****
Two days later
Ruddy had just put on his coat ready to leave for the night when the desk sergeant approached.
“There’s a constable from the Whitechapel Station at the desk asking to speak with you. Want me to tell him you’ve gone for the night?” the sergeant asked.
“Why don’t you go on and leave. I know you have plans with Honeysuckle. I can take care of whatever the fellow wants,” Archie offered.
Whitechapel. Ruddy couldn’t think why someone from their district had a reason to specifically speak with him. Strange. “No. I’m in no rush. I’ll talk with the fellow. I’m curious what this about. Let’s both talk to him.”
The sergeant didn’t need to point out the Whitechapel officer. His was the only new police face hovering around the lobby desk.
“I’m Detective Bloodstone. The sergeant said you asked for me in particular.”
“I did.” A boyish looking, lanky constable with a faint blonde mustache stepped forward. “Our detectives sent me over. They’re handling a homicide at Our Lady of Mercy hospital, a Dr. Finch is the victim. He had your business card on him. I was told to ask if you had time to come by and give the detectives what information you have on Finch.”
The minute the constable said the murder occurred at Our Lady of Mercy, Ruddy knew all he needed to know about the motive. “That’s a hospital for indigent women and children, isn’t it?” he asked, just to verify.
“It is. Will you come?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come too,” Archie said.
The three hired a carriage to take them back. At that hour, the trams would be packed with workers whose shifts recently ended. A carriage was also the fastest means through traffic.
At the hospital the Whitechapel constable led Ruddy and Archie through a small ward where another constable kept watch over a handful of female patients in hospital issue gowns. The presence of the officer indicated the women were likely witnesses.
The crime scene was in the next ward. Finch lay on the floor with a butcher’s knife sticking out of his chest. Considering the type of wound and the weapon, the scene was relatively clean. Finch’s shirt and waistcoat absorbed most of the external blood. An autopsy would show how much he’d bled internally.
The constable led them to a bespectacled detective in his forties with a well-trimmed beard in civilian clothes. The detective finished giving orders to another officer and turned to greet Ruddy and Archie.
“Detective Echols, this is Detective Bloodstone and his partner, Detective Holbrook,” the constable who escorted them said.
“Thank you for coming,” Echols said. “This is an unusual murder. Our killer is that sickly looking creature sitting on the bed there.”
The woman was in her mid-twenties with dull straw colored hair, skin pale as milk, and thin as a candle wick. Ruddy thought manacles a waste on her bony wrists. She could slip them off with no effort if she were so inclined. Finch had been stabbed in the heart with fierce determination. It took strength to power through muscle and bone.
And it took hate.
“Has she confessed?” Ruddy asked.
“Yes. She didn’t say much else when we interviewed her. She admitted she planned to do it. She said Finch comes every week at the same time. She went to the kitchen and stole a knife and waited for him. When I found your card I thought you might know more about this Finch and be able to shed some light on what would provoke her to do this.”
“I believe I can.” Ruddy gave him a brief summation of their case and the incident with Robson two days earlier, along with the murders of the Skinner and Cross.
“That explains her strange statement,” Echols said. He brought out his field notebook and flipped through to the page he wanted. “When I asked her why she did it, all she’d say was...I got tired of men taking what I didn’t want to give. Knowing Finch’s history now, my suspicion about the statement is confirmed.”
The woman who’d been sitting with her head down looked up at Ruddy. Her eyes held that same anger and defiance he’d seen in Robson’s.
“I wonder why she didn’t come to us and report him,” Echols said, oblivious to her expression.
“I don’t wonder. I’ve seen this twice in two days. She felt the law would not serve her. Whether it would or not didn’t matter. The fact she believed it wouldn’t made its failure true.” Ruddy wished he carried a flask. A shot of whiskey would go down good right now.
“Come by when you’re ready and you can read our entire report,” Archie told him. “Ready to go?” he asked Ruddy.
Ruddy nodded.
Outside the wind had changed directions from when they arrived. The smell from the river’s rotting flotsam and jetsam baking in the hot sun all day blew over. The smell of blood at the crime scene didn’t bother him. The smell of blood never did. The sharp vinegary smell in the air of most hospitals, Our Lady of Mercy included didn’t bother him. Most days the odors wafting off the river didn’t either. He’d lived in London long enough to get used to them. Today, the rank stink was more noticeable than usual.
“Whitechapel really is an abomination to the senses, isn’t it?” Archie commented and waved down a cab who’d just off loaded a passenger.
“Yes.”
Chapter Thirty
“Two female killers. How extraordinary. Have you ever had a female murderer before?” Honeysuckle asked Ruddy. “The flowers are beautiful by the way.”
“Graciela Robson was my first. The bouquet is the largest we could find. Archie and I wanted to show our gratitude. Champagne is on the way to the room too. I stopped at the front desk and requested a bottle.”
“I don’t understand. Gratitude for what?”
“You talked about poison being a woman’s way of killing because it wasn’t messy. After we’d explored every avenue for possible suspects, we turned to the only one we never traveled. Could we be looking for a woman?”
“As a woman—”
Ruddy lifted the mass of her dark curls and kissed the base of her neck. “A very lovely woman I might add.”
“You should do that to both sides just to be fair.” He obeyed and she went on. “As a woman, I’m not sure how I feel about your killer. Part of me feels sympathy for her plight after being abused by the men. That said, the bigger part of me can’t grasp the extreme revenge after all these years. Didn’t you feel a bit sorry for her?”
Of all the murderers he’d dealt with, Robson was the most tragic but he couldn’t honestly say he felt a lot of sympathy. “What happened to her was horrible. It doesn’t excuse taking the law into her own hands. Vigilantism never ends well. She’s perfect evidence of that.”
There was a knock at the door. The champagne had arrived. The waiter wheeled in a cart with the bucket and a tray of appetizers. “You can go. I’ll serve it,” Ruddy told the room service waiter. He poured two glasses and set them on the table in front of the sofa before taking his leave.
“We’ll enjoy these in a moment. I’ve something to show you first.” He led Honeysuckle by the hand to the armoire where she kept her cloaks and hats. “I saw this when I hung up my hat the other night.” He removed a plaid newsboy’s hat from the shelf. Then he slid the other items hanging up aside and pulled a blue jacket with a double row of brass buttons out. “This is a boy’s coat. As I recall, you haven’t a brother.”
Honeysuckle’s face flushed pink at the sight of the hat and coat. “No, I am an only child. Why do you ask?”
He set the hat on her head and tucked the hair around her face up under it. Then he held the coat up in front of her. “I have seen a hat and coat like this recently. You’ll never guess where.”
“Oh all right, you made your point.” Honeysuckle took the hat off and tossed it back on the shelf. “I know what you said, but I was desperate to see the fight. I wanted to cheer you on if only silently. Can you forgive me? I’ll make it worth your while.” She offered the last with soft eyes peering up at hi
m through dark lashes in her temptress way.
“Well...”
“Please.”
“You’re responsible for this.” He pointed to his broken nose.
“How so?”
“I glanced over from the ring and saw a young man, you apparently, who looked like your twin brother. The brief distraction got me a right cross on the nose. I’m adding my nose to the list of wrong doings you’ll have to make up for.” He kissed the top of her breast and then said, “We’ll work on some special ways for you to do that.”
They moved to the sofa. The appetizer tray had a variety of finger sandwiches and teacakes along with grapes and strawberries, which Ruddy and Honeysuckle nibbled.
“What’s your real name?” Ruddy asked in a light tone. Such a melodic name, he suspected it was too perfect. He wanted to know for no particular reason other than curiosity.
“What? Why do you think Honeysuckle Flowers isn’t my real name?”
“I’ve been a detective a long time. I’ve a good feel for what rings true. Honeysuckle Flowers is too perfect.”
“I did pick well. My true name is Helen Fowler.”
“What’s wrong with that name, why’d you change it?”
“It’s not a marquee name.”
“Good point. I’ve another question and I’d really like you to say yes.”
Honeysuckle looked wary. She’d expressed a lack of interest in marriage and probably worried that he planned to propose anyway. “I’m listening.”
“I’d like to breathe fresh air for a few days. I want to go to Wales before the holidays. I’d like you to join me. Say yes.”
“Are you sure? Your family might not approve of my profession.”
“I’ve never been more sure.”
“Then yes.”
READ BOOK 1 in the BLOODSTONE SERIES
SILK
It is the time of Jack the Ripper, the widowed Queen Victoria sits on the throne of England. The whole of London is on edge wondering when or where Jack will kill next. The Palace, Parliament, and the press are demanding the police do more to find him.
In another part of London, rough-around-the-edges war hero, Metropolitan Detective Inspector Rudyard Bloodstone has his own serial killer to find. Inter departmental rivalries, politics, and little evidence to go on hamper the investigation at every turn. In a battle of wills, Bloodstone presses forward following his instincts in spite of the obstacles.
Adding to those problems, away from the strains of the investigation, he is engaged in the ups and downs of a new relationship with a lovely hat maker.
.
CHAPTER ONE SILK
Chapter One
Dressing the dead required a certain dexterity and patience. William surveyed his work with pride. A pity no one would see his accomplishment. He doubted Isabeau’s maid could’ve done much better.
Sweat beaded his forehead and he used his dead lover’s embroidered hanky to wipe his face and the film of perspiration from his chest. The fire in the hearth had gone out while they made love, but even naked, the room was like an oven. He started to pour a glass of wine then thought better of it. Until the body was disposed of and the stage set for explaining her death, he needed to keep a clear head. Instead, he rummaged through the chiffonier hunting for petticoats. No respectable woman left the house without proper underpinnings. A bottom drawer was filled with lace and ribbon-trimmed petticoats. William took the top ones and managed to get them on and tied with far less trouble than he had with the dress.
“Thank God,” William mumbled, snickering at the inappropriate application of the phrase. “Now riding boots.”
The boot slipped on her tiny foot with ease. He laced it up and had the second one half on when he noticed the ball of stockings on the floor. “Bugger me.”
The concept of heaven or hell held no interest for him. On certain holidays, Isabeau droned on about religion and turned a devout Catholic face to the world. If there was anything to her belief, then she was probably gazing on the scene from some perch in Purgatory and laughing. With that grating thought fueling every move, he removed the boot and started over, stockings first.
Finished with dressing her, William threw on the same clothes he’d worn earlier, crept downstairs and headed for the stable. On the way he looked east toward the ruin of the ancient hill fort that bordered his land. Pink streaks lined the distant sky. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it to the cliffs before the whole of Tintagel awoke.
He lit a single lantern and carefully placed it to the side where he wouldn’t knock it over.
“Sir?” The stable boy stood at the base of the loft ladder rubbing sleep from his eyes, shirt askew and buttoned wrong.
William gave little start. He hadn’t heard the boy stir.
“I can take care of the horses, sir. What did you need me to do?”
“Nothing, Charles. Go back to sleep. I’ll saddle King Arthur and Guinevere. Isabeau and I thought it might be nice to go for an early ride.” William laid a firm but gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Sleep. By the time I—” he corrected himself, “We return, the horses will be ready for feeding and brushing.”
The boy nodded and climbed up to his hayloft bed.
Hurriedly working against the rising sun, William tacked up Guinevere, the mare Isabeau rode, and then saddled his big bay hunter. When he was done, he brought both horses round to the far side of the stable and tied them to a rail out of sight from the house.
William dashed back to the bedroom, taking the steps to the upper floor two at a time. Muffled voices came from the kitchen. Of the household staff, cook rose the earliest to begin the day’s breakfast preparation. Soon the butler and his valet would be awake. He considered sneaking out of the house but dismissed the idea rather than do anything that might appear suspicious. A ride at dawn’s light was out of the ordinary but not so strange as to provoke speculation and clucking by the servants, if he acted normal.
He wrapped Isabeau in a cloak and carried her down the main stairs. With every step, he whispered sweet words to his dead mistress and nuzzled her cool cheek. A smile played at his lips. To any staff member about, it looked like a romantic gesture.
After numerous tries, William secured the body to the mare in a semi-sitting position. Just getting her onto the horse’s back turned into a monumental feat and by no means was he a weakling. He took a moment to catch his breath. The short time to sunrise didn’t allow for more than a couple of moments. Next he tied her hands to the pommel and her feet to the girth. Isabeau still tipped forward but to anyone they might ride past, the position could pass for a deliberate effort on her part for speed. He’d pony Guinevere on a long line. All he had to do was keep both horses at the same smooth gait, a nice extended canter, or perhaps a measured gallop.
Castle Beach would be his final destination, the easiest spot to unload his baggage without discovery. The route there posed different issues. The foliage of St. Nectan’s Glen offered excellent cover and slim odds of seeing other riders. It also added an additional thirty minutes to his journey. The fastest path took him out in the open where he ran the biggest risk of being seen. After a brief mental debate, he decided to use the fastest route and headed straight for the cliffs across the moor.
Guinevere galloped along with King Arthur while William maintained a steady pace, keeping St. Materina’s Church in sight and on his right. The church was the midpoint between the cliffs overlooking Castle Beach and Tintagel village proper. The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon when he stopped. Seabirds had already flown from their nests and hovered over the fishing boats preparing to sail out. The absence of gulls, puffins, and other squalling local animal life magnified the roar and crash of the waves against the rocky cliff.
William dismounted and let Arthur graze on the scraggly grass. The fine stallion made an excellent shield as William untied and lifted Isabeau’s body from Guinevere. With little effort, he rolled his late lover off the edge of the cliff and watc
hed, grimacing, when her dainty body bounced off a rocky outcropping. True, he planned on packing her back to France, or to another of his associates. And true, he didn’t see her death as a great loss, but he wouldn’t have wished her bashed on the rocks, even in death. However, this was the most expedient way to rid himself of an inconveniently dead mistress.
It shouldn’t have come to this...
****
The ebb and flow of the tide, the rush of water as it churned through the stones embedded in the sandy shore entranced him while the events of the prior evening played in his mind.
“Do you love me, William?” Isabeau pursed her full lips and glided across the carpet with a graceful sway. The sheer gown trailed behind her like a silken mist. She stopped between his knees and faced him.
“No darling. You don’t inspire love. You amuse me, which is infinitely better.” You used to anyway. William took a swallow of the rich claret and swirled the liquid around his mouth and waited for Isabeau’s familiar routine. His denial of love always triggered a tantrum.
She’d tested his patience of late. First came the needy question, followed by his honest answer, then the dramatics, the feigned hurt, the pout, the demand for a physical show of desire. Desire. It’s all there’d ever been between them. Recently, the edge to that passion had grown dull. Even the more unusual aspects of their lovemaking seemed stale, desperate and contrived.
She rubbed her calf against his.
“Don’t. I’m not in the mood,” he said and moved his leg. “It’s a big house Isabeau. Surely you can find something to entertain yourself with other than me.”
“I don’t want to.” Spoiled and demanding, she could be a petulant child when denied. She rubbed the other leg now.
William groaned. He didn’t feel like fucking her tonight. He’d risen with the sun and spent the entire day with Harold, the estate manager. They rode the perimeter of the thousand acres that belonged to Foxleigh Hall. Poachers, a constant irritant had become bold over the past few weeks, venturing deep onto the property, shooting badger and deer, even the does, leaving the fawns to die. Bastards.
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