by Elsa Holland
He was being particularly bold. Questioning men of power was the fastest way to end up dead in a ditch. Especially a man like Blackburn, a man who had climbed out of the gutter and risen higher than men with a natural leg up by birth. Blackburn’s face was its usual unreadable mask yet he nodded his assent.
“Are you familiar with Miss Andrews and are you aware of her whereabouts?”
“My association with Miss Andrews was minimal and certainly not social. I do not know Miss Andrews whereabouts.”
“How involved were you in the events around Miss Andrews finding her cadaver tampered with? Were there any clues as to who the culprit was and how he got into the house?”
“I was unaware of the events at the time. I was courting my fiancée, Miss Elspeth James.”
“Would your fiancée be able to shed some light on these events?”
“No!” The answer was sharp, a clear warning. Miss James would not be available for questioning.
“Was anyone called in to investigate the event?”
“Miss Wood fulfils that function for the Hurleys, when needed. I understand they keep things ‘in-house’.”
“May I ask why you were interested in the bodies that had patches of skin removed, and the collection of tattoos?”
“No.”
“Miss Agatha refers to ‘the coming of their worst fears’ in her report—do you know what those fears might be?”
“I imagine they refer to the person who skinned the Manchester girl. It’s not a leap of faith that the two are related, as you noted yourself.”
“Yes, but Miss Wood referred to this prior to the girl being killed and it being widely known. Also do you know who she refers to when she states ‘their worst fears’?”
Blackburn stood. Morrison’s time was clearly up, and he had been given all that he would get.
“If I have to tell you what that means, Inspector, I should not be paying you to keep me informed. I hope the next exchange fulfills the usual structure of our relationship, where you give me information, and not the other way around.”
“One more question: Is Miss Andrews extensively tattooed?” There was the slightest pause in the flow of Blackburn’s movements. There was no change in his facial features—the man was too controlled for that—and nothing discernable to the untrained eye, yet Morrison noticed the physical impact of his question, timed to catch Blackburn off guard.
Blackburn held his hand on the door knob, not opening it to allow him out. They were close, as Morrison had expected the door to open. It seemed Blackburn had moves of his own.
“I advise you to keep that last bit of information to yourself. Even sheaths of paper have ears in this case, Inspector.” With those enigmatic words, Blackburn opened the door and ushered him out. As they shook hands, Blackburn passed a folded note into his hands.
“Be discreet,” was all he said.
In the cab, Morrison unfolded the small piece of paper, which looked to have been torn from a larger correspondence. It read:
The victim known as the Little Princess is confirmed to be a Miss Gillian Foster.
You have no doubt ascertained that a missing person’s report has not been made nor has anyone come forward to claim the body. No one will.
Mr Jacob Brown was found beaten to death and thrown into the Oxford Chanel. The local Coroner’s report states the body had been in the river for some time. It is believed that Mr Brown conveyed Miss Foster to Manchester as he had been heard speaking about providing passage to ‘angels’ at a local tavern. The assumption is that he apparently transported a woman in similar circumstances to an unknown destination.
Mr Brown was the only person who knew the destinations of both women. He would have been able to provide a description but would not have known their names.
The second woman is now in extreme danger.
Morrison walked in the back door and dumped his coat on a chair in the hall. The pup was working at his desk when he got to the front room.
Morrison flopped into his usual frayed red chair. “What do we have, kid?”
“Nothing on locating or identifying the victim, Scotland Yard are widening the circulation of the rendering of her.” From the sound of the kid’s voice he didn’t hold much hope for that making much of a difference. It was a fact that the further away from the time of the crime you got the less likely people were to remember what you need them to.
The kid cleared his throat. “There was a woman seen around the time of the murder carrying a large carpet bag. The clothes were too short.”
“That’s out killer.” Morrison said as they both nodded. The killer wore the victim’s clothes as he left. “Anything on the pulley or rope?” The kid shook his head. It stood to reason that things of value would disappear. No one would say they had them in case they had to give them back.
“We need some sketch of what the killer looked like when he left in the girl’s clothes.”
“I’ll do it,” the pup said. Morrison nodded his assent. He could rely on the kid to do a good job or else find someone who could.
The kid looked back down at the papers on his desk. “They found sperm in her hair. Not so much as to indicate that her hair had been used as a stimulant but as if drops had landed there and gone hard. Also, when the hair was combed out, there is clear evidence of a large lock having been taken, from the front left side that would have hung around her face.”
“Ah, he’s a secretor and likes trophies.” Morrison looked over at the kid, who didn’t say any more, but there was a small tremor in the hand holding the report. Morrison leaned forward and looked closer. “You alright, kid?”
The kid’s eyes were red. Fuck, he forgot how it used to feel when the depravities started to line up.
“There was no sign of penetration in any orifice, so the guy’s getting off on the kill. Involuntary emissions demonstrate excitement, but it is unlikely he was having sexual thoughts about her.”
The kid nodded.
“Blood-lust is a primitive thing; a fuck it or kill it, all-consuming kind of beast. Sometimes both.”
“He vomited, I thought perhaps he had felt some remorse.”
“Ah, kid, I wish being human was that simple. This guy likes his work, even if another part of him struggled with it. I warrant we will not find any vomit at the next scene, just semen.” He didn’t know why he felt for the kid so much. Maybe it was those smooth baby cheeks, so bloody young to be in all this shit.
“It’s disgusting.”
“And skinning a person isn’t?” The kid obviously hadn’t learned much about secretors.
“It could have just been a job.”
“What makes you think it might have been a job, kid? Looks personal from where I’m sitting. Especially with what we now know; fluids and mementos are highly personal.”
The kid swiveled around on the chair, face serious, the dark circles under his eyes making Morrison feel strangely heavy in his gut.
“Both the Coroner’s and Dr Vaughn’s reports confirm markings that look like tattoo ink in the skin. Our premise is that she was extensively tattooed. How did the killer know this? This killer needs to find victims that are very hard to come by.”
Morrison sat up.
Behind that question lay the answer to what they were really dealing with. There was more to this than merely a deviant killer.
The Hurleys had left town quickly, their nephew had been suspected in the deaths of persons whose bodies had patches of skin missing but had gone to the continent, according to the Hurleys. Then there was Blackburn’s interest. Who else? There were toffs involved in the case, toffs that had even Blackburn hedging what he would say—in his own study. Toffs like that never got caught. It was the problem they’d had with the Ripper case all over again.
“Come on kid we have a train to catch and more work to do.”
CHAPTER 44
A shrill whistle. The wash of steam from the train cloaked the platform before dissipating as the train pulle
d out of Oxford Station. Thirty minutes later Morrison had the Coroner’s report in front of them and they were sitting in one of the small interrogation rooms.
“What do you think?” He asked the pup.
The pup was very unimpressed judging from the look on his face. “Very thin.” The pup pushed the file back toward him. “How did you get wind of this when there is nothing in the man’s file, aside from the beating prior to drowning?”
Good point. Blackburn’s informant knew things that were not in the file.
Morrison left the room and went to the officer on the desk. “James Brown, pulled out of the channel—anyone know where he drank and which bobbie might know of him?”
The officer at the desk tilted his head to a board with a list of constables and their areas. “He was identified by Constable Hendricks.”
“Any idea where I can find him?”
“He’ll be in for his daily report in a couple of hours.”
“What’s the closest local?”
“Boatman’s Table, down by the canal. Does an excellent pork pie.”
“Can you send word to me when he arrives? Have a few questions.”
The Boatman’s Table was a better place than he’d usually have lunch. There were tables and benches outside, with flower baskets mounted along the wall that would be full of cascading blooms in the summer. The University fraternity were rowing on the river, taking advantage of the warmer-than-usual weather. Morrison sat down at the table nearest the door while the pup looked on.
Morrison tapped his finger on the table. The kid wrapped his coat around him and sat. In less than fifteen minutes they had pints, pork pies and some hot pea and ham soup.
“You drinking that?” He gestured at the untouched pint.
The kid screwed up his face.
The waitress came and cleared away their plates. “You want something else, Luv?”
“Root Beer,” he ordered, his eyes flicking to Morrison, “and Apple Pie?”
“Only have the bread and butter pudding but it has candied fruit?”
The kid nodded.
“Inspector Morrison?”
Morrison looked up to see a constable in his mid-thirties standing at the end of the table. He motioned for the man to sit.
“I’d rather stand, can’t stay long.”
“Well, we won’t keep you, good of you to come down. We have a few questions about Mr James Brown. What was his local?”
The kid had his notebook open, so Morrison did not pull out his own—the kid took better notes than he did.
“The Dog and Dime, down near the channel boats.”
“Your beat?”
The man nodded, looked around him.
“Report reads he was beaten up and most likely fell into the canal of his own accord and died, no action being taken. You confident he wasn’t thrown in the water and left to die?”
The constable shifted his feet, looked over his shoulder again. The man was not comfortable talking.
Morrison stood. The pup went to follow but he signaled him to stay. “Let’s take a walk.”
The constable looked relieved and fell in beside him as they walked down to the river and along the edge. The path led to a copse of trees, large willow trees that gave them a pocket of privacy. Morrison stopped.
“You’re worried.”
The man nodded and looked over his shoulder, despite them being well out of anyone’s view.
“You’re the third lot of people come down to ask me about this.”
“Third?”
The man nodded.
That made Blackburn’s informant, he and the pup, and an unknown party.
“When did the first lot come down?”
“They came the day we pulled him out, said they were Scotland Yard. They were quite interested, for such a lowly case.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d heard nothing, didn’t see any need to investigate further. A day later, I heard talk at the pub, that Brown said he’d seen an angel. I made some inquiries and he’d been talking about two women he’d dropped off, wouldn’t say where. Said it was secret business and he had to protect his angel. I rang through to Scotland Yard to speak to the men but no one had heard of them. Now you.”
“Who was the other party?”
“Family—a sister, I think. Came up from Dorchester. Said she needed to put her mind to rest, know that life had been good. I thought she might like to know he had been happy, had seen an angel. She was very grateful.”
“Did she leave a name or address?”
“No, and I didn’t think to ask.”
“Fair enough. What would the station registers look like if everyone took down the details of all interested parties in every death?”
The constable looked relived.
“I hope you don’t mind, Inspector, but given what happened the first time—them not being from Scotland Yard—I rang before I came down. Your credentials were supported. Said you were working on the Little Princess murder.”
“Be discreet,” Blackburn had said.
Shit.
CHAPTER 45
Impossible woman. Impossible. Vaughn sent Henrietta on her way in minutes. But had Edith waited? No. Had she trusted him? No.
And now they faced some other drama.
“Miss Appleby, has she returned?” Vaughn handed his hat and coat to Price.
“No sir, not as yet.”
“Tell me as soon as she comes in.”
“Yes sir.”
That had been over six hours ago.
Where could a woman go after sunset, unaccompanied?
Dinner came and went, and still he had no word from her.
Frustration, irritation and anxiety soon gave way to seething, a bottle of scotch and urgent worry. He had no idea if she had friends in Edinburgh, no idea of her life before she arrived here.
It was three am when Price knocked.
“At the back, sir. Came through the rear door and straight to her room about ten minutes ago, I heard her steps.”
“Thank you, Price. Head back to bed, I’ll follow up.” Price left.
Vaughn stood up and paced the room. Papers littered his desk and books were strewn all over the floor. Why did women have to be so sensitive?
He refilled his glass then sat and sipped, then stood and resumed pacing. He’d give her some time to settle, to get comfortable and think she had slipped in unnoticed, then once her guard was down he’d get his answers.
CHAPTER 46
Every muscle in her body was shaking. It was freezing outside, and the cold had sunk deep into her bones. Her shoulders ached as she bent down and unlaced her boots. Hanging her coat in the closet took a mammoth effort.
In the dark, Edith walked over to the window and opened the curtains, letting the soft light of the moon into the room. She lifted the covers and crawled into bed fully clothed and pulled the comforter over her shoulders. Just a few minutes and she would warm up. Then she would change and sleep properly.
She had run. Walked and run for what seemed like hours, circumnavigating the streets randomly until it was too late to walk and what she may wander into was as dangerous as what she had run from. She’d found a respectable inn, booked a room and had dinner at the small table in it, then waited. Wondered what she would do. Cox had reveled in her alarm, in her distress, and she was chilled anew by what he was capable of if he found her again.
She’d waited until she’d thought everyone would be long asleep—Cox, Vaughn, and anyone that may have been following her—then she’d left the inn. A cab was hard to come by but after half an hour she finally hailed one and was dropped off a few blocks from Surgeons’ Square.
Now, all she wanted to do was sleep—tomorrow she would make a plan. Perhaps leave Edinburgh and return only to collect the forgeries and arrange for the originals to be delivered back to Vaughn.
There was a shuffle outside in the hall, then a soft scratch at her door. She stilled and listened, her
heart racing. No one following her could have come inside. The door knob rattled then stopped. She’d locked the door.
A shadow under the door moved; it was him. Her chest hurt thinking how good those arms of his would feel around her right now. How warm he would be. But then, he’d asked her to leave him with the goddess. Edith turned her face into the pillow. She’d only asked for eight days. Why was she robbed of even that small period of joy?
She woke with a start to see someone in her room. She pushed to sit up but got tangled in her comforter and in her clothes. She pulled a deep breath in to scream but a firm though gentle hand came over her mouth, and that delicious voice whispered, “Shh, it’s just me, Vaughn.”
Her heart started to calm as she saw him in the dark. She knew him in the dark. Heat burnished her chest and she dragged herself to sitting, her hair falling around her.
“What are you doing here?” Hot, angry words forced out in a whisper.
“If I can’t sleep, then neither shall you.” He took her hand. “Come, we need to talk.”
She tugged back ineffectually and, even in the darkness, she could tell the look he would be giving her.
“I can sling you over my shoulder, Edith, or you can walk.”
He tugged back the comforter and lifted her out of the tangled sheets.
“You’re fully dressed.” He set her down on her feet. “This ‘clothes on’ business really does need to be explained. Come on.”
He led her out of the room, then continued to hold her hand.
“I don’t want to go.” Another small ineffectual tug back.
He ducked down to put her over his shoulder and she pushed him back.
“Alright, alright, I’ll walk.”
He mumbled something about her finally seeing sense then led her through the corridors and down the back servants’ stairs to his room on the floor below.
His floor of the house was dimly lit, with a shaft of light coming from the rooms that turned out to be his. A parlor had been converted into a study. Shelves lined all the walls right up to the ceiling. A bottle of spirits sat open on a silver tray with a half glass sat on the table next to the chair. A door to the far right, most likely leading to his bedroom.
