Laura Lee Guhrke (34 page)

“You want to know the whole story, of course,” she said, wondering how she was going to explain the hours between her departure from the ball and the murder. She hated lying, especially to Auntie, but she had no choice.

“Of course I do!” Violet cried, her voice quivering with the aftereffects of a night of worry. “Where have you been all night?”

“Come with me, and I’ll tell you about it.” Sophie hooked her arm through her aunt’s, and they walked down the hall.

The sun shone brightly through the windows of the conservatory when they entered that room. To Sophie, it seemed somehow inappropriate that it was such a beautiful clay.

She sank down onto the wicker settee. “Oh, Auntie, I don’t know how to begin.”

“The ball would be a good place to start,” Violet said as she sat down on a chair. “You disappeared before supper was served, and we couldn’t find you or Michael. I told your mother that you had tired of the ball and Michael had taken you borne. Your mother was quite displeased about that, and she’s becoming very worried that you are falling in love with a policeman. Are you?”

“Auntie, not now,” Sophie cried, not wanting to talk about Mick. “What else did Mother say?”

“She said she’d have a long talk with you about it today. When I arrived home last night, you weren’t in your bed, and I have not slept a moment, waiting for you to come home. And then, about an hour ago, all these reporters started arriving and asking about the second murder.” She frowned into her niece’s face. “Darling, what has happened? Grimstock saw the journalists outside at dawn, and when the papers came, he told me there had been another policeman murdered, but he threw the papers on the fire before I could see them. Has another policeman been murdered?”

“Yes, Auntie, I’m afraid so.” Sophie told Auntie about seeing Charles, and Mrs. Dalrymple’s behavior that had prompted her to leave the ball. Mick, of course, wouldn’t let her go alone. She told of the poker game they had attended, implying that it was at that card game that they had learned of the second murder. They had gone to Southwark, and from there on to Scotland Yard.

“Oh, Auntie!” she burst out at the end of her narrative. “Another police officer is dead, and Mick could very well be next. I am so frightened.”

“Darling, of course you’re frightened!” Violet moved to sit beside her on the settee. “So am I. You are in danger, too.”

“Miss Sophie?”

She and Violet both looked up to find Hannah in the doorway. “Your breakfast is ready.”

Violet took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You must eat,” her aunt said. “You must keep up your strength.”

She followed Auntie to the dining room, not feeling as if she could eat a thing, but when she smelled the scent of bacon, she was amazed to discover she was famished. She consumed a full plate of bacon, eggs, and toast before she finally pushed back her plate.

She glanced with disinterest at the pile of letters neatly stacked on her right, but the moment she did so, she felt again that sick blackness and nausea, and she jumped up from the table.

Not again
.

“Sophie?” Violet looked up from her own correspondence, caught her niece’s expression, and immediately jumped out of her chair to run to Sophie’s side.

“He’s written me another letter,” Sophie whispered and reached toward the stack of mail.

“No, Sophie, don’t!” Violet cried out. “Don’t touch it. I’ll fetch the constables in and send Grimstock to find Mick at once. Let the police deal with it.”

She moved as if to act on her words, but Sophie stopped her. “No, don’t get the constables yet. I want to read the letter first.”

“No, no,” Violet protested. “Remember the last time, you nearly fainted dead away. Don’t do it.”

Sophie looked up at the woman who stood beside her chair. “Auntie, I’m all right,” she said with a calm she did not feel. “This time I know what to expect. Please, sit down.”

Reluctantly, Violet returned to her seat, but Sophie could feel her aunt’s concerned gaze on her as she began sorting through the correspondence, searching for the one letter she knew was in the pile. When she found it, Sophie slowly picked it up by the edge, fighting not to black out as a now-familiar sensation of revulsion and fear swept over her. This time, she was going to read the words of this madman for herself.

Sophie used a napkin to hold the letter as she slit it open with her silver letter opener, then used the sugar tongs to pull the sheet of paper from its envelope and unfold it on the table. Fighting against nausea, she read the letter.

Sophie, Sophie, you just didn’t listen to me the last time, did you? I told you what I would do to you if you continued to interfere with my lifelong dream, and you ignored me. I don’t like being ignored
.

I saw you there on the wharf, looking at Richard’s body. Didn’t I make a wonderful job of cutting his heart out? No surgeon could have done better. I would send it to you as a souvenir of our little adventure, but that is not possible, since I ate it for breakfast this morning, I wonder how your heart will taste. Sweet, I am sure. Yours in death. Heart-Eater
.

PS—What do you think of my new name? I think the press will adore it. What a sensation it will make
.

As she read the words, Sophie’s revulsion and nausea dissipated. Her fear remained, since she knew this was a dangerous killer, but she also saw what else he was—a petty, vengeful boy in a man’s body. Somehow that made him less frightening and infinitely more pathetic.

“What does it say?” Violet demanded. “Is he threatening you again? What about Michael?”

Sophie did not reply to any of her aunt’s concerned questions. She stood up.

“Auntie, I’m going to go upstairs to take a bath and change. Then I’m taking this letter to Mick. Would you tell Fletcher what has happened and have him fetch a hansom?”

“Of course, but Sophie, aren’t you going to tell me what it says?”

Sophie walked out of the dining room, “Believe me, he didn’t say anything worth repeating.”

Ninety minutes later, Sophie was sitting in a meeting room at Scotland Yard with a bevy of CID detectives, sergeants, and constables, trying to explain what she knew of the killer. Mick was sitting at the opposite end of the long conference table from her, and she knew he was the only one who was taking her seriously. Mick had called the meeting and insisted the other officers associated with the case listen to her, but she could tell they didn’t want to hear what she had to say.

“He’s a child,” she told them. “I mean, he’s a man, but emotionally he’s a little boy who has some sort of petty grievance against the police, a grievance that he has carried with him for much of his life. He hates the police force. For now, he is directing his rage against the specific officers he feels are to blame for whatever his grievance is. I don’t know how he thinks these police officers have wronged him, but whatever it is, he has blown it all out of proportion. He hates Mick—Inspector Dunbar—most of all, and I believe his original intention was to kill Mick first, but when his attempt failed, he changed his mind.”

She felt smothered by impatience, skepticism, and even hostility from all the men in the room, but Mick’s belief in her gave her the courage to go on. “The killer changed his mind because to him, this has become a game, and he’s saving Inspector Dunbar for last, like dessert. Again, his behavior is like that of a small boy. He reminds me of—”

She caught sight of Mick pressing his finger to his lips, and she knew that meant she was starting to ramble. She took a deep breath, reminding herself to stick to the main issues. “Anyway, I don’t know how many more police officers he intends to kill. He wants Inspector Dunbar to be the last one, but the more people he kills, the easier it becomes to kill the next one, and murder will become a habit with this man. The name he has given himself is another example of a boy playing a game. Also, he’s cutting out their hearts as a metaphor that policemen have no hearts. You’re dealing with a man who is petty, immature, filled with
hatred for the police, and has a willingness to take risks to achieve his aims.”

The silence in the room was deafening. The hostility of the officers was now so palpable that Sophie could hardly breathe.

After several seconds of silence, questions started flying at her like bullets from all around the table.

“How do you know this is a man?”

“What do you mean, he’s a little boy? This isn’t a game.”

“What makes you such an authority? Your psychic power?”

“You seem pretty sure of your facts, miss. How involved are you with this man?”

Mick shoved back his chair and stood up. Using his thumb and forefinger, he let out a painfully loud, shrill whistle that silenced the questions as quickly as they had begun. “That’s enough, gentlemen. I wanted all of you to know the most recent developments in this case, and I don’t have to remind you that Miss Haversham has also been targeted by this madman and subjected to his vile threats, something no woman should have to experience. It’s our job to see that she, our fellow officers, and the people of this city are safe. All of you know what your job is here, so get to work. I want a fingerprint analysis, an autopsy report, and every witness statement you can get for Richard’s murder on my desk by the end of the day so I can report to DeWitt. As usual, we make statement to the press. That’s all, gentlemen.”

The men filed out of the room, casting resentful and contemptuous glances at Sophie as they departed.
When they were gone, Mick closed the door and came to sit beside her. “I’m sorry about that,” he said quietly. “They just don’t understand.”

She almost wanted to laugh. “Do you really think I don’t know that? I’ve been dealing with people like your officers my entire life.”

She started to rise from her chair, but Mick put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from getting up. “You shouldn’t have read that letter, Sophie. You should have given it to Fletcher at once.”

Sophie shook her head. “I had to read that letter. I knew it would give me some very valuable insights into this man’s mind. And it did.”

“Well and good, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let valuable insights scare you out of your wits. I want you to stay out of this as much as possible. The more of a threat he perceives you to be, the greater the danger to you.” He leaned closer to her and cupped her cheek in his hand. “I promised you I’d keep you safe, remember?”

His touch was so protective and reassuring, and she never wanted him to pull away. Those stolen hours of last night seemed ages ago, and yet she could recall every detail of every moment of them. “Yes,” she whispered, “I remember.”

“Then don’t make it a difficult promise to keep.”

“Return the favor. Don’t get killed.”

Mick shook his head and gave her a careless grin that didn’t fool her for a second. “He’s not going to kill me. I’m too tough to die.”

She turned her head and pressed a kiss into his palm. “No one’s that tough, Mick. Not even you.”

*  *  *

Mick got what he demanded. By the end of the day, he had a stack of reports on his desk a foot high. By the time he finished sorting through them all, it was nearly eleven o’clock, he was hungry, he was tired, and more than anything else, he needed a pint.

The Boar’s Head was full, as usual. Billy and Rob were sitting at their usual corner table, and, after getting a pint of ale from the barkeep, Mick walked across the room to join them.

As he sat down, he noticed that his two best friends were looking at him rather oddly. Maybe Sophie’s psychic power was contagious, because Mick had a feeling he knew what the other two were thinking.

“No,” he said before either of them could speak. “I haven’t lost my mind, and no, I don’t really care if people think I have, and yes, I do think Sophie Haversham is truly a psychic. There,” he added defiantly and leaned back in his chair, “make the most of that, lads.”

But to his astonishment, neither man proceeded to remind him of all the phony psychic confidence swindlers Mick had arrested in his career. They didn’t accuse him of losing his mind or his judgment. They didn’t suggest he take a long holiday at Brighton.

Instead, they looked at each other and lifted their beer glasses in a toast. Billy said, “How the mighty are fallen.”

They each took a swallow of ale and set their glasses down, grinning at his belligerent look.

“What are the two of you on about?” Mick demanded, though he understood just what they meant.

“Do you think it’s real this time?” Rob asked Billy. “I mean, he keeps saying he wants the right woman, doesn’t he? Do you think the right woman might be a brown-haired, brown-eyed society beauty with gorgeous lips who thinks she’s psychic but can’t play poker worth a damn?”

Mick made a sound of contempt but did not reply.

Billy chuckled. “What a good joke. Our Mick, the man obsessed with neatness, who has no social connections and heaps of good sense, the man in search of the perfect woman, falls in love with a dithery fortune-telling society girl who sees the future.”

“And,” Rob added, “whose aunt thinks she’s Cleopatra reincarnated.”

Billy raised his glass again. “To Mick, the man who wanted the perfect family.”

Both men started laughing.

“Enough!” Mick scowled at the pair of them. “I don’t need this from you. Besides, the way you’re talking, I’m thinking you don’t like her.” He glared at Billy. “You seemed to like her a great deal last night.”

“Like her?” Billy stared at him in amazement. “She’s a charming girl. With her hairpins falling out, and her bracelets falling off, talking nineteen to the dozen when she’s got no cards and she’s trying to bluff. She’s adorable.” Billy started laughing again. “You’ve fallen for a girl who’s everything that drives you to your wits’ end. That’s what’s so funny. But how long will it last?”

“Sod off,” Mick said.

“What’s that cologne she wears?” Rob asked. “I
could’ve sat next to her all night. Lor’, she smelled good.”

“I know,” Billy agreed. “If I weren’t married—”

Something inside Mick exploded at the thought of any other man wanting Sophie. He slammed his glass down. “Bugger off, mate.” he said in a low, hard voice to one of his best friends.