Heart of Brass (21 page)

His lids drooped. “Nice wife. You want to crawl in here with me?” One of his hands clumsily patted the side of the bed. “There’s plenty of room.”

There wasn’t enough room for a breath in that bed, let alone her entire girth, but if time had allowed she would indeed attempt to stuff herself in there. “I’d be delighted, but I can’t stay. I have an appointment.”

Luke frowned, then grimaced when the expression tugged at the stitches on his forehead. It seemed to be a struggle for him to keep his eyes open. “Where?”

“Scotland Yard.”

His frown eased, and he lost the battle with his heavy lids. “Duty then. Can’t ignore that.”

“No,” she replied, spine straightening. His words were like a sharp cut to her heart despite being an echo of their past. “I can’t.”

He didn’t speak again—he was sound asleep once more, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm. She envied him the escape.

Arden placed the back of her fingers against his warm cheek, feeling the sharp edge of his cheekbone against her knuckles, the scratch of stubble. Quickly, she rose to her feet and walked away, refusing to let the irrational part of her mind wander into all the places it wanted to go. There didn’t have to be some foretelling of doom in his words.

Though as she left the infirmary she had to wonder if it would be Luke’s sense of duty that caused friction between them once more, or her own.

The man stepped onto the dirigible docking platform and placed his beaver hat upon his head. Hyde Park smelled of horse shit and airship grease, just as it always did. He’d never understand why so many people insisted on clinging to such antiquated notions as horse-travel, but he didn’t care. Let the mindless chattel do as they would. He had more important things to occupy his mind.

It had been almost three days since they lost contact with Five. The Doctor had been unsuccessful in his attempt to subdue the operative and had the injuries to prove it. Five had not returned to his rooms since, and the last information gleaned from the communicator in his ear had placed him at his former London home—with his wife.

Earlier today his contact at the W.O.R. confirmed that Five was in their possession, and orders had been given to detonate the device in Five’s brain. As valuable as he had been, he was a liability now and could not be allowed to live. He would be a great loss to the Company, and give the Wardens a glimpse not only into Company technology, but into years of missions and subterfuge.

It was his job to clean up any mess, find out what the W.O.R. knew, and finish Five’s original mission. And, in case they were unsuccessful in immediately eliminating Five, he was to do that as well. It was a distasteful business, but he would not rest until Arden Grey, Lady Huntley—and her husband—were dead.

Chapter 11

Chief Inspector Grant was standing outside the Scotland Yard building when Arden arrived. He was smoking a pipe, and judging from the little mounds of ash at his feet, had been doing so quite prodigiously for a while.

“I thought you gave that up because your wife detests the smell,” she said, by way of greeting as she stepped out of her touring carriage.

“I did,” he replied grimly as she lowered her goggles. A plume of fragrant smoke rose around him in the steam-damp air. “But she’ll just have to forgive me for it.”

His face was pale, the skin beneath his eyes dark and bruised-looking. She’d seen him look haggard before, but it seemed worse now, as though his position was finally wearing him down.

“There’s been another murder, hasn’t there?” She didn’t wait for him to respond before digging her bag out from behind the driving bench.

“Yes. Another girl with her heart ripped out. We’ve gotten some of the findings back on the first girl as well. I didn’t want to call you, but…” He took one last haul off the pipe. “Two girls in less than a fortnight. I need your help to find this bastard.”

That he didn’t mind his language—and didn’t apologize for it—proved just how tired and stretched thin the inspector truly was. Arden drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with the smell of pipe tobacco, which she didn’t mind in the least. She drew calm around her like a warm blanket. “Where’s the latest victim?”

“Here at the morgue.” He tapped the bowl of his pipe against the dingy gray stone wall. Scientists might have discovered a fairly clean-burning coal alternative, but there was no undoing the decades of soot ground into every pore of London’s buildings and streets. “Didn’t want the press to catch wind and put her photograph in the
Times
, soulless vultures.”

Arden wasn’t surprised by his vehemence. She’d worked with Grant long enough to know that he believed the press to be on par with the lowest of criminals. She didn’t quite share his opinion, but she had also worked with him long enough to understand where it came from. They’d almost lost the Ripper because of the press.

She pulled back her shoulders. “You’d better take me to her, Inspector. Perhaps she can give us what her predecessor could not—the identity of her killer.”

“I hope so, Lady Huntley.” He slipped his pipe into his jacket pocket. “Some of the lads are likening these to the Ripper murders, but I didn’t feel half so horrible for those poor souls as I do these dear little girls.”

Grant’s shoulders were hunched as she followed him to the door exclusively used for Scotland Yard staff. He inserted his punch key in the box on the wall and waited as it finished its sharp clacking before withdrawing the card and turning the heavy, spoked wheel on the iron door. There was a hissing sound, like that of train brakes, only not as loud, followed by a thunk, and then he pushed the door open.

“After you, Lady Huntley.”

Arden stepped over the threshold. Given her association with the police force, this wasn’t the first time she’d been allowed access to the inner workings of Scotland Yard, and it probably would not be the last. It wasn’t a cheery place, though the odd chuckle punctuated the din. The men and women who worked here had that dull-eyed look of people who had seen every possible human evil there was. All of their shock and horror—even sorrow—had been all used up, and there was nothing left.

She inclined her head in greeting to those whose gaze caught hers. No one was surprised to see her. Though Grant took pains to conceal her involvement in Yard business, she was still a known asset to many. The rest simply didn’t care.

It wouldn’t be that scandalous for society to find out about the work she did for the Yard, only slightly more so if it was discovered she was a W.O.R. agent. The real scandal would be caused by the devices for ladies she made in her workshop. Such was the way—the general populace barely blinked at violence, but sexuality was a different story.

The morgue was in the basement, of course, where bodies were kept cool in the storage area using small amounts of solidified carbon dioxide. It was a dangerous substance, and Arden had seen more than one morgue attendant who had lost a finger or two to frostbite because of it. Still, it was effective.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders to ward off the chill as they descended the stairs, Inspector Grant carrying her case. She took her flask from her reticule and allowed herself a small sip. She’d always enjoyed a nip now and again, but over the past few years she’d come to depend on spirits more and more. She knew it, and wasn’t nearly as bothered by it as she supposed she should be.

It wasn’t as though she was a drunkard. It wasn’t as though she
needed
it to cope. It just made doing what she had to do so much easier.

The whiskey warmed her from the inside out. She opened her tin of cloves and popped one in her mouth, letting the sharp spiciness roll over her tongue and perfume her breath.

Only the
Curator
Mortuorum
was present in the morgue when they entered. She was a tall woman—over six feet—with a sturdy build and thick curly red hair. Arden was thankful for her presence, as Mrs. MacNamara considered herself a caretaker of the dead, and tried to make the viewing experience as pleasant as possible.

“Lady Huntley,” the woman said in a deep Scottish brogue. “Good to see you.”

Arden slipped her gloved hand into the woman’s much larger one. Mrs. MacNamara had an incredibly strong grip. “You as well, though perhaps someday we’ll meet in pleasanter circumstances.”

The older woman nodded solemnly. “God willing. You’re here to see the girl Grant brought in earlier?”

“That’s right,” the inspector answered. “Would you be so kind as to fetch her? Also, I’d like you to repeat your findings on the Rathbone girl to Lady Huntley.”

Rathbone? Ah yes, Arden remembered. That was Baron Lynbourne’s family name.

Mrs. MacNamara went into one of the large cooling chambers used to store London’s “done in.” Newgate had its own morgue for prisoners, so the only bodies that fell into Mrs. Mac’s capable hands were those who had suffered a wrongful death. Though on occasion the denizens of Newgate ended up on her table as well. Men with nothing to lose didn’t have much respect for human life.

Arden had an awful feeling that one day her own body would end up in the Scottish woman’s care. She might have already if Victor Erlich had been a tad bit faster, and she hadn’t been able to reach her discombobulator. She hadn’t meant to kill him, but she hadn’t been about to let him rape her either. Alastair was meant to find the bastard, but she’d been the unlucky one. It was the last time she worked in what they referred to as “the field.” She hadn’t the love of danger that Alastair and Luke shared, though there were times she’d rather face the wrong end of a pistol than witness the last moments of another person’s life.

When the
Curator Mortuorum
returned, she pushed a gurney in front of her. One of the wheels squeaked, and the shroud covering the body had seen better days, but Mrs. Mac took care with her cargo. She brought the gurney to the center of the room, beneath the operating chandelier, before gently peeling back the sheet.

Arden gritted her teeth as her gaze fell on thick chestnut hair—its elaborate coiffure ruined. Next, the deathly pallor of a smooth forehead, a fringe of still lashes, followed by a slack, round cheek. When the entire face had been revealed she gasped, horror sending a rush of tea and whiskey up from her belly. Only sheer fortitude kept her from humiliating herself. Embarrassment burned in the back of her throat, acrid and raw.

Grant whipped his head around to stare at her with those sharp eyes of his. “You know her?”

She nodded, averting her eyes long enough for the nausea to fade and her composure to return. “Cassandra Millingston. Earl Farnsworth’s daughter.”

The inspector swore—so well and in such detail that Arden could almost see a cloud of blue around the words. She didn’t blame him, and she certainly wouldn’t ask him to apologize for it. She understood, and agreed with him.

It wasn’t just that she knew the girl, or that the victim was an aristocrat, but she knew as Grant did that once word got out that another peer’s daughter had been murdered, there would be a panic amongst the upper classes. The Season might very well be called to an early end.

Their killer was undoubtedly of the aristocracy, and if the Season ended prematurely, their chances of finding the bastard would practically disappear with it. If he was indeed of the upper class, he would drift away to the country, and even if he killed again, they might never track him down.

“We have to keep this as quiet as possible,” Grant said.

Arden arched a brow. “Rather impossible, don’t you think? The moment you tell her parents the rest of the Mayfair set will know within an hour at the most.” She didn’t point out that a mass exodus would be soon to follow. “The girl’s parents are undoubtedly concerned if she went missing last night.”

“I shall have to think of something,” Grant said in a low voice, gaze flinty. “I’ll not let
this
one slip away.”

Perhaps the Ripper investigation had affected Grant more than he let on. Arden turned to the
Curator
Mortuorum
. “Mrs. Mac, would you be so kind as to show me the rest of the body?”

She was prepared for what lay under the sheet, though her stomach insisted on turning itself inside out at the sight. This young woman had been split open just like Lynbourne’s girl, her heart brutally ripped from her chest.

“He’s got a sense of anatomy, but I don’t think he’s a medical man,” the Scottish woman informed them.

“Why not?” Arden inquired.

Mrs. Mac gestured with her finger toward a splintered rib, then past to the tattered tissue beneath. “Most with medical training are fastidious, brilliant and arrogant. This monster has no finesse. Even Saucy Jack had to show off his skill with a blade—to an extent. These girls weren’t cut; they were torn open.”

“I beg your pardon?” Arden frowned. “How is that possible?”

“There’s not a knife mark to be found, but look at the bruising.” Arden forced herself to look where the coroner pointed. If not for the whiskey her mind might better comprehend what the woman was saying. Oddly enough, the whiskey was the only thing keeping her from casting up her accounts all over Mrs. Mac’s boots. “He shoved his hands into their torsos, pulled their ribs apart and tore the hearts from their chests.”

Arden swallowed hard. “So the killer had to be uncommonly strong.”

Mrs. Mac’s expression was full-on incredulous. “Without a doubt, my lady. He had to have gregorite hands to do something like this.”

Her first thought was Luke. He was strong enough to do this. And the first night she’d seen him had been at the site of the first murder. But he’d been locked up in his W.O.R. cell last night. He couldn’t be the killer. Relief dropped her shoulders just as shame filled her with its dirtiness. How could she think him capable of such madness—even for a second? Never mind that he’d been sent to kill her—that was a mission. This…this was just lunacy.

“I found traces of gentleman’s hair pomade under her fingernails,” Mrs. Mac continued, gesturing toward a small vial on a nearby tray. “I haven’t been able to identify the brand yet.”