Druid's Daughter (10 page)

With a wry grin at his own folly, he smiled at her. He hoped
he somehow conveyed his genuine regret. He also wished to hear what her astute
brain would make of the latest happenings. There was no way he wanted to
deliberately antagonize her.

Morgan looked at him for another long moment. Lance held
steady and tried not to flinch. Her piercing gaze made him feel an imbecile at
the times she stared at him with such deep intent. Her Druid look.

“We’ll go on from here, my lord. We’ve always known our
viewpoints are miles apart. Tell me more about the latest murder, if you will.”

Her lovely voice was now impersonal. All the warmth had
vanished with his thoughtless words. Lance could feel her withdrawal and it
hurt. Regretting he’d widened the fissure between them, he composed himself and
gave her a dispassionate account of the latest murder.

“We’ll be giving most of the facts to the newspapers. What
we’ll not tell them is about the letter ‘W’ which figures in both cases, even
though in different ways.”

“And what you fear is even the act of leaving the talisman
letter behind is getting more violent.” Morgan’s tone was now more sympathetic.

He silently appreciated her quick comprehension.

“Yes, that’s part of it. The other worry of mine is our
villain, having evaded us twice, will feel flushed with success. I think we can
expect another corpse soon.”

Morgan breathed out in horror. “Dear Goddess, no! Do you
really think so, Lance?”

Pleased beyond reason she was again using his name
naturally, Lance took her hand in his.

“I do indeed, Morgan. Please stay home as much as possible.
If he branches out I want you to be safe. I’m sure our latest killer is insane
and we can’t count on his following a pattern when he strikes again.”

She smiled at him, a little wistfully and turned to leave.

“I would appreciate it if you keep me informed as much as
you can, Lance.”

He nodded, delighted to have easy communication between them
again. She waved her hand at him, a slight gesture he couldn’t readily
interpret. Her skirts swishing around her long legs, she left the room with her
graceful half-glide, half walk. Her own natural stride combined well with her
mother’s Druid teachings.

He did not move until minutes after she disappeared from his
sight. Then with a deep sigh, he called to Shriver.

“Come in, man, we have much work to do. Let’s get at it.”

A feeling he was working against a maniac’s timetable grew
more daunting as he tried to pierce an insane mind.

* * * * *

Once again Lance scrutinized all the data his men had
compiled on the shops who sold the paper used in cutting the first “W”. There
was no helpful information at all, as the paper was far too common. The medical
report was a little more promising. Not many instruments could produce such a
deep, thin wound. Almost certainly a type of stiletto was used, as Lance had
suspected. Perhaps a longer one than usual. The knife had to be thin, sharp and
long enough to penetrate to the heart. And sturdy. An Italian stiletto from the
seventeenth century could do the trick although he couldn’t rule out others he
didn’t know about.

The second victim’s name was Rosie McDonald. She was
twenty-one years old and also solicited on her own. While she might have made
more money working without a protector, this also left her more vulnerable.
Lance thought it significant both victims operated alone. No one claimed either
body and they were both buried by the township of London in a plot as miserable
and neglected as their pitiful lives.

Nothing at all distinguished them from the thousands of
other prostitutes scouring the London streets. They were young, but by far not
the youngest. Girls of ten and less were sold by their parents or kidnapped and
put on the squalid streets. The letter “W” seemed a calculated clue, one the
murderer wanted to flaunt. First on paper and then in blood. A furious
expression of psychopathic loathing. There were many possibilities of the
significance of the letter “W”, but Lance was sure it stood for “whore”.
Knowing the proper spelling of
whore
would be another sign their man had
some education.

They were up against a nasty killer who hated prostitutes
for some dark reason of his own. Lance could think of many grounds for this
kind of virulent hatred, but until he had some other clue he could only guess.

He decided to concentrate on the idea of an Italian
stiletto. An exotic weapon like this was not an item easy to obtain. His men
would have to comb the city, visiting all shops selling foreign weapons, as
well as pawn shops and street fair vendors. Not a simple job and perhaps a
useless one. He’d tell his men to question if the shopkeepers knew of a similar
dagger.

Certainly this was the best idea he’d had for a while. A
possible place to start.

God knows they needed to start someplace.

He grinned and leaned back for just a moment before
beginning to compile new orders to his staff. Morgan would have said “the
Goddess knows”.

He frowned as he realized she’d once again popped into his
head. Unbidden. When he had time he’d worry about this ridiculous propensity
for mental lapses. Morgan, his ever-beckoning Druid. He shook his head. He’d
not ride that horse just now.

He pulled his notes toward him and examined them once more.
Then he went to his door.

“Shriver, will you come in? I have an idea that might
possibly help.”

* * * * *

Commissioner Devon Randall turned to his secretary.

“I’m not making sense of my thoughts, Miss Stanton. I think
we might as well let this go ’til tomorrow.”

“I’ll have this new batch of reports sorted out by then, Sir.”

He barely noticed her leaving. Damn, but he was unhappy with
his world and with himself. Just when he needed his clearest thinking, Viviane
McAfee’s lovely face floated before him. He’d not seen her since she refused
his offer of marriage. Rather definitely refused.

He’d been without her vital companionship for two long
weeks. He could summon up no new argument for their marriage except how much he
loved her. Which was hardly new.

Perhaps his need was the key. Her presence was truly a
requirement for the happiness of his son as well as himself. Jamie was
miserable without Viviane’s frequent visits. He’d requested Cynthia to bring a
footman for protection and take the boy to the park daily as an extra treat.
He’d been reluctant to hire a new woman when the former nursemaid quit.
Although he didn’t think Jamie was any longer in danger. Word of Cuttering’s
imprisonment for many long years had sobered London’s underworld.

Randall looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk with
disgust. He really must see to getting a second secretary. Poor Miss Stanton
was definitely overworked.

He lifted his suit coat off the rack. He usually walked home
to get a little of the exercise he missed. He stopped once to watch some
children playing a skipping game with a rope. Did Jamie have a rope? Would he
like one?

He neared his home along Hyde Park anticipating how gleeful
Jamie would be to see his papa at an earlier hour than expected. Running up the
steps he let himself in, appreciating the coolness of the hall and the pleasing
furnishings. His first wife had done well in this respect. In fact she’d tried
hard to be all he could want. It wasn’t her fault he’d never loved her as much
as she loved him. He often felt guilty he regarded her death with less than
sorrow. In spite of a brief infatuation, they were not well suited. Still, he
held her in undying gratitude for Jamie. His truly wonderful son.

His butler was not in the hall. Randall stopped and listened
for a sound and dimly heard Cynthia wailing. Wailing in a despairing way that
quite frightened him. He headed for the stairs on a run and took the steps two
at a time. If anything else had happened to Jamie— He couldn’t even finish the
thought. Surely the gods wouldn’t torture him twice.

The minute Lady Cynthia saw him her keening became louder.
He rushed to her and knelt in front of her.

“Cynthia, has anything happened to Jamie?”

She buried her face in her hands and kept weeping.

He shook her, at first gently and then with harsh strength.
Still she sobbed, moaning into her hands and refusing to look at him.

He finally took her hands from her face and slapped her,
although not harshly.

“Where is Jamie?”

Either his expression or his voice must have frightened her,
for she shrunk away from him. He felt hard put not to slap her again and
harder.

Millson entered just then, breathing heavily and with red
spots in his cheeks. The thought flashed into Devon’s mind his butler was old
enough to be retired. He pushed it away. He could not afford distraction now.

“Well?” he asked tersely.

“I’ve done a second search of the garden, sir. I looked
under every bush and tree. Jamie’s not been seen since Lady Cynthia ordered him
to take a nap.”

Devon raised his brows at the word “ordered”. He knew his
man spoke precisely. He’d used the word deliberately.

“Cynthia, you’d better start talking sense and quickly. What
happened here today?”

She gulped and sniffled and tried to evade him but Devon
took her chin between two iron fingers.

“Talk, madam,” he ordered.

Her words came in gasps.

“Jamie was out of sorts because I refused to take him to the
park. It’s simply too dangerous for him. He sulked until I told him to go to
his room.”

He didn’t bother screaming at the fool woman for disobeying
his orders.

“When did you find he was gone?”

“Millson went to check on him about a half hour ago.”

“Millson did? Not you, Cynthia?”

She flushed an unnatural red unbecoming to her puffy face
and eyes, but did not answer. Devon glared at her for a moment in silence, too
angry to trust himself to speak to her. Evidently Millson was taking care of
his son better than his aunt. When Millson did get around to retiring and it
would not be at Devon’s suggestion, he could expect a sizeable annuity.

He turned to his man.

“Can you add anything, Millson?”

“The young master was quite upset when he went to his room,
sir. I worried about him and when it got late went to check on him. His room
was empty. I don’t think he stayed there long.”

Devon couldn’t shake the fear of another kidnapping, but his
analytical brain told him Jamie left on his own accord. Even so terror gripped
his whole being. He’d try briefly to find Jamie and then call in Lance. Surely
life wouldn’t be so unfair as to make his beloved child suffer a second time.

“I’ll deal with you later, Cynthia. I need the whole story
first. Come, Millson, let’s go to the library. Be thinking of any thing that
might help. If Jamie left on his own he not only had a good reason, but a
destination in mind. I’m sure he wouldn’t just wander the streets.”

Millson had little to add at first, seeming reluctant to
discuss the matter. On further questioning he volunteered Jamie had been
unhappy for some time.

“Can you tell me why he’s been unhappy, Millson? Please
remember I’m deeply concerned and afraid for my son. And you owe your loyalty
only to me.”

With a sigh Millson let down the bars. “He’s been restless,
sir. He’s shut up in the house most of the days, except for a small stint in
the garden.”

Devon started. “Lady Cynthia’s not been taking him to the
park, then. I wonder why Jamie didn’t tell me.”

Millson cleared his throat. “I’ve heard her tell Master
Jamie more than once not to bother you, you’re a busy man. Also to remember no
gentleman tells tales on others.”

“By God,” Devon exploded. “He left on his own then. I’d
wager to Mrs. McAfee. He’d know she’d give him time and sympathy even without
knowing why. ‘Telling tales’ indeed!”

He strode from the library and down the hall to the front
door, calling Cynthia the names in his mind he couldn’t permit a servant to
hear.

“Sir, can I come with you?”

A brief glance at Millson’s distraught face convinced Devon
he owed it to the man, yet he knew Millson would slow him down. He intended to
run as fast as he could to the McAfees’. Since the distance was only about a
mile, running was speedier than having his team hitched.

“I need you to stay here and get a message to me if one
comes, Millson. I’ll depend on you to take care of this important task.”

Millson’s shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly.

“Yes sir,” he said and opened the door for his master.

Devon’s emotions were completely scrambled. Anxiety about
his son mixed with guilt he’d not seen the signs of Cynthia’s selfish
domination. His job definitely would have to go. He couldn’t afford nor did he
want these long work days.

If fate gave him another chance, the good of his son would
come before so-called duty.

Pray God for that chance.

* * * * *

As Millson held the door open for his master, both of them
heaved identical and heartfelt sighs of relief.

Jamie and Viviane, hand in hand, stood on the top step.

“Thank you, God,” Devon murmured. Tears of gratitude filled
his eyes and he stood stiffly still, not able to say another word.

One look at his son’s face and Devon knew Viviane had done
his parenting for him. Jamie’s stricken expression told him all he needed to
know. Jamie’s act had been one of desperation. A temporary escape from the
despair caused by his unheeding father. Jamie’s face was white as he dropped
Viviane’s hand and marched sturdily to his father.

“I’m most awf’lly sorry, sir. I ‘spect you’ll want to punish
me. But honest, I didn’t mean to worry you. I just needed to see Mrs. McAfee.”

Devon’s throat clogged as he dropped to his knees beside his
son and took him in his arms.