Painted Trust

by Elsa Holland

  Cox smirked. “Lam is a very ambitious young man—a handy thing, don’t you find? I knew an Edith who was interested in anatomy and medicine; pretty young thing, diminutive, skin of peaches and cream, with ink-black hair. Tough little thing. Knew how to bury her emotions like a man.”

  The unease increased. “A standard Celtic description, prolific in these parts,” Vaughn countered but his heart beat faster.

  “Mmmm. No doubt.” Cox took a thoughtful sip of Burgundy. “I am interested to know about the Scotland Yard case. I understand the need for confidentiality but perhaps you can throw an old man some tidbits?”

  And so unfolded the reason for tonight’s invitation. Vaughn had prepared his reply, one that would maintain his integrity while allowing Cox to feel he had gained something from facilitating the opportunity.

  “A rather gruesome case. Young girl, exsanguinated and skin flayed off her body. Little to no trace of the killer’s identity or motive.”

  “A random killing?”

  “I don’t think so, very ritualistic.”

  “In what way?”

  “The use of gold around the incision areas as well as eyes and lips. The treatment of blood; bloodletting is not the action of a killer in a frenzy. This man had a script prepared and he executed it; one that was rather complex and time-consuming, and ensured no trace remained.”

  “Any witnesses? It was in a boarding house, papers said.”

  “None. Nothing meaningful could be attributed to the killer. A ghost, it seems.”

  “Dr Simpson said you found ink markings?”

  Anger flashed at the thought that Dr Simpson had relayed such sensitive information and, moreover, that Cox was clearly gathering intelligence from both of them. Vaughn was now unsure what he could hold back without appearing evasive.

  “Nothing that can be conclusive in and of itself.”

  Cox’s eyebrows rose. “Dr Simpson said you thought the marking itself was part of the motivation—tattoos, I think you wrote in your report?”

  The room was silent.

  Vaughn placed his cutlery on his plate.

  “If you have a relationship with Dr Simpson, I fail to see the benefit of adding me to the mix. Especially as Dr Simpson’s concern for police confidentiality is obviously lower than mine.”

  “Two is better than one and, besides, Dr Simpson is lazy. He would have stopped at blood loss and flaying, you would not, and it seems did not. Next time I expect a more generous sharing of information.”

  “Next time? I may not be invited to the next autopsy.”

  “They would be foolish to leave you out of it given the quality of your report. Besides, this young man is just getting started.”

  Vaughn noted that he had not mentioned the killer’s age, although his report had noted the strength required for the kill. Youth may be a reasonable assumption however it was not one he or the inspector made. There were strong men of every age.

  “I am intrigued by your interest in the case.”

  Cox immediately looked bored and motioned for the plates to be taken away. “When you can buy anything and everything you want—artifacts, people and experiences—you start to look for things a little further out of reach, the unexpected events that stir up a nation.”

  “You want a ringside seat.”

  “I want the royal box. Care for a port, before you go? I imagine you have other plans for this evening?”

  Vaughn nodded. “Empire Palace.”

  “What, not your little Celtic nurse? I hear she’s a sprightly bundle.”

  “I prefer blondes myself.”

  Cox laughed. “Ah, the Empire Palace it is then.” They adjourned to the library, port in hand, and Vaughn took the opportunity to push his own agenda.

  “Two more patients went missing this week. I was interested in what the Board thought.” Vaughn raised the glass of viscous liquid and drank.

  “The Board have no interest in patients who flee their bills, Vaughn, you know that. It happens all the time.”

  “Predominantly seamen and military, oddly enough.”

  “Men used to being ruthless and with escape routes to other countries.”

  “For a small medical bill, that seems incongruous. Perhaps I could investigate, on behalf of yourself and the Board.”

  Cox lowered his glass.

  “Perhaps, but it could mean you would be too busy to support Scotland Yard. I know Dr Simpson would be very disappointed.”

  “Simply offering my services.”

  “Much appreciated, as always, Vaughn.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Vaughn chose to walk all the way to the Empire Palace on Nicholson Street, his cane tapping a rhythm as he walked. The leisurely walk was designed to calm him after dinner with Cox. It also ensured he would arrive just before the show started, with no time for Felix to drag him from booth to booth to see acquaintances he was in no mood to engage with.

  It wasn’t Cox he was annoyed with; Vaughn was as disgusted by the man as ever. No, he wanted to plant Lam for talking about Edith. Then there was Simpson. Vaughn had already made up his mind to relay the indiscretion to the difficult Inspector Morrison. The man was rude but his motivations were on the right side of the law.

  Up ahead, a group of men walked in the same direction, the cobblestones echoing their footsteps, canes and laughter. The late show at the Empire Palace was drawing in its quarry.

  Why was he going? He knew why he’d said yes. Hell, the smallest reaction from Miss Apple and he would gladly face a gaggle of blondes. But after her little chin had pushed out fractionally and he was alone with Felix he could have called it off.

  Rationally, he knew he should dive into this opportunity. Use it to step back and focus on the kind of woman who would deliver in spades exactly what he needed to take the edge off. But these things were never based on the rational, now were they?

  “Where have you been?” Felix gave him a cursory glance as he entered the box and then refocused his attention on the show. “Look, there she is.” Felix pointed vaguely to the stage below. “The one on the far right, last line in the chorus. Can you see her?”

  Vaughn scanned the last row. “She’s a brunette. I thought you said blonde.”

  Felix’s hand wavered in the air. “No, that’s Felicity, isn’t she wonderful? I met her last night and have set my sights on her.”

  “And the blonde?”

  “Ah yes, the goddess on the pedestal at the front left.”

  Felix was right. She was exactly his type. Draped in some gauzy excuse for a costume, the stage lights lit up a Venus de Milo of full curves and excellent proportions, her even featured face framed with heavy locks of dyed blonde hair. A visually delightful tart.

  “So, was I right?”

  She used to be his idea of perfect, the kind of woman who would have him falling under her charms and enjoying every minute she gave him. He needed that now, needed to forget his Miss Apple.

  “As always, Felix, you have outdone yourself.”

  Felix laughed. “I knew you’d like her. In anticipation, I’ve set up a post-show tete-a-tete for us all to get to know each other.”

  The usual tug of anticipation wasn’t there but maybe he had to give it some time.

  The show was loud, the required show of legs and breasts to appreciative howls from the audience. The blonde Venus danced the lead behind large feather fans as a bevy of girls dressed in nothing more than frock coats, top hats and canes tapped out a beat.

  The beat increased in speed and volume as the blonde whirled the fans faster and faster around her, giving tantalizing glimpses of bare hip, shoulders and ass. He should be hard as a rock by now, knowing he would meet her after the show, but he wasn’t.

  Felix gave a standing ovation. In deference to the night ahead, he did the same.

  “What’s wrong? You don’t like her?” Felix glanced at him concerned.

  “No, no, she’s fine.”

  “Fine?” Felix looked at him as i
f he was mad. “She’s bloody beautiful, Vaughn. Do you have any idea how hard it has been to keep the other lechers away? She’s looking for a benefactor and eager to meet with you.” A woman with motivations he understood and would be happy to provide for mutual pleasure, no secrets and hard to read messages. Felix thumped his arm, face still questioning his less than enthusiastic response.

  “It’s Cox. He’s manipulative and up to something.” What could he say? That his senses were still filled with the taste of Miss Apple? That he’d kissed her, intimately felt her, brought her to a shouting orgasm and that every time he let his mind wander back to it he wondered how he’d had the discipline not to fuck her senseless on the lad’s table? He was thickening right now at the thought. Where was she? Had she undressed? Did she sleep in a cotton nightgown buttoned all the way to her neck? That’s how he imagined her. All buttoned up while he drew panting, carnal sounds out of her innocent mouth.

  Then he remembered the cool expression on her face.

  He should stay away from her. Shit, he would stay away.

  “Let it go.” Felix clapped him on the back. “Come on, it’s time for fun.” Felix was out of the box and at the coatroom faster than those on the lower floor. Clearly in the early bloom of infatuation.

  Felix had organized a one-bedroom suite at the Victoria Park Hotel. The suite contained a parlor with soft chairs around a table and chaise longue, the bedroom leading off from it. On the table sat an ice bucket with champagne, four crystals flutes and trays of cold meats, cheeses, pickles and bread.

  In no time at all, Felicity and Venus walked through the door. Giggles and innuendo lasted an hour and three bottles, then Felix took Felicity to the bedroom leaving Vaughn and Miss Venus on the chaise.

  “You don’t talk much.” Her bottom pressed soft against his thighs as she sat on his lap.

  “I’m distracted. You’re a very attractive woman.”

  She liked that; her face flushed, and she smiled a surprisingly sweet smile. “I thought the Butcher would be more frightening.” Her hands went to his necktie and tugged it loose.

  “How so?” He had heard this cute little opening before.

  “You know,” she looked through heavily darkened lashes, “Thickly set, a dark face, perhaps some kind of beast.” Her mouth shaped itself into a pouted ‘o’. Theatrically, her hand came up to cover it as eyes widened in feigned fright. “You don’t have a scalpel on you, do you?” It was a tired line, but it had worked on him every other time.

  Henrietta had used the same sort of approach. At that time, it had delighted him. He had, in fact, pulled out his pocket knife brandishing it as his scalpel and proceeded to cut through her corset and then fuck her with her legs over his shoulders until he came so hard he’d lost his balance. But the blonde Venus didn’t make him want to do that.

  The image of him cutting the buttons of Miss Apple’s crisp white blouse with a scalpel changed his mind. Oh yes, her legs encased in black woolen stockings over his shoulders would be most welcome. The soft damp press of her sex against his lips, the scent of her musk as he pressed closer-that was what he wanted.

  Venus reached up and pulled his attention back to her. “Don’t worry. I’m not afraid.”

  Her lips covered his in an overly soft-lipped kiss. She tasted of cheese and cigarette smoke. Had this really worked for him before?

  “What’s wrong?” There was genuine concern in her eyes now.

  Come on, make an effort, man. “Nothing.” His hands ran up her sides and squeezed her large soft breasts. She giggled into his mouth and wrapped her legs around his hips, wriggling and moaning in the most alluring of ways.

  He did his best to pick up on her passion. But as the moments ticked by, there was no reaction between his legs. He had been avoiding her kiss, the idea of pressing his tongue into her unpalatable.

  Her hand started to snake down between them. He lifted his head and looked at her, her perfume wrapped around him like a pungent rope.

  “Come on, Butcher,” she whispered, “I want you to make me scream.” That infernal giggle jiggled her breasts. They were loose over her corset and red from his mouth.

  What was wrong with him? This was what he liked. This was what he wanted, mindless fucking with a strumpet who was all about the here-and-now; life, baubles and mindless banter.

  His hand reached down and clasped her wrist to stop its descent. His heart beat in his ears. Was he really doing this?

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  It was not the stopping that made his blood pound, but the thought of what it meant he would do instead. But there wasn’t a choice, really. There never had been.

  “It’s not working, Miss DeMonde.”

  Her face dropped. “What? Your . . . thing?” Her smile picked up. “I know what to do about that.” Her tongue ran lasciviously around her lips.

  He laughed despite himself. “Yes, I am sure you do. That is very tempting.” She beamed at him and went to rise. He stayed her with the palm of his hand. “But no.”

  She looked confused. He would need a solid excuse.

  “I have a body on the slab. It’s a very rare find. I keep on thinking I should get to it before the heat.”

  “The heat?” She looked at him in disbelief, as well she should—it was damn cold outside.

  “Once dead, Miss DeMonde, the body soon bloats and liquefies. Dissecting a body in the partial stages of putrefaction is not an enjoyable task.”

  She was wriggling away from him, tucking in a stray breast and removing her apricot nipples from sight.

  “Oh, that sounds . . .” She was lost for words, and he nearly smiled.

  “Yes. Well, as you can see, it has made me less than adequate company, despite your abundant offerings.”

  She took his appreciative glance as a balm to any slight she may have felt and smiled back under those black, painted lashes.

  “Can I take you home?” He was almost there.

  Her eyes flashed to the bedroom door, she shook her head. “I’ll stay.” Then she broke into a delicious laugh. A week ago he would be undone by her. But not anymore.

  Taking his opening, he stood up quickly, put his hand out for her then he marched her into the bedroom.

  Felix raised his face from the ample breast he was attached to and scowled. “Vaughn?”

  Hands on the Venus’s shoulders, he guided her to the bed and tugged her corset down so her breasts broke free again and she giggled. “Felix, another magnificent pair to flank you. I have a dissection to attend to.”

  “Dissection? Vaughn!” Felix was reaching out to the blonde while she crawled onto the bed.

  “Tomorrow!” Vaughn called back as he left.

  In a few moments, he had retied his neck tie, was cloaked and back on the street. The air was cold and crisp on his face. It rushed into his lungs and he felt strangely freed. His cane clicked a fast tempo down the street. He hailed a cab and lurched its way through the streets. But his body was wound tighter than a surgical suture and he knew only one person who could remedy that.

  Miss Apple.

  CHAPTER 35

  Edith flicked the linen cloth with a snap and, in one smooth motion, laid it out on the gurney, folded and placed it on the pile. It was late; there were many things she could be doing.

  Many.

  She could be reading the Peoria Medical Monthly or going through Tiemann’s instrument catalog; the surgery may be exceptionally well equipped but there were still items it could benefit from, regardless of the fact she would be leaving shortly. Thomas was busy in the anatomical laboratory and had dropped hints all through dinner that he could do with her help. Yet here she was, too agitated to relax, too muddle-headed to concentrate.

  This waiting about for the forgeries was going to be the death of her. Then there was the ever-present tug of grief that one of her friends had fallen to the Skinner, feeling the sorrow yet unsure who she was mourning for. The Skinner could very well have a clue as to where she was, t
he constant gnawing at her that she’d wake up and he’d be there. And then there was the degree missing from Vaughn’s wall, it all made her sick to her stomach.

  And, if she were honest with herself, some crazy part of her wanted to see him when Vaughn came in, to confirm he had moved on.

  Edith picked up the next cloth and flicked it out over the surface. She knew men. She may have never been with one, but she knew them. You didn’t enter the world of the Collectors without training in how to please them. Though she had not, most Painted Sisters chose to agree to physical arrangements with their Collectors, as well as others. However, she’d seen what men and women did as the Collector’s parties moved deep into the night. She had seen things done that prostitutes would refuse to do. Had heard the sounds of pleasure and release.

  All that meant was that Vaughn’s advances had not shocked her. Yet, while she had witnessed that most primal of acts in so many different forms, she’d had no primary experience of it. Not even the most basic steps, like kissing. She’d had no idea that a mere kiss could feel like candy-covered euphoria.

  Not that it mattered, there would be no more of that.

  She had wounded him with her rejection. He was doing what he had to do to step back and so should she. It was just that, after all of her unconventional experiences, out of all the amazing men she had met in that world, none had drawn her like Vaughn. None had been with her, soul-deep, in that dark place. She’d known that first day, knew it when she read the forensic report on the child, that daily life was warped for him; it had to be, given what he saw and did.

  It was warped for her too.

  Eight days.

  She had eight days before she picked up the forgeries, replaced the originals and fled. That was eight days and nights in which she might have experienced so much more if she’d handled the situation more sensitively. A tentative appreciation of his offer might have kept the door open. He didn’t need to know she was leaving and would never be able to marry him.