Otherwise Engaged (21 page)

T
wilight and fog were descending by the time they arrived at the house in Crocker Lane. Benedict stepped down from the hansom cab. Logan followed him. They went up the front steps. The light of a nearby gas lamp made it just barely possible to read the small plaque on the front door.
Dr. J. M. Norcott, By Appointment Only.

“Norcott is a doctor,” Benedict said. “That certainly explains why Warwick ordered the driver to bring him here.”

“Warwick knew the address of this house well enough to be able to summon it from memory in a moment of panic when he must have been in some fear of bleeding to death,” Logan observed.

“In other words, Warwick may well have a long-standing acquaintanceship with Dr. Norcott.”

“I think so, yes,” Logan said.

Benedict studied the dark windows. “Doesn’t look like anyone is home.”

“Perhaps Norcott has been called out to treat a patient,” Logan said.

He raised the knocker and clanged it with some force. They could hear the muffled echo from deep inside the front hall but no one responded.

“I suggest we try the kitchen door,” Benedict said.

“I could point out that we don’t have a key, let alone a warrant,” Logan said, his tone perfectly neutral.

“I could point out that there are other ways to gain entry into a house. I might also mention that there is a considerable amount of fog tonight.”

Logan looked thoughtful. “Excellent points, all of them. Let’s try the kitchen door.”

Benedict raised a hand to wave the hansom on its way. When the cab was out of sight, he followed Logan around to the rear of the house.

They went into the small garden. At the kitchen door Benedict struck a light and held it steady while Logan made short work of the lock.

The smell of death wafted out of the house the moment they opened the door. No longer concerned with the neighbors, Benedict turned up a lamp.

The body was in the front hall. A shiny length of sharpened steel gleamed in the middle of the dry blood pool.

“That must be Norcott,” Benedict said.

Logan crouched beside the body and examined it with a professional eye. “I think this was done sometime yesterday. The killer used one of the doctor’s own scalpels.”

“It would seem that Virgil Warwick has returned from Scotland,” Benedict said. “He came back to murder the one man who could testify to the nature of his wounds.”

Logan got to his feet. “But why kill him now?”

Benedict glanced at the trunk on the floor near the door. Careful to avoid the dried blood, he stepped around the body and hunkered down beside it.

“Locked,” he said.

Without a word Logan reached into the dead man’s coat. He withdrew a key and handed it to Benedict.

Benedict opened the trunk. The hall lamps gleamed on an array of carelessly packed clothing and shaving gear.

“He was on his way out of town,” Benedict said. “Running, I think. This suitcase looks like it was packed in a hurry.”

“I agree.” Logan fished a ticket out of the victim’s front pocket. “He was scheduled to catch a train to Scotland.”

Benedict circled the body again and opened a door. When he turned up the lamps inside the room, he found himself looking into a neatly organized office. There was another door in a side wall of the office. He opened that one, too, and saw an examination table and an assortment of medical instruments.

Logan went straight to the desk and opened a leather-bound volume.

“This is Norcott’s appointment book,” he said. “Looks like he expected to be busy all week with patients.”

Benedict headed for the door. “I’ll have a look around upstairs while you go through his desk.”

“Right.” Logan sat down in the chair and went to work in an efficient, methodical manner.

Benedict took the stairs two at a time. There was only one room that looked as if it had been recently occupied. The furniture in the others was covered with heavy dust cloths. Norcott lived alone.

He saw the letter on the bedside table as soon as he turned up a
lamp. He read it quickly and then went swiftly back down the stairs. When he walked into the study, Logan was in the process of closing a drawer.

“You found something?” Logan asked.

“The killer wasn’t in Scotland.” Benedict held out the letter. “He was a patient at a hospital called Cresswell Manor. Two days ago he was taken away by his mother.”

“Let me see that.” Logan snapped the letter out of Benedict’s hand and read it quickly. “Cresswell Manor is an asylum. It is common for respectable and upper-class families to send their mentally ill relatives to such institutions under false names in order to protect the privacy of the patient.”

“To say nothing of the family’s privacy,” Benedict said. “The patient’s relatives will do whatever they can to bury such a secret.”

“And they will pay any price to guarantee silence.” Logan held up a ledger. “According to these financial records, Dr. Norcott received a very nice commission for referring the patient known as V. Smith to Cresswell Manor.”

“If the referral commission was that large, one can only imagine the size of the fees that were paid directly to the proprietor of the Manor.”

“Bloody hell,” Logan said softly. “I very much doubt that Virgil Warwick willingly checked himself into an asylum. Someone else in the family was no doubt responsible for paying the fees.”

“We need to track down Virgil Warwick’s parents,” Benedict said.

“That shouldn’t be too difficult now that we’ve got a name.” Logan looked around. “I think we have done all we can here. I’ll call a constable and arrange to have the body removed.”

Benedict went back into the hall. He glanced once more at the body and the trunk.

“Interesting,” he said.

“What?” Logan asked.

“I wonder what happened to the doctor’s satchel. I can’t see a man of medicine leaving it behind, even if he was trying to flee from a killer. Medical instruments and medicines are a doctor’s tools, his stock-in-trade, the means by which he makes his living. They are valuable.”

“We’ve established that Norcott was in a hurry, probably fleeing for his life.”

“Yes, but if he hoped to practice medicine after leaving London, he would have taken the instruments of his profession with him,” Benedict said. “I think the killer stole the doctor’s medical supplies.”

Logan eyed the bloodstained scalpel. “Which would include sharp blades like that one.”

“And chloroform,” Benedict said. “Warwick is preparing to take his next victim.”

I
t was not hard to create a list of Virgil Warwick’s close relatives,” Penny said. “I checked with Mrs. Houston to confirm my own recollections. She went to see a friend of hers who once worked for the family. Warwick’s father died a few years ago. Virgil has no brothers or sisters. There are, I believe, some distant cousins, but they moved to Canada. As far as we could determine, he has only one close relation here in town. His mother.”

“Warwick is the sole heir to a sizable inheritance,” Amity said. “Which explains the trappings of luxury that I noted when I was kidnapped.”

The four of them were in the study. She and Penny had been closeted there, scouring the guest list one more time in a search for answers, when Benedict and Logan had returned with the news of Dr. Warwick’s murder. One look at their grim, determined faces had been enough to tell her that the discovery had deepened their
concerns. But the steel in their eyes made it clear that they were closing in on the answers.

Benedict pulled a letter out of his pocket. “According to this, Warwick was referred to Cresswell Manor—which appears to be a private asylum—for unspecified treatment a little more than three weeks ago. Warwick’s records indicate that it was the second time Warwick had been admitted to the Manor.”

“Let me hazard a guess,” Amity said. “The first time was approximately a year ago.”

“Yes,” Logan said. “Immediately after the body of the first dead bride was discovered. It appears he was sent back after the attack on you, and now he has been released again.”

Penny frowned. “Why would his mother take him out of the asylum again?”

“In her heart she probably knows or at least suspects that he is capable of terrible things, but she continues to hope that he can be cured by modern medical knowledge,” Amity said.

“She certainly didn’t allow much time for him to receive therapy on this last occasion,” Penny said.

“Perhaps she has been convinced that he is not guilty of murder, after all,” Amity said. “I’m sure he told her that I attacked him, not vice versa.”

“And she wishes to believe that is what happened,” Penny said. “She is his mother, after all.”

“Regardless of her reasoning, Virgil Warwick’s mother is the one who is responsible for his release and she may be the one person who knows where he is,” Logan said. “I must speak with her.”

Penny shook her head. “Even if she believes her son to be innocent, the last person she will speak with is a policeman.”

“I will find a way,” Logan vowed.

“It will be easier and no doubt faster if I do the interview,” Benedict said.

Amity looked at him. “I am going to accompany you.”

Benedict gave that a brief consideration. “Yes, I think that would probably be best.”

Logan raised his brows. “How do the two of you plan to get past the front door? If you use your real names, she will become suspicious immediately and have her butler inform you that she is not at home.”

“What made you think that I plan to use my real name?” Benedict asked.

“Speaking of names.” Penny held up a sheet of paper. “It just so happens that Mrs. Charlotte Warwick is on the Channing ball guest list.”

“So there was a connection,” Logan said.

“That certainly explains how her deranged son came to hear the gossip about my supposed shipboard affair with Mr. Stanbridge,” Amity said.

“It appears he may have gotten the news from his mother,” Logan said.

Amity sighed. “I’m sure she had no notion of what he would do with the information.”

An hour later Amity stood on the front steps of the Warwick mansion and watched with interest as Benedict dealt with the supercilious butler.

“You may inform Mrs. Warwick that Dr. Norcott and his assistant are here to discuss a matter of utmost importance.”

The butler eyed Benedict’s expensive coat and trousers and then gave Amity’s elegant walking gown a similar perusal. He did not appear convinced.

“Your card, Dr. Norcott?” he said.

“Sorry. All out of cards. Trust me, Mrs. Warwick will see us.”

“I will find out if she is at home to callers today,” the butler said.

He closed the door in their faces.

“Do you think this is going to work?” Amity asked.

“I think that, under the circumstances, Mrs. Warwick will be afraid not to see Dr. Norcott. She must know that he is one of the few people who are aware that her son is likely a killer.”

“But if she does refuse to see us?”

“Then we go in anyway,” Benedict said.

“We could find ourselves under arrest,” Amity pointed out in neutral tones.

“Mrs. Warwick is unlikely to summon the police to remove a doctor and his assistant who just happen to know her darkest secret. She would be terrified that the scandal would be all over town by morning.”

“Indeed,” Amity said. “Your powers of reasoning never cease to amaze me, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear that because at the moment I am not at all in a reasonable mood. I want answers.”

“So do I.”

The door opened.

“Mrs. Warwick will see you,” the butler announced. He looked as if he strongly disapproved of the decision.

Amity gave him a cool smile and stepped briskly into the spacious, elegantly appointed front hall. Benedict followed her.

The butler escorted them into the library. A woman in a dove-gray gown stood at the window, looking out into the garden. Her once-dark hair was rapidly turning the same shade as her dress. She carried herself with a rigid elegance, as if the only thing that kept her upright was a steel corset.

“Dr. Norcott and his assistant, madam,” the butler said.

“Thank you, Briggs.”

Charlotte Warwick did not turn around. She waited until the butler closed the door.

“Have you come here to tell me that my son’s case is hopeless, Dr. Norcott?” she asked. “If so, you made an unnecessary journey. I have resigned myself to the knowledge that Virgil must spend the rest of his life at Cresswell Manor.”

“In that case, why did you insist that he be released into your custody?” Amity asked.

The shock that went through Charlotte was visible. She gasped and stiffened.

Recovering, she turned quickly, her lips parted in astonishment and, perhaps, panic.

“What do you mean?” Charlotte began. She stopped. Anger refocused her expression. “Who are you?” She glared at Benedict. “You are not Dr. Norcott.”

“Benedict Stanbridge, madam,” Benedict said. “My fiancée, Miss Doncaster. You may have heard of her. She is the woman who was recently kidnapped by your son.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. How dare you lie to get into this house?”

Charlotte reached for the velvet bell pull.

“I’d advise you not to summon your butler, madam,” Benedict
said. “Not unless you want to be responsible for leaving Virgil free to commit more murders.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charlotte said. She sounded as if she was having trouble breathing. “Get out of here.”

“We will leave as soon as you tell us where your son is hiding,” Benedict said. “If he is truly insane, he will not hang. He will be sent back to the asylum. We all know that you have the money it takes to ensure such an outcome.”

Charlotte collected herself. She went to stand behind her desk, gripping the back of the chair with clenched hands.

“It is none of your business, but let me be perfectly clear,” she said evenly. “My son is currently taking a cure for a disorder of the nervous system. His health is a private matter. I do not intend to discuss it, certainly not with you.”

“Your son has murdered at least four women that we know of and very probably his wife, as well,” Benedict said. “Three weeks ago he kidnapped my fiancée with the intention of murdering her, too.”

“No,” Charlotte insisted. “No, that’s not true. His nerves are far too delicate. He would never do something so violent.”

“What do you mean by delicate?” Amity asked.

“He cannot stand any great strain or pressure. It takes very little to agitate him. I have always handled the details of life for him, his finances, his social engagements, his household staff.”

“Your son enjoys the hobby of photography, doesn’t he?” Benedict said, unrelenting.

Charlotte hesitated. “My son possesses an artistic temperament. That explains his delicate nerves and his moods. He found his métier in photography. How did you know that? Not that it matters. It is a common enough hobby.”

“The day he tried to seize me I fought back,” Amity said. “He was badly injured.”

“He told me that he was attacked by a common whore,” Charlotte whispered. “It was an argument about money. He may have overreacted.”

Benedict tensed and started to move forward. Never taking her eyes off Charlotte, Amity put her hand on his arm. He stopped but she could feel the fierce energy roiling inside him.

Charlotte never noticed the byplay. She concentrated on the story she was telling. Amity knew that she was desperately trying to convince herself.

“He agreed to the . . . encounter,” Charlotte said, her voice very tight. “But there was a dispute over the fee. The whore went into a rage and attacked him.”

“I think you and I both know that is not what happened,” Amity said quietly. “Virgil kidnapped me. I barely managed to escape. Yes, I did defend myself with a blade. He was bleeding badly when I left him behind in the carriage. He sought the help of the only doctor he knew, the one he could be certain would keep his secret. Dr. Norcott treated his injuries and then summoned you.”

Charlotte sank into the chair, appalled. “You know that much?”

“We found Norcott’s body earlier today,” Benedict said. “His throat had been sliced open with one of his own scalpels. Just like the throats of the victims of the Bridegroom. We suspect that Virgil’s wife died in a similar manner, although the exact nature of her injuries was masked by the fact that he threw her out a window.”

Charlotte shook her head. “No, it was an accident.”

“Norcott is dead.” Benedict said. “Now Virgil has evidently gone into hiding—with Norcott’s medical kit, I might add.”

Charlotte composed herself. “It can’t have been Virgil. Don’t you understand? He is currently in a special clinic.”

“He is no longer at Cresswell Manor,” Amity said. “Two days ago he was released into the custody of his mother.”

Charlotte seemed to sink in on herself. She closed her eyes. “Dear heaven.”

“You know what he is,” Benedict said. “That is why you committed him to Cresswell Manor not once, but twice. Why did you take him out of that place this last time?”

A heavy silence descended. Amity wondered if Charlotte would ever respond. But eventually she stirred and looked at them with haunted eyes. A strange grayness enveloped her, as if life was slowly seeping away.

“It was the witch,” she said. “It must have been her. Why she took him away from Cresswell Manor, I cannot say. You must ask her.”

Amity exchanged glances with Benedict.

“Who is the witch?” Amity asked carefully.

For a moment it seemed that Charlotte would disappear into the grayness that surrounded her. But eventually she pulled herself together.

“Shortly after my husband died I discovered that for years he had been paying blackmail to a woman who operated an orphanage for girls,” Charlotte said. “She contacted me and made it clear that if I did not continue to pay she would see to it that certain matters were made public in the press.”

“What orphanage?” Benedict asked.

“Hawthorne Hall,” Charlotte said. “It is located in a village outside of London, about an hour away by train. At least that is the address I was given when I took over the blackmail payments. The Hall
no longer serves as an orphanage, but the former director continues to live there.”

“What are the matters that you paid her to keep quiet?” Benedict asked.

“My husband fathered a child by another woman.”

Amity took a few steps closer to the desk. “Forgive me, Mrs. Warwick, but we all know that it is not rare for men of wealth and rank to father children outside marriage. Such situations are understandably embarrassing but hardly shocking. Most women in your position would turn a blind eye to the matter. Why would you pay blackmail to conceal the fact that your husband produced an out-of-wedlock child?”