“I only know the bare bones,” Muldoon admitted. “He comes from humble stock. I believe his father was a bookseller in Hammersmith. Or was he a butcher?” He paused, then shrugged. “Well, no matter. Sir Giles joined the military when he was a lad and went to fight the colonists when America revolted against English rule. By all accounts, he was a brilliant strategist, and steadily moved up the ranks. King George gave him the title of baronet sometime during the French Revolution. Sir Giles left the battlefield to join the War Department. He managed to train as a barrister, and then transferred to the Home Office, where he plays—played”—he frowned slightly—“his spymaster games.”
Kendra pushed her empty plate away, her mind returning to the mutilated tongue, the strange symbols in invisible ink. A game was still being played, she thought. Whether it was professional or turned out to be personal, they would have to see.
11
Grosvenor Square, where the Duke’s enormous buff-colored mansion was located, was darker than the other sections of the city. The fashionable residents who lived there had declined the new technology of gas lighting, preferring to keep to the tradition of lighting their doorsteps with oil lamps. It was a sore spot for the Duke, who continued to rail against his neighbors’ lack of progressive leanings.
Still, Number 29 was lit up like a Christmas tree, with warm amber light spilling from every window. Lady Atwood had arrived.
Kendra wished that didn’t give her a tight knot in her stomach.
The Duke looked at Rebecca. “You shall stay here until we send a footman to see if your parents have arrived at your residence, my dear. I’m not turning you out to await them in a cold, empty house.”
Benjamin came around to unfold the steps and open the door. Snow was falling steadily, dusting the coachman’s hat and shoulders.
“I shall have Harding retrieve the slate board that we used last year,” Aldridge continued as he stepped down, then turned to assist first Rebecca, then Kendra. “I know it’s around somewhere.”
“Thanks.” Kendra paused, lifting her face up to the black sky spinning with white crystals. For a moment, she stood there, absorbing the cold air scented with fireplace smoke. Alec stopped beside her, his gloved hand capturing hers.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I suppose I’m thinking about how nothing changes, not really. People will always kill each other. For the damnedest reasons.” She sighed, and tugged Alec’s hand. “C’mon, my lord. Let’s go in before we turn into popsicles.”
“What the devil is a popsicle?”
Kendra laughed, and pulled him down the path. Harding was eyeing them from the door he held open. Hurrying up the steps, they joined Rebecca and the Duke, who were divesting themselves of their outerwear. Servants were bustling around the mansion, opening up rooms, taking linen covers off the furniture, dusting and sweeping. The scent of lemon, linseed oil, and beeswax drifted on the air. Even though kindling and coal had been brought in, and fires started in many of the hearths, it was still cold enough for Kendra to lament the lack of central heating as she handed her cloak, gloves, and bonnet over to one of the waiting footmen. Kendra kept her reticule, which contained the muff pistol, and her notes.
“Lady Atwood is with Mrs. Danbury in the morning room, sir,” Harding informed the Duke in his characteristically grave manner. “Shall I let her ladyship know that you have arrived?”
“Thank you, but I shall go to her myself. Send someone to Lady Rebecca’s residence to find out if her parents have arrived. Has my study been made ready?”
“Yes, sir. A fire has been lit, as well as several wall sconces.”
“Very good. We have dined, but if my decanters in the study haven’t yet been replenished, send up a maid with a bottle of brandy, and a pot of tea. And we shall need the slate board returned to the room. I trust you did not dispose of it entirely?”
The butler slid a look in Kendra’s direction, but his expression remained impassive. “I shall supervise its return. Tonight, Your Grace?”
“Tonight,” Aldridge confirmed, and glanced at his nephew. “Alec, if you will escort the ladies upstairs, I shall join you shortly.”
The Duke left to seek out his sister while they ascended the grand staircase to the study. A meager fire was burning in the hearth. Alec crossed the room to throw another log into the fireplace before snatching up the poker, coaxing the flames into a greater blaze.
Cozy, Kendra thought, as her gaze traveled to the windows that had been distorted with melting snowflakes running down the glass. She moved to the rosewood table, putting down her reticule and spreading out the three drawings she’d made.
Rebecca joined her, and picked up the crudely drawn figure of a man. “I could have helped you with this.”
“I only needed to depict the wounds.”
“What’s this?”
Kendra glanced over to see that she’d picked up the other paper with the symbol that had been painted on Sir Giles. She asked curiously, “What does it looked like to you?”
“A cross.”
“You mean a crucifix?”
“Of course. Although . . .” She tilted her head to the side as she studied the mark. “It could be a simple cross marking—an X. Except I see one line is a little shorter.”
“Which makes it a crucifix. Or a lowercase t. At the moment, I’m leaning toward a crucifix, since Sir Giles was discovered in a church.” She told Rebecca about the marks that had been drawn on the body in invisible ink.
Rebecca’s lips parted in amazement. “Dear heaven. What can it mean?”
“I don’t know. But it does mean something to the killer.”
Rebecca’s brows drew together, and her gaze returned to the drawing. “But surely this oddity would eliminate Mr. Holbrooke as a suspect in his father’s murder? Even if he is such a monster as to cut out his own father’s tongue, why would he do this?”
Alec strode over to them. “I have never met Mr. Holbrooke, but I agree with Becca. I’m having a difficult time imagining such a thing.”
“It would depend on what kind of man Mr. Holbrooke is,” Kendra said, tapping her chin as she considered it. “Based on what Mr. Muldoon told us, he seems to be immature for his age. Drinking, gambling, womanizing.”
Rebecca made a sound of derision. “Mr. Holbrooke is no different from any other of the young bucks in town when it comes to maturity.”
They glanced around when the door whispered open and a maid came through, carefully balancing a tray that held a bottle of brandy, glasses and teacups, and a pot of tea, accompanied by sugar and cream. As the servant deposited the tray on the table, the Duke arrived.
“Ah, excellent,” he said, and smiled his approval as he hurried over to the table. “You may go,” he told the maid when she lifted the teapot. He took over when she set down the pot and quietly left the room.
“Brandy or tea?” the Duke asked, raising an eyebrow in their direction.
Having had two glasses of the potent blackcurrant wine at the Lantern Tavern, Kendra joined the Duke in choosing tea, and she wasn’t surprised when Alec and Rebecca went for the brandy. The quality of the water in this era would make anybody leery. While her 19th-century counterparts might not understand it, they were protecting themselves against dysentery and cholera and God knew what else by boiling water in the form of tea and coffee, or drinking alcoholic beverages in place of a simple glass of water.
The Duke was passing the brandy glasses to Rebecca and Alec when there came a smart rap at the door before it opened again, and Harding ushered in two footmen, carrying the slate board.
“Put it down over there,” Aldridge directed, and the footmen eased it down in the corner of the room.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” the butler asked after dismissing the footmen.
“No, thank you, Harding. That will be all.”
Kendra picked up a jagged piece of slate, but instead of making notes, she jiggled it in her hand as she walked ov
er to the slate board. The Duke retreated behind his desk with his cup of tea while Rebecca and Alec settled in opposite chairs, near the fire.
“Tomorrow morning, I think Rebecca and I should call upon Lady Holbrooke,” Kendra said carefully.
“Morning calls are not done in the morning, my dear,” the Duke reminded her.
“Yeah, I remember.” For no reason that Kendra could discern, morning calls were actually done in the afternoon. It was one of those strange, illogical quirks that continued to annoy and baffle her. “But this isn’t a social visit. It’s a murder investigation.”
“Point taken.” The Duke pursed his lips. “I suppose it would be less awkward for a woman to approach Lady Holbrooke during her time of mourning.”
“Two women,” Rebecca corrected, sipping her brandy.
Kendra smiled at her. “Yeah, you’re the calling card.” As the daughter of an earl, Rebecca ranked higher than the wife of a baronet. Lady Holbrooke probably wouldn’t turn Rebecca away.
Alec was skeptical. “Even if she gave you an audience, you can’t expect her to confide in you. You have no acquaintance with her.”
“We still need to interview her,” Kendra pointed out. “And you’d be shocked at what people confide, if asked the right way. Besides, there are other questions that need to be asked that are less personal. Mr. Kelly said that she couldn’t recall any threats against her husband, but she’d just learned of his death. She needs time to process that. Maybe tomorrow she’ll have remembered something, or recall something else that could help.”
Memories, Kendra had always found, were like slivers under the skin; they might need a little time to work their way to the surface.
“I agree, my dear.” Aldridge raised his teacup and peered at her over the rim. “Tomorrow morning—late morning, say, eleven o’clock—you may take the carriage. You can pick up Rebecca en route. Would that be agreeable to you?”
Since she’d anticipated more of an argument, she smiled. “Very.”
“While you visit Lady Holbrooke, I plan to ride over to Dr. Munroe’s. He ought to be finished conducting the autopsy.” He swallowed some tea and then set the cup back on the saucer with a soft clink. “I would very much like to have another look at the secret ink on Sir Giles. It really is quite remarkable.” He looked at Kendra. “Have you ever seen anything like it in your America, my dear?”
It occurred to Kendra what they were doing was a verbal form of secret ink, talking in code to hide the truth from Rebecca. She felt a pinch of guilt at the deception, but pushed it away. “I can’t say that I ever came across anything like that,” she said slowly. She’d worked for the Bureau, not the CIA. She wasn’t sure if invisible inks were completely obsolete, but she suspected that sophisticated encryption codes and microchips were more the norm in her timeline.
Alec said, “I hope to learn something from my intelligence contact.”
“Good.” She lifted the piece of slate and began making notes on the board. Victimology. She listed only the basics: height—five ten; weight—estimated 180 pounds. She looked at Alec. “How old was Sir Giles?”
“I believe fifty-seven or fifty-eight. I can find out.”
“Okay. It’s not entirely important, because I don’t think this was a stranger killing. The unsub wasn’t drawn to Sir Giles because he was a certain type. I think he was targeted by someone he knew.”
She created another column on the details of the crime. Garroted. Tongue removed. Body marked with invisible ink. Symbol resembling a crucifix. Naked. Dump site: a church.
It was a grisly list, one that would probably give most civilians nightmares if they ever came upon it.
The last column was titled Suspects. Underneath the header, she wrote Gerard Holbrooke’s name and age.
“There are a few characteristics associated with patricide involving males,” she told them. “Usually the son is relatively young, and lives at home. They have substance abuse issues. Sometimes they have mental disorders.” She wrote as she talked. “The father is often an authoritarian figure. Often abusive.” She paused, then glanced at Alec. “Did you get that impression of Sir Giles?”
Alec frowned. “He was an authoritarian figure, certainly. His position in government, as a spymaster, demanded it. He had considerable responsibility on his shoulders. Men’s lives were at risk. But I never considered him abusive. Then again, I was not acquainted with the man outside of our work, and even then, our association was at the most minimal level.”
The Duke studied the slate board. “Mr. Holbrooke seems to fit much of what you’ve written, my dear. He is relatively young, and lives at home—although that is not unusual for someone who is not wed. Sometimes young bucks rent rooms, but if Mr. Holbrooke’s financials are in disarray, he might have had difficulty in that area. Given what we know of the incident at Tattersalls, he appears to have substance abuse issues. Perhaps he is mad. Certainly, what was done to Sir Giles indicates that we are dealing with a madman.”
“Maybe, or it was just good, old-fashioned greed,” Kendra said. “Maybe he wanted to speed up the timetable for when he’d get his hands on the family fortune.”
Rebecca frowned. “But that is where I cannot believe it could be Mr. Holbrooke. The crime is too bizarre.”
“That might depend on whether Mr. Holbrooke took after his father.” Kendra jiggled the slate again as she considered that angle. “Think about it. The more bizarre elements in the crime might be a strategy.”
Rebecca looked at her. “I don’t understand.”
“There are a couple ways to view this. Let’s say we have a son who is deeply in debt, estranged from his father, even attacks him in broad daylight. A couple weeks later, the father is found stabbed to death on a lonely road one night. The son inherits a fortune. Would suspicion fall on the son?”
“As abhorrent as such a possibility is, I think that would certainly raise suspicion against the son,” the Duke allowed.
Alec added, “Even if nothing could be proven, the son may find himself shunned, doors closed. Society has a way of making its own judgments. Right or wrong.”
Kendra nodded. “In other words, even if the son doesn’t end up charged and convicted, he could be made very uncomfortable in society. His quality of life would be affected.”
“Yes,” Alec agreed.
“Okay. So, same scenario. The son attacks his father, is deeply in debt, but two weeks later, the father is found garroted, his tongue cut out, left naked with symbols painted in invisible ink on his body. Now would you suspect the son of being behind the father’s murder?”
No one said anything for a moment.
“I take your point,” Alec finally said. “And when it is known that the father is also a spymaster, it would make more sense to look to the intelligence community for his killer.”
“Classic misdirection,” Kendra murmured.
Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “Do you really think Mr. Holbrooke could be so fiendishly clever?”
Kendra looked at Alec. “Do you think Sir Giles would have been smart enough to do something like this?”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
“Then maybe Mr. Holbrooke learned a few spy tricks from watching his father. He would probably be familiar with invisible ink.” Kendra swung back to study the slate board. “My problem with this scenario is the killer left Sir Giles naked.”
“Forgive me, my dear,” the Duke said, “but that seems the least of the evils visited upon the poor wretch.”
“No, but it’s an act of humiliation,” Kendra said. “If the father and son relationship had disintegrated into hatred, it could play, maybe. It’s a thread that needs to be followed.”
The Duke sipped his tea before lowering the cup. “There may be a simple answer, my dear. Sir Giles’s clothes had to be removed in order for the killer to apply the invisible ink,” he pointed out. “I assume it would have been too difficult to dress the man after he was dead.”
“It would be awkward
, especially after rigor mortis had begun,” she conceded. “But the killer didn’t need to leave Sir Giles exposed the way he was. He could have draped Sir Giles’s greatcoat over the body or even put a blanket on him. I think the unsub wanted him to be found that way.”
“An act of humiliation,” the Duke repeated with quiet horror. “My God. If it is Mr. Holbrooke, he truly is evil.”
“There is another possibility,” Alec spoke up. “A blanket or coat could have been thrown over Sir Giles, or he could have been left there fully dressed, but someone stole his clothes or the coat or blanket. It wouldn’t be the first time thieves have taken from the dead.”
“You’re right.” Kendra’s gaze traveled back to the slate board. “At this stage, we only have speculation. Hopefully, Mr. Holbrook will have an alibi, and we can eliminate him.”
Of course, that would also mean eliminating their only suspect on the board.
She stepped forward to make a timeline. “We know that Sir Giles’s coachman dropped him off at his club at around 6:30—half past six. He was found at around 8:30 the next morning.” She stared at the line she’d drawn. There was a lot of space between 6:30 on Wednesday evening and 8:30 on Thursday morning. “We should be able to add more to the timeline after Mr. Kelly talks to the night porter at the club.”
A quick knock at the door had the Duke rising from behind his desk. Before he could take a step, the door opened, and Lady Atwood came into the room. Her eyes flicked to the slate board, her lips tightening into a thin, disapproving line. Then she switched her gaze to Rebecca.
“The boy has returned with news that your parents are at home, my dear. I have taken it upon myself to have Coachman Benjamin bring the carriage around.”
“Oh.” Rebecca looked briefly disappointed. She set down her brandy glass and pushed herself to her feet. “I suppose I ought to go to them. Thank you, your ladyship.”
“You shall accompany Rebecca, Sutcliffe.” Lady Atwood fixed her nephew with a steely look. “The carriage can then take you to your residence. I have sent several servants already to prepare your home for you.” With studied casualness, she picked a piece of lint off her sleeve. “Naturally, they shall stay with you until you can summon your own staff from your estate in Northhamptonshire.”
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