A Perfect Gentleman (21 page)

“You called him a gentleman. Surely no gentleman would do such a thing.”

“You would be surprised,” Sir John told her, and Lattimer chimed in: “Especially if a nob's mistress gets too greedy, or claims to be with child, a brat that she threatens to leave on the toff's wife's doorstep, unless he pays up.”

“But look here and you will see why I call the murderer a gentleman.” Sir John pulled the sheet down lower, nearly to her breasts. “You see where he grabbed her shoulder, and left the mark of his fingers?”

Ellianne could make out four distinct bruises. “Yes,” she said with less enthusiasm, positive that she had seen enough now. She looked over to check whether Wellstone was stirring yet.

“Look closer. You can see the seam of his glove.”

“And that makes him a gentleman? Many men wear gloves.” She looked at Sir John's own soft leather gloves, then back to Wellstone, whose left hand dangled off the bench, in York tan leather. Even Mr. Lattimer wore gloves down here in the cold. The assistant did not. Ellianne hurriedly looked away from the helper's filthy hands.

“Ah, but if you consider that the female is, or was, a healthy young specimen, attractive, not the least undernourished, with hands that did not know work… Do you wish to see her hands?”

Ellianne quickly shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“A pity. They can tell us much. For instance, if she had blood under her fingernails, we might be able to search for a man with fresh claw marks on his face or hands.”

“But they would not show on his hands if the man wore gloves.”

“Excellent point, Miss Kane, excellent point. The killer might have been a lowborn brute, but clever enough to wear gloves. Still, I doubt this woman associated with ruffians of the lower orders. I pray we find out, and catch him before he acts again.”

Ellianne gulped. “Again?”

“I fear so. The shaved…head leads me to believe that this was some kind of ritual murder.”

“I do not understand.”

“And why should you? I should not even be discussing such distressing facts with a gentlewoman like yourself. Your escort would not approve, I am certain.”

Her escort was still unmoving.

“I seem to have a few more minutes to wait. Please, I wish to understand about the unfortunate woman's hair. Wasn't murdering her enough?”

Sir John rubbed his chin. “The simplest solution would be to assume the killer meant to sell her hair. But why the razor, not scissors? No, again we deduce that the killer did not need money. He had another motive. Perhaps he was trying to make identification more difficult. Or he wished to have a memento, something of hers to keep. I have read studies of the red Indians who collect the scalps of their fallen enemies, to prove their merit as mighty warriors.”

Ellianne stepped back, appalled on top of horrified. “I think I should be going…Lord Wellstone…”

Sir John shook his head, without dislodging a single strand of his own hair. “I apologize, again, for forgetting your refined sensibilities. I should not have responded so eagerly to your gratifying interest.”

“No, please do not apologize. I have found your explanations…fascinating.”

“I only wish we had more insight into the workings of a killer's mind. Alas, our science of the body, as limited as it is, far exceeds our understanding of the mental facilities.”

“If it did not, learned gentlemen like yourself would be able to cure our poor mad king.”

“Eventually, madam, eventually, I pray, we shall solve all the riddles, and eliminate such woes from the face of the earth. Not just for monarchs and the wealthy, but for all men, everywhere.”

“And women?”

“Ah, we know even less about the workings of a woman's mind. What man aspires so high?” he asked with that sneering kind of smile. “But perhaps even the inscrutability of your gender will reveal itself to modern science.”

“Let us hope so.” They were walking toward the door, near where Wellstone was still slumped on the bench. Ellianne looked back at the woman, whose face was once more covered. “What will happen to her?”

“Oh, they will hold her here as long as possible, in the ice room in the back, you know, hoping someone comes looking for her. Anyone missing a wife or daughter will be searching, as you are. Unfortunately, we have had no other concerned families come by as yet, and she has been here over twenty-four hours. The Runners have been alerted, and even the watch was notified, in case they hear of a woman gone missing. If, as I suspect, the victim is a courtesan, begging your pardon again for the mention of such a class of women, then I doubt anyone will come forth to claim her. Females of that trade seldom have families, you see, or anyone who will acknowledge them as a relation. She will go to the medical college then, so our young students can further their understanding.”

That seemed the worst insult of all, to Ellianne. The woman was killed, barbered, and laid here in the cold for anyone to see—and she would not even be given a proper burial. How would her soul find rest?

“Would you please tell me if someone does come to claim her? I would feel better knowing she is spending eternity with her family.”

“You dear, dear lady. Your tender sentiments become you. I thought it before, but now I am certain. You are a woman of great heart, Miss Kane. It has been a pleasure to have a beating one among us.” His top lip quirked up again. “A little morgue humor, you understand. But it is easy to see your devotion to your sibling, and to discern your acumen by the intelligence of your questions and comments. Many women who come here for similar reasons as yours swoon, like your friend, or suffer paroxysms of the nerves, or collapse in uncontrollable weeping. You, Miss Kane, have been an exemplary guest.”

Ellianne would not precisely label this a social call, but she made a slight curtsy and said, “I found it interesting, and your knowledge impressive. Thank you for sharing your insights with me.”

“My pleasure. So few people appreciate what we are doing here, the benefits to come to all mankind, the strides we can take if we keep open minds. You are rare, indeed. In fact, may I call on you?”

Ellianne almost tripped on her own feet.

When Sir John saw how stunned she was, how taken aback, he quickly added, “To bring you news of our unfortunate victim, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

“And to keep abreast of your own investigation, in case my expertise, as humble as it is, might be of assistance.”

“How kind of you. I would be pleased to receive you, then. And if you do learn anything that might pertain to my sister's disappearance…

“Without fail, my dear Miss Kane, without fail.”

*

Stony was still somewhat disoriented as they climbed the stairs, but recovered fully once they reached the relatively clean air of the street to wait for the carriage. He handed Ellianne in, then took the seat opposite her when he saw that Lattimer was not coming along. As soon as the coach started to move, he leaned forward and took both of Ellianne's hands in his.

“That really wasn't your sister back there? Or is my brain so fogged that I imagined it?”

“It really was not Isabelle. Not even remotely similar to her, thank God.”

“Thank God,” he echoed, then let go of her hands to lean back against the leather cushions. He shut his eyes and shook his head. “What a help I was to you, and after insisting I act as your escort. Lud, I am mortified.”

“Why? You had no control over your reaction. And I did feel better knowing you were nearby.”

“Parked on a bench like an octogenarian, a blanket on his knees. Thunderation! At least now you understand why I could never go into the army.”

“What I do not understand is how you manage at the boxing parlor your stepmother says you frequent.”

“Oh, I train in the side room with weights and a leather punching bag. If I do ever spar with a partner, we wear padded gloves. I have never watched an entire fisticuff match, a real match, in my life. Lud, can you imagine the laughter if one of the boxers got a bloody nose? I look away.”

“It is a reprehensible sport anyway. Two grown men pummeling each other? I have always failed to see the attraction.”

“Well, I could not see your interest in that ghoulish chap's blather back there. You and he appeared as close as inkle weavers, from what I could tell at such a distance.”

“He was explaining his work, and it really is amazing. Did you know that they can tell whether someone is a suicide or a murder victim made to look like one, by the amount of the gunpowder residue at the site of the wound?”

“No, but since I am not thinking of doing away with myself, despite my recent humiliation, or anyone else, unless you threaten to tell the world, I can manage without the information.”

“It is knowledge. I am always eager to learn new things.”

“Well, I am interested in knowing what you said to keep Lattimer from coming back with us. I swear the clunch looked so disappointed he was going to need one of my spare handkerchiefs. For that matter, he seemed disappointed that the dead girl was not your sister.”

“He wanted so badly to solve the crime. He is eager to advance, you know.”

Stony knew the Runner wanted to advance right into Ellianne's bank vault. “Is that why you gave him a handful of coins?”

“I gave him money to see that the murdered woman had a proper burial, if her friends or family do not come forth. I sent him back inside to make sure Sir John knew, so he did not consign her to the surgeon's school.”

“That was very goodhearted of you. Not that I am surprised, of course.”

Ellianne twisted the strings of her reticule, in embarrassment at the praise. “That is what Sir John said too.”

“Did he?” Stony asked with a growl in his voice. “What else did the ghoul have to say?”

Ellianne did not mention that Sir John asked if he could call, not after hearing that rough tone. “Oh, he mostly spoke of the dead woman, and what could be learned from a careful examination of her wounds. Did you know that Sir John thinks he knows the exact length and thickness of the blade that sliced her thr—Wellstone? Stony? My lord? Oh, dear.”

Chapter Sixteen

Ellianne had a lot to smile at, that night in her bedroom.

Isabelle was not with Strickland, thank those lucky stars shining so brightly outside the window.

And she was not at the morgue, thank God, which Timms was taking care of at his evening church meeting.

And Ellianne's hero had feet of clay.

She liked Wellstone the better for it. He was no longer the perfect, poised gentleman, so intimidatingly far above her, like the stars. He was no awe-inspiring god on Mount Olympus, but a mere mortal, as human as she was, with human failings. He might be a titled gentleman of ancient lineage and impeccable manners, to say nothing of his good looks and his muscular physique and his social sangfroid, but he was flawed. Irretrievably. Irrationally. Irresistibly.

He was right not to marry, Ellianne told herself as she brushed her hair out of its coiled braids so she could weave it into a looser, more comfortable plait for sleeping. She liked to do this herself, without a maid's help, for she found the activity relaxing and conducive to thought before bed. If she settled the question of Wellstone and weddings, she would sleep better.

He'd make an even more dreadful husband than she'd thought before. Why, he could never help his wife deliver their children, if the midwife was late. And if they were lost in the countryside, isolated by a blizzard, perhaps, who knew if he could kill a hare, or butcher a hog. They'd have to become vegetarians, like Aunt Augusta and her dog. Ellianne wondered if he hunted at all. She'd have better regard for any man who refused to chase down foxes or deer, for whatever reason. And Wellstone was certainly not going to be a spectator at the revolting blood sports so many men enjoyed, like dogfights or bearbaitings. No, he'd only chase after women, or watch them tear at each other, vying for his attentions. He could slay with a dimpled smile, instead of a gun.

Bah. Her hair was crackling and clinging to her new satin robe, and Wellstone was still in her thoughts. He'd worried that she might suffer nightmares after the visit to the morgue. Nightmares? If he only knew her dreams, she'd never be able to face him again. He'd suggested a glass of brandy before bed. That would only give her a headache in the morning, though, after another night of tangling the bedclothes.

Not that Wellstone was the only thing on her mind, of course. She never forgot about Isabelle. Well, except for those rare moments, perhaps, when she pictured herself in his lordship's arms. In the waltz, of course. Not that she was much of a dancer, hating to appear gangly next to her usually shorter partners. Wellstone was just the right height.

She supposed he was a superb dancer, graceful, lithe, guiding a woman with gentle pressure. He was superb at so much—except for swooning. She laughed out loud and got into the bed.

Images of Wellstone kept dancing in her mind's eye. She'd never get to judge his abilities for herself, unfortunately, for she did not intend to take to the ballroom floor for the brief time she'd be in Town. She was still in mourning for her aunt, and still wary of bringing herself to the attention of oglers and opportunists. She did have to be out and about, she admitted to herself, to be seen and recognized as Isabelle's sister. Someone had to know where the girl had gone. Someone was giving her shelter somewhere. Whoever that someone was, he or she was more likely to confide in Isabelle's sister than any detective Ellianne could hire.