Sonnet to a Dead Contessa (20 page)

“No!”

“Once again, such a big no. I don’t understand people very well. Anything I can’t put on a dissecting table, I don’t do well with. I wish it were as easy to dissect a soul or a spirit as it is to dissect a body.”

“Well, it’s not!” Serafina snapped.

“I suppose not. Don’t you think that Dylan seems to be rather more interested in her than he usually is?”

Serafina started to shout
No!
but knew that it would only bring her father’s sharp attention once again. “She’s an attractive woman, and they were friends in childhood.”

“I haven’t been around them as much as you have, but it seems that Dylan is interested in the woman. He found her a place to live, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did, but he would help anybody.”

“But he goes to see her and takes her food, and he pays a lot of attention to that adorable child of hers. I wouldn’t be surprised but what something might come of that.”

Serafina looked at her father with utter disgust. “Nothing is going to come of it!” she snapped.

“Why—how can you be so sure?”

Serafina could not answer. As a matter of fact, she was not all that certain that Dylan Tremayne was not interested in Meredith in an intimate, romantic way. He had shown great concern in taking care of the woman, but it seemed to go further than that. And as for Meredith—well, the look she gave Dylan, the way she would touch him in a familiar fashion, putting her hand on his arm, reaching up and touching his hair occasionally—disgusting! There was a possessiveness about her that grated on Serafina’s nerves, and she turned abruptly, saying, “I have to work on these notes I have, Father.”

“Very well. I’ll leave you to them. If you want to talk, I’ll be available.”

“Thank you, Father. You’re very kind.”

She waited until her father slammed the door behind him, knowing he would do so. Septimus never walked through a door and shut it gently, but for some reason gave it a backhanded push that made the rafters tremble. He had been cautioned often enough by his wife, also by Serafina and Dora, but he never seemed to realise what he was doing.

She sat down and studied the notes she had made concerning the murders that the Slasher had committed. She peered at the poetry for a long time and was struck at what poor writing it was:

Hath not a Jew eyes?

If you prick us, do we not die?

The world is full of traitors,

And highborn women mere impersonators!

Better if they were off the earth—

Even those of noble birth!

For over an hour she sat there peering at the poem and the other notes she had made. Once she looked up and said, “This is
impossible
! Somehow there’s got to be a clue in here that would tell us something about this madman—but what
is
it?”

Doggedly she went over the poem line by line, and then for a time she simply closed her eyes and sat back in her chair. The thought came to her,
If Dylan were doing this, he would ask God to help him.
The thought disturbed her, for she had never asked God for anything, not since she was a child. Since she had met Dylan, however, the idea of God had become very real to her. She had seen him pray and had seen what appeared to be the answers. Now she came as close as she could. She spoke the words aloud: “God, you know what I am—that I have had no faith at all in you. You know I’m grieving over my friend Margaret, and you know that I’m afraid that this maniac will strike someone else. If you’re there at all, help me to . . . see something in this poem that will . . . give me something to work on.”

She had to force each word out. It was the first prayer she had uttered in many years, since she was a child or a young woman, perhaps. She remembered praying that she would be a good wife to Charles, and that prayer had not been answered—although she had always felt it was not her fault.

The room was silent. From the open window came the faint voice of a song sparrow making melody on the air. It was a pleasant, cheerful song that ordinarily she loved, but now she shut out the sound and concentrated on the poem.

Afterward she would never remember the train of events that took place while she sat with her head bowed and her eyes fixed on the poem, seeking desperately to find something that would lead to the Slasher’s identity. At some point a thought began deep within her innermost consciousness. Down in her spirit, as Dylan would have put it. It was not a full-fledged thought, but a mere fragment of an idea so elusive that she could not lay hold on it. She remembered once grabbing at a lizard when she had been only twelve years old and wanting to keep it for a specimen. Every time she almost grabbed the tail of the lizard, he scooted away, and she had scurried after him.

Now her mind was scurrying mentally, reaching out for the hidden clue that a vicious murderer had implanted, daring someone to find the answer.

The thought was hidden deep, as if in the deep waters of an ocean cavern many miles below the surface, but as she sat there struggling, it began to rise until finally she had a glimmer that was in her mind. She could put no name to it—but then suddenly it came.

Rachel Reis
.

Serafina’s eyes flew open, and she made fists of her hands and slammed them on the table.
Rachel Reis is Jewish. She and her husband, and the first line of this poem is spoken by a Jew, the merchant of Venice in Shakespeare’s play. The other two women have been women with titles, and Rachel Reis is a marchioness.

Suddenly everything seemed to come together. She thought of the marchioness at the church meeting at Lorenzo and Gyp’s house where she had laughed at religion. She remembered how she had mocked Martha Bingham at the outdoor meeting. She was a woman who seemed totally oblivious that she may be hurting other people.

Serafina suddenly rose to her feet, her jaw tight and her lips thin
. I’ve got to go see her. It may be all in my own mind, but the woman deserves to know that there’s at least a possibility that she may be the next victim.
She dashed out, went to her own room, and changed clothing. She
left at once and found Albert Givins sitting on a bale of hay outside the stable.

“Albert, get the carriage ready.”

Albert Givins was startled. “Which carriage, ma’am?”

“The one we can travel the fastest in. And please send someone to call Matthew Grant—have him come at once to Marquis DeMain’s estate.”

“Be ready in minutes, Lady Trent.”

“I’ll wait right here.”

Serafina stood there, and as she did, Dora came out. “What’s going on, sister?”

“I’ve got an errand to run.”

“An errand? It’ll be dark soon.” Dora had a troubled look. “Where’re you going?”

“Oh, just something I need to do.” Serafina was reluctant to mention her errand or the nature of it. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “Tell Father and Mother I’ll be back a little bit late.”

Dora said, “I will,” but she stood there as if she wished to add something to that. She was still there when Givins drove up in the small carriage with two of their fastest teams. He started to jump down and help Serafina in, but she leapt into the carriage by herself and said, “Go on, Albert.”

“Where to, ma’am?”

“I’ll give you directions.”

For some reason Serafina did not want Dora to know where she was going.
It may be a fool’s errand,
she thought,
and I won’t have to explain it if I don’t tell anyone.
As soon as they were clear of the house and beyond the hearing of Dora, she said, “Do you know where the Marquis Jacob Reis lives?”

“Certain I do, ma’am,” he called over the sound of the horses’ hooves.

“Get there as quickly as you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Albert touched the matched bays with the whip, and they shot forward as if propelled out of a cannon.

“Shall I wait here, ma’am?”

“Yes, I think if you take the carriage around to the stables, it might be less noticeable.”

“I’ll do that, Lady Trent.”

Serafina watched as Albert drove the carriage up the curving driveway that led to the house. She turned and looked up at the magnificent home of the marquis. It was a huge house built of pale stone, classic Georgian in style. The massive front doors were flanked by dark pillars, and wrought iron balconies dotted the windows.

She was not interested in the house, however, but in the lady of the house. She started toward the front steps, conscious that darkness had already fallen as she had made her journey. She slowed to a walk and then tried to frame into a small speech what she would say to the marchioness.
She won’t believe a word I say. She’s the most disbelieving person I’ve ever seen.
The thought troubled Serafina, and she pondered lamely, trying to find an approach that might gain Lady Reis’s attention at least.

She started toward the house, and suddenly a sound caught her attention. She looked upward, and a pale sliver of a moon cast a thin silvery light over the scene, and a few pale stars shone. Again the sound, and she realised it was not coming from the front of the house but from the side. Without thinking why, she turned and ran lightly half the length of the house. She rounded the corner, and as she did she saw a dark shadow coming down from the balcony on the second floor. The person was coming her way, but then she saw the shadow drop and heard a thump.
It’s him—the Slasher!
The thought crashed through her mind, and without stopping to think what she could do, she ran forward, crying out, “Stop! Stop where you are!”

What happened next was so rapid she had no time to think. The shadowy figure, clothed in completely dark clothing with a hat pulled down over the features, whirled to face her in a lightning-like movement.

“Stop right where you are!” Serafina cried, but at that instant she caught the light of something bright and glittery. Her mind only had time to realise, not in words, but in a flash of thought:
That’s a knife—and he’s going to stab me! Matthew, where are you?

She took a step backward, but the dark form shot toward her. The silvery knife flashed under the pale moon, and Serafina, even as she moved backward, felt a burning sensation across the top of her chest. She cried out, “Help! Help!” but the dark figure moved toward her again. She fell backward, and the face of her attacker was muffled, only a shapeless form, but she knew that the flash of the knife would be imprinted on her memory forever.

Suddenly a dog began barking, and the dark figure turned swiftly to face two bull terriers. He whirled and disappeared in the darkness so quickly that Serafina could not follow the movement. At the sight of the dogs, the figure had wheeled and dashed away, disappearing almost in a ghostly fashion.

“What’s this? Who’s there?”

“Over here,” Serafina called and answered the man’s voice.

Serafina got to her feet and found that she was trembling. She felt the front of her dress, which was sliced as keenly as if the knife had been a razor. She knew she had been cut, and suddenly the light of a lantern covered her. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m Lady Trent, Vincent. You remember me?”

“Lady Trent! Of course I do.” Vincent had been the butler for the Reis household for some time. He came closer, held the lantern up, and then gasped, “Why, you’ve been hurt, Lady Trent!”

“I’m all right, but we must get to Lady Reis, Vincent. She’s in danger.”

“In danger of what?”

“Of murder, I’m afraid. Come quickly.”

Vincent whirled and rushed into the house. As soon as they were inside, he held the door for her and saw that her dress was sliced and she was bleeding. “Ma’am, you’re bleeding!”

“It’s not serious. Take me to the bedroom of the marchioness.”

“Yes, at once.” Vincent whirled, and he took the stairs two at a time with Serafina right behind him. He went quickly to the second door and started to knock, but Serafina pushed him aside. She opened the door and went in. She stopped dead still. There was a candle burning, and by the light of it she saw the woman lying on the bed. Marchioness Reis had been slashed, and she lay weltering in her own blood. Her throat had been cut, and her body had been terribly disfigured.

Serafina heard Vincent begin to gag, and she turned and pushed him outside the door. “I’m expecting Matthew Grant from Scotland Yard. Is he here yet? The marchioness has been murdered. Where’s her husband?”

“He’s asleep, I presume.”

“Perhaps you’d better go tell him that something has happened.”

“Yes, Lady Trent.”

As Vincent wheeled, ran down the hall, and disappeared inside another door, she looked down at herself and pulled the dress apart. The tip of the blade had made a narrow cut that was bleeding freely. She waited until Vincent came back, his face pale. “The master is speaking with someone. He’ll be here as soon as he can.”

“I need some clean cloth and some antiseptic, Vincent.”

“Come. We’ll go downstairs. The master is getting dressed.” She followed Vincent downstairs, and his wife, a tall, round-faced woman, gasped when she saw Serafina.

“Lady Trent has had an accident. She needs some bandages and some antiseptic.”

“I’ll take care of that,” his wife said. Her name
was Jane, and she proved to be quite steady under fire. As Vincent left to get the coachman and the carriage ready to send for Matthew, Jane, the housekeeper, treated the cut carefully. “It’s not very bad. I don’t think it needs stitches. How did it happen?”