“So the killer is as tall as Sir Giles?” Sam speculated.
“Yes. Or, if the killer was a woman or a shorter man, he or she could have been standing on something to boost their height.”
Alec looked at her. “Surely you can’t think that the fiend was a woman?”
“I don’t think we can rule out a woman at this stage.” Kendra straightened, and examined the body again. “Sir Giles is, what? Five ten? Five eleven? A tall woman would be able to cause the same injury.”
“A woman would have to be very strong,” said the Duke, sounding skeptical.
“Strong, yes. But not abnormally so,” Kendra said. “Like I said, it’s a question of leverage. And taking your victim by surprise. All he—or she—would have to do is come up behind Sir Giles, loop the rope around his neck, and twist it with enough force to cut off his oxygen.”
“Sir Giles would hardly have just stood there.” Aldridge glanced at the cadaver. “He’s not a feeble old man. He would have fought back.”
“He did fight back,” Kendra said. “He clawed the rope around his neck, his fingernails gouging his own flesh. But once the carotid artery and jugular veins in his neck were cut off, he would have become disoriented pretty fast and lost consciousness. Ten seconds. That’s how long it would’ve taken to knock him out.”
Alec frowned. “Ten seconds can be a long time if a man is thrashing and fighting for his life.”
“I agree. But a little strength and a lot of determination can overcome the victim’s resistance.”
“Jesus,” Sam whispered.
“After the victim is unconscious, the unsub only needs to keep up the pressure,” she continued. “Starved of oxygen, the brain would cease to function in four to five minutes.”
The Duke said, “So . . . five minutes and ten seconds to kill?”
“Yes. We’re dealing with a murder that happened relatively quickly.”
“Why’d the fiend cut out the poor wretch’s tongue?” Sam asked.
Kendra shifted her gaze to the victim’s bloated visage. The mouth was agape, and what was left of the pulpy tongue was clearly visible. “I’m not sure. Maybe the unsub is trying to send a message.”
Sam swung his golden gaze around to lock on her. “A message? Ter who?”
There was something in his tone that made her narrow her eyes. “I don’t know. It might not be anyone specific. It might have been something that the unsub felt compelled to do only for himself.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Why’d he want ter send a message ter himself?”
“Not a message, per se.” She struggled to explain. “It might be a ritual. Something that he felt was important to do, that had meaning only to himself. If he thought Sir Giles had talked about him, insulted him, he might have felt compelled to cut out his tongue. A final act of vengeance, or closure.” She shook her head. “We don’t have enough information to go on at this point.”
Kendra saw Sam exchange a glance with Munroe before the Bow Street Runner said, “The madman is fond of messages.”
Alec frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It means . . . this.” The doctor retrieved a stout candle from his workbench. Kendra watched as he returned to the autopsy table and moved the flame down the length of Sir Giles’s leg.
“What the devil are you doi—Hell and damnation.” Stunned, Alec jerked forward to take a closer look. “What is that?”
Kendra found herself equally stunned. Sam and Barts joined the doctor, grabbing candles and bringing the flames close to the dead flesh. By the time all three men had set their tapers down, more than a dozen symbols covered the marble-white flesh of Sir Giles.
Slowly, Kendra raised her gaze to look at Munroe, who was standing on the other side of the autopsy table. The candlelight bounced off the lenses of his spectacles, but Kendra could still see his gray eyes, and the solemn expression in them.
“I think you had the right of it, Miss Donovan. The killer is sending a message. But what message? And why?”
7
It’s some sort of secret ink, isn’t it?” the Duke said, his voice infused with wonderment. Reverently, he traced his fingertip up one line and then across one of the symbols that had become visible after the heat from the candles had warmed the flesh, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was also touching a dead man’s bicep. “Fascinating.”
It was fascinating, in an eerie way. Kendra let her gaze travel over the victim. Twenty minutes ago, Sir Giles’s flesh had been pale gray. Now he looked like a hardcore gang member who’d gone wild with his tats. Except these were no spider webs or teardrops or tribal tattoos. It was one symbol, repeated over and over. Two intersecting lines, one a little shorter, one a little longer. The shorter line tilted upward on the left and angled downward slightly. Depending how you looked at it, it could have been a slightly skewed X. Or maybe a lowercase t. Or a—
“Crucifix,” Aldridge said. “It’s a crucifix.”
“That works with dumping the body in a church,” Kendra said, and frowned. There was another parallel that she couldn’t ignore. She said slowly, “Steganography is common in the intelligence world.”
Sam glanced at her. “Steganography?”
“Hiding a message inside another source. Like writing a message with invisible ink inside the pages of a letter or a book.”
The trick had been around for centuries in every culture, but its covert nature would keep it within the intelligence community until the latter half of the 19th century. Then the public would become aware and interest in the topic would explode. The phrase “reading between the lines” was a direct reference to the practice of writing invisible coded messages between the visible sentences of a piece of writing.
The Duke rubbed his thumb and index finger together, sniffing experimentally. “I cannot detect any odor or adhesive quality. What can it be made of?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Munroe admitted. “I would say it’s a chemical mixture of some kind, except that usually requires a reagent to activate the ink so it can be seen. Applying heat to activate the secret ink would mean the ink is organic in nature, perhaps lemon, vinegar, or onion, or the juices of certain plants. I’ve read Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, where he describes concocting secret ink with the milk extracted from a tithymalus plant.”
Aldridge smiled, his blue eyes brightening. “I have been fortunate enough to read the ancient Roman’s writings myself. ’Tis fascinating.”
Kendra nearly smiled. The Duke was getting his geek on. She knew that he’d forgotten they were standing in a morgue, with a dead body laid out in the middle of the room and the stench of decay surrounding them. She’d seen him become enthralled like this when he gazed into the stars on the rooftop of Aldridge Castle, or found a unique fossil. Or when he managed to pry some tidbit of the future out of her, like the invention of the iPhone. He was still coming to terms with having so much information available in the palm of one’s hand.
Aldridge went on, “I know Scotland’s Queen Mary used to send and receive letters with hidden messages in them while she was imprisoned. If I recollect properly, she created her secret ink by using both nutgall and alum. It was really quite ingenious, but this . . .” His gaze traveled across the symbols, and he shook his head. “I do not know of any organic liquid that would adhere to the skin like this.”
“Neither do I,” admitted Munroe, as puzzled as the Duke. “’Tis why I believe we’re dealing with a chemical compound of some type. But as I explained, that would require a reagent to activate the ink. Heat would not have been able to do such a thing.”
“And yet here we are,” Kendra said drily.
“It is quite clever.” The Duke’s voice was infused with admiration, his eyes still trained on the symbols. “Is there any way to determine the formula that was used to create this ink, Dr. Munroe?”
“No. And we’ll most likely never know it.”
It took Kendra a moment to realize that Munroe’s apprentice
had been the one to speak. She swung around to look at Barts. If Sir Giles had sat up and begun speaking, Kendra didn’t think she would have been more surprised. Normally, Barts stood in a corner, as silent as a shadow, only emerging when Munroe asked for his assistance.
Barts’s eyes widened when he realized he’d become the center of attention. He clutched the parchment paper and pencil she’d requested earlier to his chest. His pale, chinless face flooded with color. “I-I was only thinking of the stains . . . the stains used by General Washington,” he stammered. “W-white ink. That’s what h-he called the formula.”
In the small silence that followed, Barts looked like he was going to faint. Since she didn’t have any smelling salts on hand, Kendra nodded. “Yes, I remember reading about that.” In textbooks that won’t be printed for another two hundred years.
Most Americans knew George Washington had been America’s first president, and before that, a general in the Revolutionary War. They might even have visions of him crossing the Delaware. But what few people realized was that he’d been America’s top spymaster, and the invisible ink created to pass messages within the infamous Culper spy ring was a large part of America’s winning the Revolutionary War.
Barts cleared his throat self-consciously. “No one ever figured out how General Washington created his stain.”
“Washington actually didn’t create the ink himself,” Kendra said absently. But Barts was right about the secrecy of the formula. Even in her era, the formula remained shrouded in mystery. Some scientists believed they knew the ingredients; others disputed their findings. “It was created by Sir James Jay.”
“Sir James?” Munroe gave a surprised jolt. “Good God. I am—or, rather, was—acquainted with the man. He died last year. We attended the same functions and belonged to the same clubs. He was a doctor, you know. I had forgotten that he was one of your countrymen, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra blinked. Would she ever get used to the fact that people she’d read about in history books were now alive? Or, in the matter of Sir James Jay, recently alive? She licked her suddenly dry lips. Get a grip, Donovan. “Most people in America are more familiar with his younger brother, John Jay.”
Though she had a feeling that if she polled the average citizen in her time, they’d think John Jay was a rap singer or reality TV star—not one of America’s Founding Fathers, first secretary of state, and first chief justice of the Supreme Court. In this America, John Jay was actually still alive. It took her a moment to absorb that. Then she let it go. They were getting off track.
She forced herself to turn back and scan the body again, studying the bizarre tattoos. “If the killer didn’t actually create the formula himself, he purchased it from someone. Where would you go for invisible ink?”
“A chemist or alchemist,” suggested the Duke. “Or another physician like Sir James.”
Kendra noticed that the symbols farthest from the heat source were already beginning to fade. “Mr. Barts, if I could have those.” She stretched out a hand for the paper and pencil he held.
For a moment, he looked at her blankly. “Oh, yes . . .” Flustered, he handed her the papers and pencil.
“Thank you.” She moved forward, positioning herself next to Alec, who was staring down at the body. His face was expressionless, but Kendra was reminded that he’d known Sir Giles. She touched him lightly on the arm. “Are you all right?”
He glanced at her. “I told you. We were not close.”
In all their late-night talks, Alec rarely spoke about his two years as an intelligence operative. He’d mentioned it, but she’d never thought to press him about it.
She hesitated. “Did you ever use a certain kind of invisible ink?”
“There were a variety of ways that we communicated.” He stepped back, his face somber as he thrust his hands into his greatcoat pockets. “But I was given a vial to use. It was a chemical formula, not organic. Messages sent and received would need an agent to activate the ink. I never thought to inquire about the formula.”
“I can have me men make inquiries, but it’ll be difficult ter find the chemist, physician, or alchemist who sold it, I think,” Sam said.
“We need more information before you do that,” Kendra said. She settled down to make her sketches. She wasn’t much of an artist, but the symbol was easy enough to draw—just two lines. One long. Then a quick, shorter slash bisecting the longer line. Off center, near the top.
She set aside the sheet of foolscap and pulled out another. Here she sketched the crude outline of a man’s body, back and front. She drew a line across the throat to indicate the ligature mark. “Are there any other wounds?” she asked Munroe.
Sam reminded her, “There’s his tongue.”
Kendra nodded, and made a corresponding line where the mouth would be. Her gaze returned to the victim, studying the mutilation. “It looks like a sharp knife was used. The tongue appears to have been excised cleanly.”
“The blade was sharp,” Munroe agreed. “Probably a boning knife, or carving knife. The tongue is a muscular organ, so you wouldn’t be able to use something dull to cut through. Or if the killer did, the edges would have been much more jagged.”
Sam frowned. “If the fiend had a knife on him, why didn’t he just gut Sir Giles? Seems queer for him ter be using two different murder weapons for the same bloke.”
“He didn’t use two separate murder weapons,” Kendra murmured, and looked at the Bow Street Runner. “The rope was the murder weapon, Mr. Kelly.” She looked at her rudimentary drawing of the body. She scanned it, making sure she’d included all the relevant details. “The knife was used for one purpose only—to cut out our victim’s tongue.”
Munroe said, “Strangulation was a good choice for the killer then, if he planned to cut out the tongue. The tongue has a tendency to swell and protrude while being choked. I think it took very little effort for the killer to slice it off postmortem.”
“Did you examine the victim’s esophagus, Doctor?” Kendra asked, as she carefully rolled up the foolscap.
“Not yet, no.”
Kendra set aside the drawing materials. She moved back to the victim, hating what she needed to do next. When the hell were latex gloves invented? she wondered. Obviously not now. She clenched her jaw tight as she slide two fingers into the cadaver’s mouth, nudging it open. Even though the orifice wasn’t wet anymore—the saliva had dried, the blood congealed, the teeth smooth, the lips rubbery—a shudder rippled through her.
Sam asked, bewildered, “What are you doin’, lass?”
“Checking to see if the killer shoved the victim’s tongue down his throat.”
“God’s teeth,” whispered the Bow Street Runner, looking like he wished he hadn’t asked. He swallowed. “Another message?”
“It’s been known to happen. But I don’t see anything.” Kendra withdrew her fingers, and stepped back. “Was the tongue found near the body?”
“Nay. Unless . . .” Sam’s eyes fell to the dead man’s gnawed fingers. “It could’ve been eaten by the vermin that did that.”
“It’s soft tissue,” Kendra said. Rats loved soft tissue. Another quick tremor ran down her arms as she imagined the rodents carrying off Sir Giles’s tongue. “It’s possible,” she forced herself to say, and was pleased that her voice was steady and revealed none of the revulsion she was feeling. “It’s just as possible that the killer took it with him as a trophy.”
The Duke’s blue eyes flashed with a terrible comprehension. “A trophy. Are you saying this monster will kill again?”
Kendra was silent for a long moment. “It’s too soon to say,” she finally answered. “I don’t know.”
Her gaze traveled back to the victim. Most of the symbols had vanished, but in her mind’s eyes, she saw them as they were—stark images inked onto the dead man’s flesh.
What type of killer were they dealing with here? Intelligent, definitely. Ruthless, absolutely. Calculating . . .
The unsub was all
those things, she thought. And maybe something else.
Maybe just a little insane.
8
Rebecca prowled Dr. Munroe’s office with an impatient swish of her skirts. Her own company had begun to pall about five minutes after everyone left the room, and she was now feeling quite ill-tempered. She paused in front of one of Dr. Munroe’s bookshelves, scanning the book titles. Travels in the Ionian Isles, Albania, Thessaly, Macedonia, Mimibukuro; The Anatomy of Melancholy. She wasn’t interested in reading such weighty fare, and pushed herself forward, her attention switching to the large glass jars filled with bilious green liquid, and what seemed to be strange amoebic creatures. She frowned into one murky jar. A chill raced down her spine when she had the unsettling notion that whatever was inside the jar was frowning back at her.
Good heavens. Uneasily, she turned her back on the specimen containers. She took a sip of the burgundy wine and continued pacing. Almost against her will, she shot another look at the plain wooden clock on the shelf. She could hear the tick of the minute hand. If she was a more fanciful woman, she’d think the clock was a conscious being, mocking her.
Twenty minutes had passed since everyone—everyone, including Kendra—had marched off to the autopsy chamber below stairs. It wasn’t fair that she’d been left behind to pace the room.
Rebecca sighed. Her godfather was sincere in his desire to protect her. She knew that. He was absolutely correct that her father would never have given permission allowing her to go into the autopsy room, especially not when the dead gentleman was lying there au naturel. She could only imagine the gossip if that ever got out.
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