by Amanda Quick
“Congratulations, sir. You did your research well.”
Something in her tone told him that her words were not intended to be complimentary but he was too immersed in the maze that he was constructing to pay close attention. He started down the nearest graveled path, moving deeper into the jungle.
“Did you use your pepper powder on him?” he asked.
“No, it wasn’t necessary.”
“How did you escape his clutches?”
“I rammed my fan first into his midsection and then toward his eye. He was quite surprised, I think, or at least unprepared for that response. He released me in an instinctive movement to protect his eyes and I escaped.”
Caleb contemplated the image of the stout length of a folded fan. “Never considered how dangerous one of those things could be.” Admiration welled up inside him. “Very clever, Lucinda.”
“Yes, well, I expect it was all those plant-hunting expeditions. One learns things.”
“They do say travel is broadening,” he said. “Within days after the engagement was ended, Ian Glasson was found dead of poison.”
He heard her dainty, high-button boots crunching on the graveled walk behind him.
“Everyone assumed I was responsible,” she said.
“Everyone was wrong.”
Her footsteps came more swiftly on the gravel as she tried to keep up with him. “What makes you so sure of that? There is no doubt but that Ian was poisoned.”
“By cyanide, according to the reports in the press.”
“Yes.”
“Not a poison you would have used.” He looked around at the massed greenery. “You would have employed a far more subtle, undetectable substance. I’m sure there is no lack of raw material in this conservatory.”
There was a short, tense silence behind him.
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said without inflection.
“It was merely a statement of an obvious fact.”
“A fact that no one else ever noticed.”
He stopped, lowered himself onto an iron bench, stretched out his legs and contemplated a large palm with fan-shaped fronds. “Just as no one paid any attention to the fact that your father supposedly committed suicide with a pistol and that his partner was also murdered with cyanide, not a botanical-based poison.”
She sank down beside him. The intricately draped skirts of her gown brushed against his leg. He opened his senses to her energy.
“What are you implying, Mr. Jones?” she said quietly.
He could feel the new tension in her. She had already guessed what he was about to say. Sometimes it seemed as if she could almost read his mind. No one else had ever been able to sense the direction of his thoughts as she did.
“In all three instances the killer wanted to make the deaths appear suspicious. He intended that the finger of blame point at someone. But he used the wrong method to murder your father.”
“The pistol? Well, it would have been next to impossible to poison Papa. His talent was similar to mine. He would have sensed a toxic substance, even cyanide, no matter how well concealed.”
“But if your father truly had intended to kill himself, he would likely have taken poison.”
“Almost certainly.”
“The killer used cyanide on the other two victims because it is both fast and dramatic. Bound to be noticed.”
“He even left bottles of the stuff at the scene,” she said.
“When your father’s partner was discovered dead of poison, your father was the obvious suspect. And when Glasson was found in similar circumstances, suspicion fell on you.” He nodded once. “One must admire the symmetry of the plan.”
“It is rather neat and quite tidy,” she agreed, sounding quietly stunned.
“Yes, it is.”
It was very satisfying to be able to discuss the logic of the case with her. In fact, it was more than satisfying, it was extremely helpful. Something about talking to Lucinda clarified his own thoughts.
“But there is one thing missing from your theory,” she said.
“The identity of the killers?”
“Well, yes, that, too. But I was thinking of motive.”
“When we find that, we will find the killer.”
She studied him intently. “You believe that a single person killed all three men?”
“Given the time and techniques involved, I would estimate the probability that whoever killed your father and his partner is also responsible for the death of your fiancé to be in the neighborhood of ninety-seven percent.”
Her brows rose. “You’re sure it isn’t ninety-five or ninety-six percent?”
It was a reasonable question, so he recalculated swiftly.
“Definitely ninety-seven,” he said.
The faint gleam of amusement vanished from her expression. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But that makes no sense. What possible link could there have been between my fiancé’s death and the deaths of my father and his partner?”
“I don’t know yet, but whatever it is, it is connected to the theft of the fern and the death of Mrs. Daykin.” He studied the foliage in front of him. “This conservatory is the thread that runs through the entire affair. The answer lies here somewhere.”
“Hmm.”
He turned his head sharply to look at her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know how it could possibly be significant but shortly before my father and his partner were murdered, there was another theft.”
Energy crackled across his senses.
“A plant?” he asked, wanting to be certain.
“Yes. It was a strange, unidentified species that we found on that last expedition to the Amazon. I sensed that it had some unusual hypnotic properties. I thought it might prove therapeutic. But it disappeared shortly after we returned. There wasn’t even time to name it.”
“How long after your return was it taken?”
“A couple of weeks, I think. When I noticed that it was missing, I immediately told my father. He was extremely upset by the theft but as far as I knew that was the end of the matter. One can hardly call in Scotland Yard to investigate a stolen plant.”
“No, of course not. Such a case would be far beyond the abilities of the police. Plant theft is best left to expert investigation firms such as the Jones agency.”
She smiled. “Why, Mr. Jones, was that a small attempt at humor?”
“I have no sense of humor. Ask anyone.”
“Very well, let us assume you are correct in your deductions.”
“I usually am.”
“Yes, of course,” she said dryly. “Assuming you are infallible, how do you explain the fact that the first three murders occurred almost a year and a half ago, well before the theft of my fern and the death of Mrs. Daykin?”
“I don’t know yet.” He looked down at his hand wrapped around hers. “But there’s a pattern. It is becoming more obvious by the day.”
He was searching for the words to explain what he perceived so clearly with his talent when Mrs. Shute called from the far end of the conservatory.
“Mr. Jones? Are you in here, sir?”
Lucinda rose quickly and started along the path toward the French doors. “We’re back here, Mrs. Shute. I was just showing Mr. Jones the medicinal herbs.”
Caleb got to his feet, wondering why she had felt it necessary to invent a small lie to explain their presence in the rear of the conservatory. He noticed she was looking rather flushed, as well. Belatedly it occurred to him that she was concerned lest Mrs. Shute conclude that her employer was engaged in some improper activities among the foliage. His liaison with Lucinda was becoming complicated.
He rounded a corner and saw the housekeeper. She looked unusually tense and anxious.
“What is it, Mrs. Shute?” he asked.
“There’s a young boy at the kitchen door, sir. Says his name is Kit Hubbard. Claims he’s got an impor
tant message for you. Something about a dead man.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE BODY WAS SPRAWLED IN A NARROW ALLEY NEAR THE river. It was a small realm of perpetual twilight even on a sunny day but in the fog it reeked of an unnatural, unwholesome atmosphere. A suitable setting for death, Caleb thought. The hair lifted on the nape of his neck. He opened his senses to the currents of recent violence that swirled in the vicinity.
“Young Kit tells me that he was known as Sharpy on the streets,” he said. “Evidently he was an expert with a knife.”
“He is definitely one of the kidnappers,” Lucinda said.
“You’re certain?” he asked, not doubting her statement but curious, as always, to hear her reasons.
He had not intended to allow her to accompany him. The argument had been short, terse and he had lost. But then, he’d always had a devil of a time going against logic. When Lucinda had coolly reminded him that she’d had some experience with violent death and that her expertise could be helpful, he had been forced to concede defeat.
Truth be told, the part of him that responded to the hunt was excited by the prospect of sharing the venture with her. Furthermore, he sensed that the intense reaction was not all on his side. Energy resonated between Lucinda and himself. He had never experienced anything like this with anyone else.
“I’m sure of it,” Lucinda said. “I did not get a good look at either man but I could sense the particular blend of Nicotiana tabacum that each man smoked.”
He looked at her over the corpse. Her face was shadowed by the hood of her cloak but he could make out the serious expression on her intelligent face.
“Yours is an astonishing talent, Lucinda.”
“Tobacco is a poison, after all. A slow-acting one, but a poison, nonetheless.”
“Huh. I’ve heard it’s good for the nerves.”
“Do not believe everything you read in the press, sir.”
“I never do.” He focused his attention on the dead man again. “Well then, I doubt that Sharpy died from smoking. But, as in Daykin’s case, there is no sign of violence. Any thoughts?”
“He did not die of poison.” Lucinda looked down at the dead man. “I can tell you that much.”
Caleb crouched beside the body and studied the expression of wide-eyed horror etched on the face. “It appears he was in a state of great fear when he collapsed.”
“Like Mrs. Daykin?”
“Yes. That would account for the screams that Kit says were heard in the tavern.”
“And why his companion was seen fleeing from this alley as though all the demons of hell were after him,” Lucinda said, repeating Kit’s exact words.
“But who or what did they see?” He went swiftly through Sharpy’s clothing. “There is no question but that this was murder.” He drew a knife out of a concealed sheath strapped to the dead man’s leg. “But by what means? He was a hardened man of the streets but he did not even have time to draw his blade in self-defense.”
“Do you think that he was literally frightened to death?”
Caleb rose. “I suspect that the cause of death was of a psychical nature.”
Lucinda looked at him through the shadowy mists that pooled in the alley. He sensed her astonished shock.
“There are those who can kill with their talents and leave no trace?” she asked, sounding quite horrified.
“The ability is extremely rare,” he assured her. He studied the body. “But I have occasionally come across descriptions of such talents in the journals and records of the Society. In essence, the killer induces a level of panic so great that it causes a stroke or heart attack.”
“But it would appear that this man did not even try to flee.”
“Neither did Daykin. According to my research, the victim is literally paralyzed with fear and cannot even raise a hand to defend himself, let alone run for his life.”
“My parents were registered members of the Society. I was born into it. But I have never heard of such ghastly talents.”
“For the very good reason that the Council and my family have always gone out of their way to suppress the information.” He took her arm and drew her back toward the mouth of the alley. “Just as they do their best to relegate the founder’s formula to the status of myth and legend.”
“I suppose I can understand why.”
“For the most part, the public considers the paranormal as a source of amusement and wonder. The vast majority of those who claim to possess psychical talents are viewed as magicians and entertainers or, at worst, frauds. But imagine how the citizenry would react if it got out that some people could actually commit murder without leaving any clues or evidence.”
Lucinda shuddered. He felt it because he had his fingers wrapped around her elbow.
“The perfect poison,” she said softly. “Undetectable and un-traceable.”
“Yes.”
She turned her head to study him from the mysterious darkness beneath her hood. “The police will be helpless in this matter. They will find nothing to indicate that this was a case of murder. There will be no justice for that poor man unless we find his killer.”
He tightened his grip on her arm. “That poor man recently attempted to kidnap and murder you.”
“I will allow that he most certainly tried to abduct me but we cannot be positive that he intended to kill me. It is your theory and it is only a theory.”
“Trust me on this. I have had far more experience with the criminal mind than you, Lucinda.”
“Given the nature of my consulting work with Inspector Spellar, I think it is unlikely that your expertise is vastly more extensive than my own.”
“Declaring whether or not a man has been poisoned is not the same as investigating the death.”
“And just how long has the Jones agency been in business?” she asked far too sweetly. “A little less than two months? I have worked with Inspector Spellar for nearly a year.”
“I cannot believe we are arguing about this.” He smiled ruefully. “If either of us gave a damn about respectability or propriety, we would doubtless be shocked by our mutual fascination with the criminal mind.”
“Everyone finds the criminal mind fascinating,” she said briskly. “Although most are reluctant to acknowledge it. One need only count the number of newspapers and penny dreadfuls available for purchase on any day of the week on the streets of London. And all of them feature the most lurid accounts of crime and violent death.”
“I will concede the point.” He glanced over his shoulder at the body in the alley. “But I doubt that this murder will garner much attention.”
“No,” Lucinda said somberly. She looked back, too. “The press prefers that the stories be accompanied by a titillating scandal. The death of a lowly street villain who evidently died of natural causes will not raise any brows at breakfast tomorrow morning.”
TWENTY-SIX
THE HEADLINE ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE FLYING Intelligencer the following morning had nothing whatsoever to do with the discovery of a dead body in an alley. Lucinda gasped and promptly choked on a sip of coffee. She grabbed her napkin to cover her mouth while she tried to catch her breath.
Patricia, seated across from her, frowned in alarm. “Are you all right, Lucy?”
Edmund Fletcher, in the middle of his second helping of scrambled eggs, put down his fork, pushed back his chair and walked swiftly around the table. He thumped Lucinda quite briskly between the shoulder blades.
“Thank you.” She waved the napkin, shooing him back to his chair. “I’m fine, Mr. Fletcher,” she sputtered. “Really.”
Patricia raised her brows. “Something in the morning paper upset you?”
“I am ruined,” Lucinda said. “For the second time, I think, although I admit I may be losing track.”
“It cannot be all that bad,” Patricia insisted. “Whatever it is, you must read it to us.”
“Why not?” Lucinda said. “The rest of London is no doubt doing precisely that
at this very moment.”
She began to read the piece aloud. Patricia and Edmund listened, transfixed.
REPORTS OF ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING IN GUPPY LANE VILLAINS INTENDED TO SELL VICTIM TO A BROTHEL
by Gilbert Otford
A lady whose name once figured prominently in this newspaper in a case of murder by poison barely escaped a shocking fate in Guppy Lane earlier this week.
Miss Lucinda Bromley, daughter of the infamous poisoner Arthur Bromley and later suspected in the death of her fiancé, was nearly abducted by a pair of villains who make their living selling respectable women into a life of shame. Witnesses claim that only the heroic action of a number of persons at the scene saved Miss Bromley from a fate worse than death.
Propriety and a profound regard for the delicate sensitivities of our readers forbid this correspondent from providing details of the grim future that awaited Miss Bromley had the kidnappers been successful. Suffice it to say that there is little doubt but that the lady would have found herself ensconced in one of those despicable establishments that cater to the unnatural desires of the most debauched and degenerate of the male gender.
Your humble correspondent wonders, however, if the would-be kidnappers would have selected a different victim if they had known the identity of the one they chose. After all, a lady whose fiancé died of poison after he drank a cup of tea that she had poured for him might be deemed something of a risk to her intended employer, not to mention the patrons of the establishment.
“I disagree,” Caleb said quite seriously from the doorway. “In my opinion, an interesting past always adds a bit of spice.”
Startled, Lucinda slapped the paper down on the table and glared at him. A stunned silence gripped the morning room. Caleb’s expression was that of a man who has just made an entirely reasonable comment on the morning news. But there was a gleam in his eyes. This was, Lucinda thought, a rather poor time for him to exhibit what could only be described as his extremely odd sense of humor.