by Elsa Holland
Morrison rolled out of bed and walked down the stairs in his long drawers.
The kid, looked up from his chair in the parlor, flushing beet red. Morrison shook his head, then blatantly shook his dick that was in its morning wood just to make the kid go redder, then laughed. He was bare-chested and had enough black hair on his chest and running down in a nice line to the thatch around his dick to feel proud. His belly was flat and showed some tone. Flexed his arms and showed his muscles as he walked past the pup and down the hall into the kitchen.
“Next time, put the kettle on. English breakfast, strong and white.”
“Sod off,” came from the parlor. Morrison chuckled, put the kettle on and got out two mugs. He may even be getting to like the kid. So what if he was foisted on him, he was getting paid for the trouble and the kid needed a male influence. Besides, he was actually a reasonable person to bounce things off. Came up with decent theories and different angles. The drawings he did proved his memory was brilliant.
‘What was on the top kitchen shelf?’ he’d asked the kid about their girl’s murder scene. ‘Nothing.’ ‘What about the next shelf?’‘An old white cup on the far right. Unused, looks to be left behind because of a large chip.’ And the kid had been fucking right, Morrison had checked with the photos. That kind of memory was going to be a gift and a burden; a gift for solving a case, a burden when the case was done and dusted. How many cases could a person remember in that degree of detail without getting buried beneath them, before suicide looked like a welcome reprieve?
He made the kid’s tea the same as his; there was no sugar in the house, anyway. Morrison walked back to the front room and placed their mugs down and sank opposite the kid in an old red brocade armchair that was starting to fray at the top. “In her report, Miss Agatha suggests their worst fears may be confirmed. Who are ‘they’?”
The pup didn’t say anything, just kept reading through one of the reports. He was still in a huff then.
“Who’s this Edith Andrews? The report said her cadavers were being tampered with. That the full top of a torso had been cut like a flap to be removed. That this happened in her lab, in the basement at the Hurleys. Seems like a critical collection of people and location. I bet the Hurleys think so given that you’re here.”
The kid shrugged.
“I find it hard to believe you don’t know; in fact, I think you know every single minute detail about your girl Agatha’s report, that you would have had a million questions that needed answering.”
The kid said nothing.
“Did you read my report to Blackburn about the bodies out of the Thames?”
The kid nodded.
“And?”
“I don’t want to keep you from getting dressed.”
It was apparent that the kid wasn’t ignoring him so much as keeping himself occupied, embarrassed by the sight of him in his state on undress.
Morrison walked over to a chair in the corner of the room, picked up the robe he’d left there yesterday then slung it on.
“Better?”
Morrison slumped back into the red brocade chair. The pup turned to face him, then scanned his robe, a fine and rather expensive blue damask silk with wide satin collar and deep pockets edged in satin. “I’m told dark blue is my color.”
The pup’s face screwed up. “I can still see your chest hair.”
“Don’t worry, when you grow up you’ll get some too. No need to be jealous.”
The pup’s look turned incredulous.
“I will never have chest hair!” And then, as if realizing what he’d said, went red. “I am not sure to what Miss Agatha is referring.”
The kid lied badly.
“And Miss Andrews? How did the killer get into the house, know what she had there, and do what he did? That takes time and knowledge. Where’s Edith Andrews now? We need to question both her and your girl, Agatha—they may have unwittingly seen the killer.”
“Miss Andrews has disappeared, no one knows where she is.”
“Someone always knows where a person is, kid. Why did she run? Looks suspicious, she may be involved.”
The kid’s face turned thunderous. “Miss Andrews is of the highest standing.”
“Fuck, kid, are you in love with her too? If she ran and she’d not guilty then she was scared of something. Did she have any tattoos that you know of?”
He expected another indignant outburst, but it did not come.
“The Hurleys left for the country late last month in quite a hurry, and they are not tattooed.”
Clever boy. “So, you think they were scared?”
The pup nodded, face hiding things again.
“Who was called in on the body tampering? I was about, and I ought to have been called in.”
But he knew that no one had be asked to assess the situation other than their internal sleuth, Miss Agatha Wood.
Fear was the common factor. He was certain his pup knew something and that he was scared of that something as well. The kid was finally opening up, even if only in fits and starts. That meant that the kid was coming to trust him. It was clear Miss Agatha was feeding him what she felt Morrison should know and the pup had more loyalty to her than to him. Morrison needed another source and he was pretty sure he knew where to find it.
He sent a letter off with the morning mail, via the pup, and received a response one hour later. Dressed and breakfasted, he was ready for some solo work.
“Right then, I’m off,” he said.
The pup, who was busy making correlation notes between reports, sat up straighter.
“Shouldn’t I come too?”
“No, it’s another case, I’ll be back in about an hour or so. You could follow up Scotland Yard about any responses to the circulation of our girl’s image and see if there is anything back yet on a tall woman leaving the crime scene. We’ll meet back here.”
CHAPTER 41
After the short walk home from the hospital, Vaughn stopped at the gate. “Wait here.” Edith’s face still showed signs of their time in the basement store room, touches of red high on her cheeks, shy glances at him as they had walked back, his satisfaction was immense. He wanted to parade her through town flushed with the pleasure he’d given her, let every man envy him and know she was his.
Vaughn strode to the front door, dropped his medical bag inside then closed it again. Price would find it and put it away.
His Apple stood still, looking at the sky, still a little foggy from the bliss that had passed through her body. He wrapped her arm around his and rested her covered hand on his forearm, he needed to touch her; wanted desperately to drag her back into a dark room and ravish her again. A person loses all sense of self in passion, her clothes could be off in moments and her strange shyness dealt with together.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” She’d glanced over her shoulder a number of times as they walked down the street; at the hospital, she’d placed herself in corners where she’d be easily overlooked. Clearly, she held more secrets than what lay beneath her clothes.
“I need to pick up a parcel at the apothecary and I thought it would be a good time to place an order for the surgery.” A lure as she glanced across to the front door. “I am sure there are items you would like?”
Her face became animated.
“Oh yes. There are some new clamps in Tiemann’s instrument catalog I think will be very useful.” The fact he’d been interested in them himself when he saw them in the catalog gave him extra pleasure.
“You’ll need to help me pick them out.”
She beamed at him as if he was taking her to the most glorious place. Henrietta had perfected the ‘is that all?’ look at his gifts and their outings, making it clear she expected more. It’s strange how a man responds to that; almost as if the idea of being able to satisfy a difficult woman made them better than those who didn’t have the same challenge to meet. But he had learned his lesson. And it was not as if his Apple was easy— she was complex with
her rules and her sad eyes—however she was honest, what he saw was what he got, and she was straightforward about her limits and requirements. Any buying medical clams seemed to make her day.
By the time they left the apothecary, his Apple was flushed again, eyes bright and her body struggling to contain her excitement. He would have bought her the whole shop to see her that way, but it only took the new clamps and a suction pump.
“So,” he said, tucking her hand against his again, “now we are going for tea.”
“Another outing?” She looked over her shoulder. “I might get the wrong idea.”
“I can only hope,” he said under his breath. She heard him and smiled, yet it didn’t reach her eyes. That was not a good sign, nor was it the first time.
As they walked, he talked about the city, the buildings they passed, the history and people. She knew the city quite well and added stories of her own. “See down the end of the street? That is where we will stop for tea.”
“Cook said you drink coffee—wouldn’t you rather go to a coffee house?”
“A coffee house is for serious seduction, you,” he whispered in her ear, “are just a trifle.” The soft smell of her filled his lungs, the light brush of her hair teased against his lips.
She hit his arm with her purse and muttered something about idiocy under her breath. Vaughn tugged her closer, his palm firm and possessive as it held her arm. How could a woman get into his blood so completely in less than two weeks?
“Anthony!” A female voice called out from behind them.
Vaughn stiffened.
“Anthony!”
Vaughn looked down at Edith. It hadn’t registered to her that it was he who was being called. He opened the tea house door. “Go inside and get settled, I’ll be in shortly.”
“Anthony.” A gloved hand clasped his upper arm.
Too late.
CHAPTER 42
That was his first name.
Anthony. The knot that had started to form in her gut tightened.
“Go inside.” He said in his Butcher’s voice.
Edith stood her ground.
The woman was curvaceous and extraordinarily beautiful. Her smile encouraged the idea that a state of servitude would have its own rewards. Yet to possess that quality alone was not enough, no. Her body was perfect and, as a Painted Sister, Edith had seen all kinds of perfect—this woman outstripped many. She had a very small waist with full curves at hips and breasts, a form designed for a corset. Her abundant mane of hair was voluptuous and shone like strands of gold in the meager afternoon light.
In her company, Edith felt small, under-formed. Dull, with her straight black hair pulled back in a bun and her dress covering every part of her. Not moments before she had glowed with the pleasure and promise that was Dr Vaughn. That the man by her side appreciated her in a most manly and possessive way.
Worse still, the intimacies they shared at the hospital suddenly seemed fake. How could he possibly want her, Miss-clothes-on-and-in-the-dark, when he had clearly experienced this goddess?
“Miss Gerald.” Vaughn’s voice was cool and his face unreadable, yet his body was strung tighter than a suture under stress. This woman generated strong feelings in him.
“You used to call me Henrietta.” The goddess incarnate leaned forward and placed a slow kiss on Vaughn’s cheek.
Edith felt her jaw tighten as Vaughn allowed the intimacy then stepped back.
“Perhaps that is no longer appropriate. My companion and I are not in a position to chat. Good day.”
“Anthony, you were always such an oaf about social protocol.” Henrietta leaned over to her and extended her hand. “Miss Henrietta Gerald, former fiancée to Anthony, but, of course, you would have known that Miss . . .?”
Edith did not raise her hand to give it or anything else to Miss Henrietta Gerald. His fiancée? Now she understood. The feminine touches, the tucked away decorations around the house, were remnants of this woman’s presence in the house.
“Dr Vaughn?” Her heart beat fast as she looked to him. If he came with her now, she might believe he no longer cared for this woman.
“Miss Appleby, perhaps you could give us a moment of privacy?”
A pain shot across her chest, but Edith kept her face impassive.
He wanted to be alone with her, this woman who called him Anthony? He had never asked her to call him by his first name.
“Of course.”
Vaughn scowled. “Edith.”
“Anthony.” She mimicked the goddess who wore a smug smile.
“I won’t keep him too long,” she cooed.
Edith turned on that warning look of his.
The bell on the tea room door rang like a chime signaling the end of a round. And as far as she was concerned it was exactly that.
Blast the man! Hurt spiked deep in her chest. He had sent her off. Scowled at her to leave in front of the goddess.
The back of the teashop was not hard to find. Edith navigated through the tables to the door marked STAFF ONLY, strode through the steaming kitchens and out into the back lane. It took a moment for her to pull herself together, for her breathing to slow down, and the lump in her throat to go away.
Edith looked left then right. Back the way they had come would be fastest. She turned right and headed up the lane. A few times she looked back, hopefully, yet no one followed. A stone lay in her chest, making her all the more determined to refocus on her plan: pick up the forgeries, and run.
At the end of the lane, she turned into the main thoroughfare. A man was in her path.
They both stepped right then both stepped left, before she looked up at his face.
His eyes widened in surprise and acknowledgment, and hope was dragged out of her chest and strangled like a captured bird.
“Sparrow.” His eyes narrowed, and his thin lips became thinner.
“You must be mistaken.”
He scoffed and stepped forward. “I am not.”
“My name is Mathews. Eva Mathews.”
“It’s not. Now greet me properly.”
She looked around frantically. How could she have been so stupid as to allow Vaughn to take her on this outing?
His hand clasped her arm like a metal surgical clamp. Immovable and unforgiving.
“Have you come back to me, little sparrow?”
Blood drained from her face and she felt in serious danger of fainting for the second time in as many weeks. He was her Collector, Dr Cox.
Cox raised his hand to hail a cab.
She wriggled. His grip tightened. The people around them blurred.
“You missed our last viewing. It makes a Collector worry when the work he has paid so much for is not in attendance. No note, no message, no call on the telephone. I thought you had left me.”
There was noise. All around. Horses. A door opened; he was dragging her to a cab.
“You will pay, little one.” His voice was hard as it spoke close to her ear.
She reached out and grabbed hold of a lady’s coat only to be pushed off. She grasped a man’s arm, but he shoved her away from him. Cox was making apologies. Some part of her registered that she was twisting wildly. She grabbed hold of a lamppost. A young man approached.
“Are you alright, miss?” She shook her head. Her hat had fallen off, her hair was over her face.
“She is under medical care.” Cox’s voice was authoritative.
“No! Help me, someone, please!” Her voice was loud, high-pitched, and hysterical. Edith forced an even yet urgent tone. “He means me harm, please. Help me.”
Another man stepped forward.
“The lass doesn’t want to go with you, sir. Best let her be.”
Cox’s grip on her arm was crippling as he made a final effort to drag her to the open door of the cab.
“Please, I am being taken against my will. Please.”
Another man stepped up, then another; a miracle. Cox’s grip lessened, and she pulled free. Stepped back. Brushed her
hair out of her face. Looked for an exit.
“Gentleman, I leave her to you. She is deranged. I only sought to get her proper medical help.”
Three steps and she was at the back of the crowd as the men advanced on Cox and he entered the cab.
She turned and ran.
CHAPTER 43
Blackburn strode into the study where Morrison had been asked to wait. The man exuded the power he had earned in his climb from the gutters. ‘Gutter-rat Jack’ they had called him; a notorious gang leader who had changed his name and made good. Made very good indeed, given the people he now associated with.
“Morrison. More news on the case?”
“I have come across a report by a Miss Agatha Woods. It has presented more questions than answers.”
Blackburn motioned for him to be seated and settled on the other side of the large mahogany desk.
“I have read the report, but I am not sure why it warrants a visit to me, Inspector. The logical step is to take any questions you have up with her.”
“She is unwilling to meet me.”
Blackburn lifted an eyebrow. “You’re an investigator . . .”
“In all fairness, Mr Blackburn, I have better things to spend my time on. I’d rather have my questions answered without hunting her down.”
“Well, she may be closer than you think. My suggestion is that you grill the intermediary, your new assistant.”
Morrison’s brows came down. “I don’t recall mentioning him to you, nor that he was my contact to her.”
“I have sources of information outside of our association, Inspector.”
“It would help if you would assist me in finding answers to some pertinent questions. I am confident the bodies that showed up in the Thames with patches of skin removed are connected with the Little Princess case, and Miss Wood’s report involves a world that you are welcome in, while I am not. If I can track back to before the killer got started in earnest, we may get a better idea as to who he is.
First kills tend to be close to home. If London rather than Manchester is the first major crime scene that will make a big difference to how we tackle the investigation.”
