The Formula for Murder (29 page)

“Nonsense!” Wells suddenly snapped. “Lady Winsworth was never Lacroix’s lover. She was interested in keeping her beauty, that’s all.”

Wells’s reaction is a strong emotion. Obviously he’s not just protecting the reputation of a woman who was his friend and benefactor.

“Let’s go back to your theory about the child,” he says flatly.

“Her mother, Sarah, told me that the little girl had been promised a nice trip from the spa people.”

“A nice trip? That’s what she said?”

“Those were her words. I regret that I didn’t think about them at the time, but I didn’t know then that I would be taking a trip to find Lacroix.”

“You believe we’ll find the child in Okehampton?”

“No, the child’s dead, I’m certain of that.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no reason for Radic to pretend otherwise. The prostitute was a serious embarrassment, coming to the spa, maybe talking to people she saw coming and going. If the child was still alive, he would have gotten rid of the annoyance by showing her the child or even taking Sarah to her, wherever she was. Bought another child, for that matter. It seems easy enough for doctors. But that doesn’t mean the child died in Bath. Sarah also complained that there was no grave to visit.”

“So, you believe what we find at Okehampton will be the concoction that killed Emma and Lady Winsworth. That means it probably won’t be the magic mud, at least not in the form used at the spa.”

“Exactly. How long ago was it that you caught on to the fact Lacroix was setting up a lab in this region?”

“A couple of months.”

“So he could have had plenty of time to set up the lab and concoct whatever killed Lady Winsworth and the child. You’ve told me that he’s a fanatic about his research. He’ll still be there, cooking up whatever in his test tubes, looking for the secret to unlocking the disease of growing old and wrinkled.”

“You’re right.” Wells sighs. “Lacroix is no longer in control of his research. I’m certain that by now the science has driven him quite mad. Crazy enough to kill people to accomplish his aims. Like Dr. Jekyll and Victor Frankenstein, there comes a point where a researcher becomes so blinded by his ambition to recreate in a test tube what only God has created, that the science devours the man.”

Wells gives me a long look. “Like the fictional mad scientists, Lacroix has left a bloody trail of murder in his wake.”

48

We pick up salted beef, bread, dry cheese that won’t spoil in cool air, and fruit, at a general store. Also a compass, and more rugged waterproofs because we could spend hours sitting on a buggy in the rain.

Once again we sought out an inn away from the center of town, this one on the road that will lead us in the direction of Widecombe-on-the-moors where we expect to find civilized accommodations if we are unable to make it all the way across the moors because foul weather forces us to seek shelter.

“I suggest we pretend to be married and get one room again,” Wells says.

I give him a stern look. “And what would be the purpose of that?”

“To keep you from speaking. We’re just another couple among thousands until you say something and people know you are American.”

He is right. There is also no question in my mind that he is as motivated by lust as he is to hide my accent.

“You get the floor again,” I tell Wells.

“We’ll flip a coin for the bed.”

“Not if I’m paying.”

“You get the bed.”

I smile and make vague listening responses as Wells registers us as Mr. and Mrs. Prendick at the inn’s front desk.

“Where did you get the name, Prendick?” I ask Wells on our way to the room.

“It was a friend of my father’s who was lost in a shipwreck.”

Great. It doesn’t seem propitious to adopt the name of a dead man when tomorrow we’ll be back in the haunted moors with bogs that swallow people. But I keep my peace rather than expose my superstitious nature.

Dining is a communal affair at the inn with several large tables that accommodate about ten people each. To ensure I won’t have to hold a conversation and end up broadcasting that I am an American, we avoid the two tables that have diners even though there’s room for us and find seats near the wall at the far end of the room.

“They’ll assume we’re honeymooners and desire privacy to coo over the caresses we’ll be sharing tonight,” Wells says.

I lean close to him, just a kiss away, and whisper, “I hope you have a nice pillow to share your love with tonight.”

Food is brought to the table in communal bowls and platters, boiled lamb, potatoes, green beans, cabbage, and bread.

As we eat, we have the map of Dartmoor between us. It lists quite a number of places, but as Dr. Doyle had pointed out, most of them are what he called “settlements,” little more than a small group of houses along the road in a thinly populated area. He told us we’d most likely find more sheep and ponies than two-legged creatures once we got past Ashburton.

I suck in a sharp gasp of air as a man suddenly sits down in the chair next to Wells and smirks, smug and arrogant—this is the man who attacked me in London.

“You know, my old boss at the Yard always said that life’s a circle, and if you stand in one spot long enough, the criminal you want to apprehend will come strolling back to you.”

“That’s a surprise,” I counter, “not the circle of life, but the fact that you have a connection to Scotland Yard besides your criminal activities. Obviously a past connection since you have crossed the line to the other side of the law.”

“She’s a sharp-tongued one, isn’t she?” he says to Wells.

“Just a good judge of character,” Wells replies.

“Do you have a name?” I ask. “One found on police ledgers and
WANTED
posters?”

He laughs—a rather unpleasant, grating sound on my nerves. Everything about this man gets my teeth clenching the way they did when I heard fingernails on blackboards in school.

“Looks to me like the pot’s calling the kettle black, don’t you think? Here you two are wanted all over the kingdom for murder and other high crimes—”

“And treason, I’m sure,” I throw in.

“Especially that poor artist who got an ice pick in his back.”

“Own an ice pick?” I ask.

He shakes his head and looks to Wells for help. “I can see the woman has mistaken me for a Whitechapel boy. My name’s Archer, Detective Archer.”

“I’d like to see your badge,” I ask, knowing the answer.

Another coarse laugh erupts from him. “So would I. But you see, dolly bird, I gave up my official police position to enter the trade as a consulting detective, like the one that writer gent you went visiting scribbles about.”

I exchange looks with Wells. It isn’t necessary to push the issue. It is obvious that the man’s change of careers wasn’t voluntary. And that he has managed to keep good track of us.

“From what I’ve heard from my police friends, you two are a regular Jesse James and Belle Starr. Why, if I called over the innkeeper and told him to send for the constable, I’d have a fat reward and you two would find yourselves on the wrong side of bars.”

He’s lying about the reward, but he isn’t bluffing about the constable. He will turn us over to the police if we don’t give him what he wants.

“You obviously want something from us. Fine. Tell us what you’re after and what Hailey wrote in her diary and we’ll share our information with you. Why don’t we start with who hired you?”

“My, isn’t she a spirited lass,” he says to Wells. “The kind a man likes to tame with the whip he carries that women love to get a beating from.”

Wells springs from his chair. “Listen you disgusting lout—”

“Please.” I put a restraining hand on Wells’s arm. “People at another table have turned to look at us.” I smile and tug at his arm. “Smile. We don’t want to attract attention.”

Wells sits down, but he’s red in the face. He gives Archer a grin that looks more like a wolf sneering.

“He has the upper hand.” I look at Wells. “He knows it, but he wants our help or he would have already turned us in.” Turning back to the lout, I say, “I don’t take offense at your vulgar manners, Mr.… what did you say your name was?”

“Archer, that’s what I’m called.”

“Mr. Archer, I am sure that inappropriate language is the least bit of foul behavior I can expect from a man I first encountered when he mugged me on a public street. As for the name of your employer, we know it’s Lord Winsworth, which means we have a common goal.”

Even as I speak the words it strikes me that this man isn’t just working for Winsworth, but is grinding his own ax, too. The fact I’m sure he had previously betrayed his police employers enough to lose his badge is an indication that he has all the honor of a gnat in a garbage can.

“Let’s get down to business,” I tell him. “Tell us what Hailey wrote in her diary.”

“No, love, we’ll play the game my way. You tell me what you know and I won’t call for the constable.”

“We have a stalemate that can last forever and won’t do either of us any good,” is my reply. “We are willing to share information with you only up to a point because if we tell you everything you want to know, you’ll turn us over to the constable as soon as we’re finished.”

“You have my word of honor.”

Wells bursts out with a guffaw and I give him a warning look. We have the same opinion of Archer’s capacity for honor, but I don’t want to attract attention from the other diners or turn him completely against us.

I lock eyes with our uninvited dinner companion. “Mr. Archer, you don’t have to ask the landlord to call the constable. I’m going to do it myself and have you arrested. A woman you nearly knocked down during your attack on me can easily confirm you are the attacker by providing the local police with a description of you.”

“You are a tough one, aren’t you?” He reaches into an inside pocket of his suit coat and brings out Hailey’s diary and puts it on the table, but keeps his big paw on it. “Now tell me what I get for telling you what you want to know.”

“You get to follow closely behind as we take each step.”

Both men stare at me, a bit amazed, and I’m surprised myself because I don’t know where the notion came from. It just slipped out. My tongue goes liquid sometimes when I’m in need of an escape route.

“Come again?” Archer says.

“It’s elementary, my dear Archer. You have been following us because you have no leads yourself. You must realize that we are closing in, that we now know where Dr. Lacroix is. What I am offering is to tell you our next step in exchange for information from you. You can join us, or preferably since it’s how we have been successfully operating up to now, you can follow closely behind. We can make use of your skills as a police officer,” I add, deliberately omitting the “former” from his police status, “when we bring Dr. Lacroix to bay.”

Archer looks to Wells and shakes his head in wonderment. “Did I just hear this woman, who is minutes away from being in police chains, tell me I could follow her around?”

Wells leans closer to Archer and speaks in a confidential tone. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve been following in her footsteps for days and if it wasn’t for her bloodhound nose, I’d still be going in circles.”

“We know where Lacroix is,” I say, “and we will lead you there as long as you share information.”

“I also know where the man is. Tell me where you think he is—just so I can see how much you’re bluffing.”

Archer is lying, of course. If he knew where Lacroix was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Mr. Wells did research for Lacroix.” I decide to humor him. “He knows the man set up a laboratory in Dartmoor, not the continent.”

Archer smacks his lips. “Where in Dartmoor?”

Ignoring the question, I continue. “Lady Chilcott gave me the clue that led me to the artist. So did a prostitute in Bath, who died rather mysteriously soon afterward.” I pause for a moment for effect, to see if there is any reaction in his face about the prostitute. Nothing. I continue. “Before he was murdered, the artist gave us another lead. Earlier today, all the pieces to the puzzle came together.”

“You visited that detective-story writer. Dropped by to see him myself. Not a very friendly gent, considering how much me and him got in common.”

Which translates as Dr. Doyle refused to discuss our visit with him. The only thing Archer and Dr. Doyle have in common is that they both breathe air, and I’m sure Archer’s fouls the atmosphere when exhaled.

“You don’t know where Lacroix is, we do,” I repeat. “And we know what evidence to look for—not only for the death of Lady Winsworth, but that of a child.”

“The prostitute’s kid?”

“Murdered.”

“Vampires!” Archer exclaims.

49

Archer laughs at the surprised look on our faces.

“Don’t know everything, do you?”

I don’t ask him to elaborate about the vampires because I know he won’t. No doubt he had thrown out the word as both a boast and as bait to see what we would say to his statement.

He slaps his palm on the table. “Let’s go back to the question that swings back and forth over us like a hanged man on a gallows—where is Lacroix?”

“A place where we will ultimately lead you to.”

He gets up from his chair, sticking the diary back into the inside pocket of his coat. “I’m sending for the constable.”

I turn to Wells. “We’ll have the innkeeper also send for Dr. Doyle. As he said, he’d speak to the authorities if we have any difficulties. He can make sure the woman in London, Anne Carson, who saw you attack me is contacted.” He hadn’t exactly said that, but I’m certain he would. Anne Carson is the name of my favorite grammar school teacher. It slid off my tongue when I needed a name for the woman since I failed to ascertain hers.

Waving Archer away like a pest, I tell him, “I don’t react well to people who bully me. I’ll have plenty to talk about to the constable when he gets here. I’m certain he’ll have a number of questions not just for you, but for your employer when I tell him about London. By the way, I hope your employer still plans to pay you even though he will be arrested as an accomplice for your crime.”