we can see what it looked like in the mind of the author.”
It being past the lunch hour, the place was nearly empty. They went into the main restaurant, where Victoria discovered to her delight that the famous apartments shared by Holmes and his sidekick Dr. Watson were indeed replicated in detail, furnished with authentic Victorian items and visible to diners through large glass partitions. Holmes memorabilia abounded, including a nostalgic collection of stills from movies and television programs featuring the famous sleuth and his trusty companion.
