'Til Death Do Us Part (29 page)

“M
R
.
T
AZEWELL
EXPRESSED
an interest in a tour of my conservatory,” Eudora said. “He said he may be able to offer some advice on the heating system. I have been having problems with it lately. The pipes are old and so is the furnace.”

Calista sipped some tea and glanced at the clock. She and Eudora were forcing themselves to make casual conversation. Neither of them wanted to be alone and neither of them wanted to talk about their fears.

Andrew had been gone all afternoon and evening. He had sent a street urchin to the back door of Cranleigh Hall a short time ago with a message informing Trent that the knifeman had left Number Six. Andrew was following him.

Trent had immediately left the mansion with a lock pick in his pocket.

“What about Mr. Tazewell's two daughters?” Calista asked.

“As I told you, Edward wants them to have a modern education,”
Eudora said. “He seems to think that I might be a good influence on the girls. It has occurred to me that I might make a very good teacher. In fact, I am considering the possibility of opening a small day school for girls. What do you think?”

Calista smiled. “I think it is a brilliant idea.”

T
HE
HANSOM
CARR
YING
the knifeman halted at the far end of a quiet street. The passenger descended to the pavement and almost immediately faded into the shadows.

Andrew opened the trapdoor in the roof of his cab.

“Driver, what street is this?” he asked.

“Blanchford Street, sir.”

Alarm jolted through Andrew. He had heard the name somewhere. Then it struck him. Florence Tapp, the medium, lived in Blanchford Street. It was possible that the knifeman planned to attend a séance but it seemed unlikely. It was Friday night, the evening of the appointment that Anna Kettering had scheduled with the medium—the appointment that, in her haste to disappear, she had neglected to cancel.

“Do you know of a medium in this street?” he asked.

“Aye, sir. Number Twelve. But she usually holds séances on Wednesday evenings, not Fridays.”

The knifeman would have no way of knowing that Anna Kettering did not intend to keep her appointment. Perhaps he had come here
to murder her. If Mrs. Kettering died in Blanchford Street the finger of blame would point to the medium.

There was no way to know why the knifeman might want to murder Anna Kettering, but if he was mentally unbalanced, as everyone seemed to believe, no logical reason was required. There was also no predicting what he would do when he discovered that his target had not arrived for her appointment.

“I understand the medium sometimes books private appointments on other evenings,” Andrew said to the driver.

“Couldn't say, sir.”

“I'll be back in a few minutes. Wait for me.”

“Aye, sir.”

Andrew handed some money to the driver and got out of the cab.

The other hansom, now empty, moved off down the street. Evidently the killer had not instructed his driver to wait. There was no way to know what that indicated but it seemed ominous. The knifeman did not want any potential witnesses.

Andrew reached into the pocket of his coat and closed his fingers around the handle of the revolver.

There was no sign of the knifeman on the street but when Andrew got close to Number Twelve a chill shot down his spine. His pulse, already beating quickly, began to pound as he realized what had happened.

The killer had climbed over the railing that surrounded the front area of the house and descended the steps to the kitchen entrance.

The door stood partially open. It squeaked on its hinges.

The killer was already inside.

Andrew clambered quickly over the wrought-iron railing, trying hard not to make any noise, and went down the steps. Holding the revolver in his right hand, he gently pushed the kitchen door. It swung open a little farther.

No one leaped out at him.

He moved cautiously into the darkened kitchen. His nerves were stretched to the limit. He could feel a cold sweat dripping down his sides.

There was just enough light from the low-burning wall sconce to allow him to make out the large kitchen table in the middle of the room and the narrow staircase that led up to the ground floor.

He stood still, listening intently. Somewhere overhead a floorboard squeaked. The killer was prowling through the house. By now he must have realized that Anna Kettering was not there, yet he was still on the premises.

Comprehension slammed through Andrew.

The knifeman had not come for Anna Kettering. He was there to murder the medium.

Unable to think of anything else to do, Andrew went up the stairs into the hall, shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Miss Tapp, there's a killer in the house. Lock your door.
Lock your door
.”

There was a beat of silence overhead and then a woman's scream rent the night. Somewhere a door slammed. Heavy footsteps pounded above.

Andrew paused at the top of the kitchen stairs. The wall sconces illuminated the narrow corridor that led to the front hall and the staircase to the floor above.

The knifeman came down the stairs with frightening speed, spun around at the bottom, and charged toward Andrew. The blade of the knife glinted faintly in the low light.

Andrew pulled the trigger. There was a great roar and a flash of light. The heavy gun kicked up violently in his hand.

He knew at once he had missed but the effect on the knifeman was dramatic. The killer halted abruptly, evidently shocked. Andrew braced
himself for another shot. He could not afford to miss a second time. If he did, all would be lost.

But the knifeman whirled around and ran for the front door. He got it open and disappeared out into the street.

Andrew lurched forward, rushed down the hall, and moved cautiously out onto the front step. He was in time to see the killer fleeing toward the single hansom left in the street.

The hansom driver, evidently concluding that he would be better off trolling for fares in another neighborhood, had already whipped his horse into a panicked gallop. The vehicle raced away from the scene.

A constable appeared, blowing mightily on his whistle. Bedroom windows were thrown open up and down Blanchford Street. Overhead, Florence Tapp leaned out of her window and continued to scream.

Andrew scanned the street. There was no sign of the man with the knife.

T
RENT
OPENED
THE
alley gate, crossed the barren patch of ground that had been intended to serve as a garden, and let himself into the killer's house by way of the kitchen door.

He stopped just inside the hall and held aloft the shielded lantern he had brought with him.

There was no way to know how much time he had, so he moved quickly. The kitchen yielded a wedge of cheese and a partially eaten loaf of bread. With the exception of a kettle, there were no cooking utensils. Evidently the killer purchased most of his meals from street vendors.

He went upstairs and made a sweep of the three small bedrooms. They were all empty of furniture save one. It contained a pallet that was clearly serving as a bed.

The wardrobe, however, was surprisingly well stocked with clean, neatly folded shirts and undergarments. There were also expensively tailored trousers and a coat. All of the clothing was of excellent quality.

What sort of man lived like a monk in a nearly empty house while
going about his murderous business in fashionable clothes? Trent wondered.

He was about to leave the bedroom when he noticed that the foot of the neatly made pallet was slightly elevated, as though someone had tucked an object underneath it.

He went back across the room, raised the end of the pallet, and saw a small box and a little leather-bound book. He removed the lid from the box and saw three jet-and-crystal locket rings. There was a twist of hair inside each.

The small book looked like a diary.

He put both the box of rings and the diary into the pocket of his coat.

He left the bedroom and went back downstairs. He did not expect to find anything of note in the parlor. According to the proprietor of the pub at the end of the street, the knifeman never had visitors, aside from the doctor who had called late one night.

When he arrived in the doorway he saw that he was only partly correct—there were no furnishings. There was, however, what appeared to be a small altar in one corner.

An unlit candle was positioned on top of the altar. But it was the framed photograph of an ethereally beautiful lady that filled Trent with a gut-wrenching fear.

He had got it wrong right from the start and now it might be too late.

He ran for the door.

“T
HE
TEA
HAS
grown cold,” Calista said. She glanced at the clock. “It looks like we will be up awhile longer.”

It was well past midnight and there had been no word from Trent or Andrew. She and Eudora were both doing their best to conceal their growing anxiety from each other. But really, she thought, one could only discuss efficient filing techniques and cross-referencing for so long.

“I'll ask Mrs. Sykes to bring us another pot,” she said. She rose and tugged on the bellpull. “It will give her something to do. She and Mr. Sykes are as anxious as we are.”

“What can possibly be detaining Trent and Andrew?” Eudora said.

Calista looked at the coffin bell sitting on the desk. The steel chain attached to it was neatly, tightly coiled. Like a snake, she thought.

“I have been telling myself that the traffic may have made it difficult to find cabs,” she said.

Eudora gave her a worried look. “But you don't believe that, do you?”

“No.” Calista made herself look away from the coffin bell. “I'm quite terrified.”

“So am I,” Eudora said. “We should never have let them go through with their dangerous plans.”

“I do not think we could have stopped them.”

“No, I suppose not,” Eudora said. “They are both quite stubborn, aren't they?”

“I suppose they would say the same about us.”

“Yes.”

Eudora rose from her chair and went to the hearth. Picking up a brass poker, she prodded the dying fire.

Calista moved to stand beside her. She put her hand on Eudora's shoulder.

“They will find something that will constitute evidence against the killer,” she said, trying desperately to convince herself. “Perhaps the reason they have been delayed is because they are even now explaining the situation to the police.”

“Perhaps.” Eudora hesitated. “I wonder what Mr. Tazewell will say when I tell him about this strange adventure. I expect he will be quite shocked. Appalled or even repelled, perhaps.”

“Surprised, no doubt, but not appalled or repelled,” Calista said.

“Let us be honest, Calista. We both know that very few gentlemen would approve of a lady who becomes embroiled in an investigation involving murder. Edward Tazewell will likely think me a bad influence on his two little girls.”

“You said that he was very keen on providing a modern education for his daughters.”

Eudora managed a weak laugh. “I doubt that he had this sort of an education in mind.”

“When this is finished there will be no need to tell him what we have been about. You have a right to your secrets, Eudora.”

“That is true, but I do not want to keep secrets from the man I marry. I want a true partner, one who will accept me for who I am.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do.”

The two of them stood in silence for a time.

“I meet a great many people in my profession,” Calista said after a while, “and there are some I call friends, but in truth they are acquaintances. You and Trent are in a different category. I trust both of you in ways that I have never been able to trust anyone except Andrew in a very long time.”

“I, too, value our friendship, Calista. But I think that what you feel for my brother is something more. Love, perhaps?”

“Yes, but I'm not at all certain that is what he feels for me.”

“How can you doubt it?”

“I do not wish to bring up the unhappiness of your past,” Calista said, “but surely you are aware that for years Trent has blamed himself for failing to save your mother from the horrid man she married and for very nearly failing to save you and Harry.”

Eudora closed her eyes. “I have been afraid of that. We never talked about it, but somehow I knew.”

“And you blame yourself because you think you are the reason that Trent was scarred.”

“It's all very complicated, isn't it?”

“The three of you have carried the heavy burden of guilt for some time now. Perhaps you should all set it down and move on with your lives.”

Eudora opened her eyes. “You fear that Trent has developed warm emotions for you because he sees you as a lady to be rescued. He blames himself for what happened in the past and he is desperate not to fail a second time.”

“Yes, that is why I cannot be certain of his true feelings for me.
Like you, I want to know that I am loved for myself, not because Trent sees me as a lady to be saved.”

“When it comes to love, you and I both demand a great deal.”

Calista looked down into the fire. “That is probably the reason why neither of us has ever married.”

“Perhaps.”

“Have you ever stopped to think that the reasons your brother never married might be similar to our own?”

Startled, Eudora considered that while she set the poker back in the brass stand. “I see what you mean. I have never considered that men might have their dreams, just as women do. One thinks of them as being driven by more elemental emotions: physical desire, practicality, the wish to secure an inheritance—those sorts of things.”

“All of which have their place, I'm sure. But I think that Trent is also very much a romantic at heart.”

“An interesting thought.” Eudora smiled. “Perhaps that explains Clive Stone's great interest in Wilhelmina Preston.”

“We can speculate all we like. Trent is the only one who knows how he truly feels.” Calista straightened her shoulders. “Speaking for myself, I feel the need for some more tea. As there has been no sign of Mrs. Sykes, I think we can deduce that she and Mr. Sykes did go to bed, after all. I'll go to the kitchen and put the kettle on.”

“I'll come with you. I do not want to be alone tonight.”

“Nor do I.”

Eudora paused at the end table and glanced at the Kettering journal of financial accounts. “Trent was right about one thing. It's amazing how much one can learn about a person from a record of his personal expenditures. I must say, Kettering did not stint when it came to his tailors.”

“Or memento mori items,” Calista said grimly. “He must have been as mad as that killer he hired. It is unnerving to know that he was able to conceal his true nature so well.”

“I suppose that is why evil is so dangerous. It can so easily be masked behind an attractive façade.” Eudora moved toward the door. “I must say, Kettering kept excellent accounts, though, and in a very neat hand.”

A shiver of uncertainty iced Calista's neck. She was at the door, about to open it and go out into the hall. Instead, she paused and glanced back at the Kettering journal.

Her intuition whispered to her.

“Did you say that Nestor Kettering had a very neat hand?” she asked.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Calista turned away from the door and went to the end table. She stared at the journal for a few seconds before she picked it up.

For the first time, she opened it and studied the pages of neatly penned entries.

“Because this is not how I remember his handwriting,” she said quietly.

“What?”

Calista carried the journal to the desk and set it down. She opened a drawer with shaking fingers.

“What are you looking for?” Eudora asked.

“Back at the start of this affair, Nestor sent me two bouquets of flowers before he made the appointment to meet with me.”

“He was trying to woo you. What of it?”

“I instructed Mrs. Sykes to toss the flowers into the rubbish but I kept one of the cards.”

“Why?”

“Mostly because it infuriated me. I wanted a reminder that I could never again trust him.”

“As if you needed such a reminder,” Eudora said. “But why do you want to see the card now?”

“Because I have just had a very odd thought.”

She sat down at her desk and riffled through her personal correspondence until she found the elegant white card that had accompanied the second bouquet of flowers.

She removed it from the file and placed it on the desk. Then she opened the journal of household accounts that Trent had brought out of the Kettering residence.

Another jolt of awareness nearly shattered her nerves. She stared at the card and then at the last page of the journal of accounts.

“Dear heaven,” she whispered.

Eudora leaned over the desk and read the card aloud.

I have known only loneliness since we parted. Please tell me that you have some feelings for me. Together we shall find true happiness on the metaphysical plane.

Yours,
N. Kettering

For a moment Eudora simply stared at the short note. Then she, too, studied the last page of the journal.

Calista watched her, hardly daring to speak in case she was wrong in her conclusion.

But when Eudora looked up there was shocked comprehension in her eyes.

“The handwriting does not match,” she whispered. “The card and the journal were written by two different people.”

“Nestor Kettering wrote the note that accompanied the bouquet. But he is not the one who kept the journal of accounts.”

“A secretary, perhaps? Many wealthy families employ one.”

“Andrew never mentioned a secretary. I'm sure he would have done so.”

Eudora put a hand to her throat. “We've been looking at this affair from the wrong perspective all along.”

“Yes.” Calista leaped to her feet, rounded the desk, hoisted her skirts, and ran for the door. “Come, we must wake Mr. and Mrs. Sykes.”

Eudora hurried after her. “What are we going to do? Send for the police?”

“The first order of business is to get a message to Trent, assuming he is still at the knifeman's house. There is no telling where Andrew is at this hour. No way to warn him.”

“Surely Andrew is safe,” Eudora said. “Trent gave him stern instructions not to let the killer see him.”

“I pray my brother has the good sense to follow those instructions,” Calista said. “I just hope we are not too late.”

She rushed down the hall to the kitchen and swept into the room.

She came to a halt so abruptly that Eudora nearly collided with her.

“Sorry,” Eudora said, stepping back quickly.

But Calista did not respond. She stood, transfixed with shock, at the sight of the ghastly tableau assembled around the kitchen table.

Mr. Sykes was crumpled on the floor, one hand flung out to the side as if he had made a desperate effort to ward off a blow. An overturned coffee cup was on the floor next to his hand. It was impossible to tell if he was dead or alive.

Mrs. Sykes was slumped over the table. She did not move.

Anna Kettering stood over her, a large meat cleaver in her elegantly gloved hand. The sharp edge of the blade was poised above Mrs. Sykes's neck.

“There you are,” Anna said in the bright, charming tones of a lady welcoming guests to a garden party. “When I heard the service bell ring a short time ago, I thought you might eventually come to the kitchen to see what was keeping your housekeeper and butler. Really, one cannot rely on anyone in service these days, can one?”