Druid's Daughter (8 page)

His men had combed the Seven Dials area and beyond. There
were far too many stores selling the cheap brand of paper the murderer had used
in forming the letter “W”. No one remembered a particular purchaser of the
paper.

The famed C.I.D. of Scotland Yard had little else to
investigate. Merely a corpse who was not likely to give up her secrets.

Lord Lance sat at his desk, frankly wondering what he should
do next. Had he left any clue uncovered? Going back once again over all the
details, he could find no fault with his investigation.

He pushed aside the papers with the sparse data they’d been
able to collect. Not much beside the facts quite evident at the scene of the
crime. Going to the door, he called to Shriver.

“Are there any new facts at all, Shriver? Or any old ones we
should be addressing more carefully?”

Shriver bristled. Only a little, as he knew how harassed his
chief was feeling.

“No, Sir, nothing at all. I think we’re well on top of the
facts we have.”

Lance walked over and patted his man on the back. “Sorry,
Shriver. Of course you’d have told me instantly if any new fact came in. This
case is getting on my nerves, I’m afraid.”

“Yes Sir, I understand, Sir.”

Lance walked back to his own desk, leaving the door open.
How he’d relish seeing Morgan walk through into his office. He couldn’t seem to
stop his thoughts drifting to her. She seemed to slither in any chink on his
concentration.

He had not seen her, although he’d called on her twice. The
butler had informed Lance Miss Morgan was not at home. Still he couldn’t stop
her from invading his mind at all times of the day. Sometimes he would be
staring at his calendar, always crammed with routine tasks he should be
pursuing, when her image floated before him. Suddenly boring tasks. Morgan was
interfering in every aspect of his life.

Her lovely face, her green eyes glowing, her lower lip
trembling as she listened to the melodic arias of
La Traviata
.
Unashamedly wiping her eyes, giving him back his handkerchief and smiling at
the same time. Her depth of emotion was just one more reason to make him
determined to understand her. He was sure no man had touched her deep reservoir
of passion.

Her lack of experience both amazed and thrilled him. She was
virtually untouched. But did he really want to be the one to unleash the
emotion buried deep within her delectable body? If he succeeded he knew his
life would never be the same. His brain told him she was not a woman he could
pursue and then drop. His body didn’t seem to recognize the warning.

He did not, did not, want a close relationship with any
woman. Certainly he could not afford to let an intuitive woman like Morgan near
enough to try to understand him. It would be disaster.

He threw down the papers in his hand. To hell with dreary
duty and his dreary thoughts. Nothing was pressing enough it couldn’t wait an
hour or two. He’d head for Miss Morgan McAfee’s residence.

He was shrugging into this coat when Sergeant Shriver burst
in. Lance gave one look at his white face and staring eyes and stopped and
turned back to his desk.

“Daniels is here, Sir. I made him sit for a minute. There’s
been another one and he found her.”

“Did he leave no one with the body?” Lance asked in a sharp
tone.

“No Sir, a policeman was passing by the end of the alley and
Daniels called him in to stand watch. He wanted to come himself and tell you.
This one must have been horrible, Sir. He’s shaking like a wet dog.”

Lance headed for the door. A warm-blooded man, he seldom
wore an overcoat. The days were still pleasant, so he merely grabbed his hat
and started off on a near run, motioning Daniels and Shriver to follow. Daniels
stopped his shaking enough to run after his chief. A driver was already waiting
and Lance jumped in his carriage, holding open the door for Daniels and
Shriver.

“Give him the directions, Daniels. I want to see this one as
soon as possible.”

Daniels stammered out the address, a street deep in the
Seven Dials stews and then shrank back again as the carriage set off.

Lance was beginning to be seriously annoyed. Some loose
fiend was almost thumbing his nose at the police and Lance was beginning to
take it as a personal insult. He did not intend to have a maniac running around
killing people while he was the head detective in the C.I.D.

Lance, Shriver and Daniels soon reached the alley where the
victim lay. The brutal killing method appeared to bear the same evil marks.
Again a young girl lay viciously murdered and again it seemed likely she’d been
a prostitute. She lay on her stomach, her hands now limp but on the edges of
her hiked-up skirts. Her throat had been slashed so violently part of the wound
could be seen at the side of her neck. There seemed to be a little more blood
this time. Her long brassy hair was oily and fell over her cheek and down into the
blood. On looking closer Lance saw the expected little slit in the back of her
red-and-white-checked blouse.

“The bastard has to have studied anatomy,” ground out Lance.
“Whether in a medical school or reading by himself. If it’s the latter he’s
been very lucky to hit just the right spot to get to the heart. Or rather I
should say the victim’s lucky, since she was dead before he started carving her
up.”

And carve her he had. Besides slitting her throat, on each
bare buttock he’d carved the letter “W”. This time the red of the letter
glistened not from a crayon, but from blood. These letters were evidently cut
even after the throat slicing, as the cuts of the letters had bled scarcely at
all. The damned killer must have dipped his finger in the blood from her throat
and painted the letters on her naked backside.

Lance growled. “I’ll get the bloody bastard one way or
another. He can’t be allowed to survive much longer.”

He pulled the girl’s skirts down and turned away. Somehow it
seemed almost indecent to stare at her, although he’d looked as carefully as he
could for any clue. There was another small stain on her dress, again about the
middle of her back. This one was still damp and as he leaned over and sniffed
it definitely smelled like semen. There was no other clue. Nothing new to help
them.

A sex deviate killer was loose and daring the police to
catch him.

Lance was well aware the investigation of Jack the Ripper
had rebounded on the police because they tried to exclude the press from any
information. The press had been forced to make up and exaggerate a good deal.
As a result the general population became frantic with fear. This time the
press should be given as much accurate information as possible without
compromising the case. Hopefully fear would be lessened if imaginary clues
weren’t printed and magnified.

Lance gathered his mind and spoke to his men.

“One of you reach the Commander immediately and ask him to
meet me at the Commissioner’s office. I think the Commissioner will want to
tell the Queen. Then we’ll call in the press.”

He tossed a rapid series of orders to Shriver and then
dropped him off at the office. He directed his new driver to take him to the
Commissioner’s office.

He had no way of knowing Morgan was pacing in his office.
Waiting for him and anxious to see him.

Chapter Seven

The night before, Commissioner Devon Randall had taken
Viviane McAfee to dinner with the express determination of talking her into
marriage. He knew it would take all his powers of persuasion. He entertained no
illusions of his position or his wealth influencing the independent, baffling
woman he loved. Loved with a passion he’d never even known existed.

No matter Queen Victoria herself sometimes called Randall in
for consultation. Queen Victoria, now ruler of her people for over sixty years.
His royal mistress would never understand his unconventional choice. But then
she seldom understood anything outside her conformist experiences. Nor would
many of his associates exhibit any more sympathy. He knew Viviane would throw
these facts at him. He did not care about others’ opinions in the slightest, as
long as he could convince her. Viviane was the only one who mattered.

He wanted Viviane as his adored wife and devoted mother of
his son. Jamie worshiped her and she seemed to love him with equal intensity.
Why should the opinions of others then be of any significance?

Commissioner Randall smiled a lot through dinner.

“Could I give you more wine, my dear? I know you drink
little, but this is mild and very good.”

He held up the bottle, preferring not to call a waiter to
the table.

Viviane smiled her beautiful, knowing smile and shook her
head. He kept the conversation light and on general topics until dessert. He
doubted he was fooling Viviane about his seeming lack of purpose.

Viviane spooned the last of a delicious trifle into her
mouth, as Randall watched her lips lick the last bit and wished they were
someplace private.

“Devon, you’re looking like a child denied a treat.”

He crossed his long legs under the table and looked at her,
his yearning for a different kind of dessert evident on his face.

Viviane’s smile vanished.

Devon groaned.

“I’d hoped to ply you with a little more wine before I got
serious, my dear. But as usual, you can see through me as if I were a two-way
glass.”

He reached over and took her hand as it lay on the table.
With the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, she covered his hand with her other
one.

“Devon Randall, you’re forty-eight years old. Don’t you yet
know you shouldn’t try to keep secrets from a woman who loves you?”

He half rose from his chair with delight, but then something
on her face made him sit slowly back down again.

“You’ve just said the words among all those under heaven I
most want to hear. Why do I feel there’s something more I’m not going to like
at all?”

Viviane for the first time did not look directly at him. One
of the traits he most treasured was the way her steadfast gaze locked on his
own. He never had the slightest doubt Viviane was honest in all she did and
said.

“You are too honorable a man to want any relationship beside
marriage. And while I will gladly consent to be your mistress, I will not marry
you.”

For once Randall allowed his face to show exactly what he
felt. Which was shock and horror at her suggestion.

“I will not consent to anything less than marriage,” he
ground out between his teeth. “As you must already know. I would never insult
you by taking you as my mistress.”

Viviane looked up at him with a small smile. “I’d be
disappointed in you had you stated otherwise. But I would have accepted it. I
think being your mistress might be a good solution for us both.”

Randall pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

“I feel a sudden desire to get out of here.”

He was still too insulted to be anything but stiff and
unsmiling. Viviane arose with her usual grace and put her hand in his.

“You are my love, you know,” she murmured. “Let’s go to my
place and talk this over. Morgan is out at some musical society meeting. We’ll
have time and enough for you to hear what I feel forced to tell you.”

Randall said nothing. He threw some bills on the table,
tucked her small hand in the crook of his arm and walked her out of the dining
room. He found it difficult to hold onto his anger when Viviane looked at him
with her beautiful dark green eyes and told him again she loved him. How could
he do anything but dissolve at her touch?

He believed her completely. She never, ever lied. And if she
loved him, surely he could persuade her to marry him.

They did not speak at all in Randall’s carriage. He put his
arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. She melted against him
and it was all he could manage not to shout at her they belonged together. But
neither one of them said a word.

As they descended from Randall’s carriage, a sudden gust of wind
wrapped Viviane’s long skirts around her so she could not move. Laughing,
Randall scooped her up in his arms.

“I hope I’m not such a slow top as to miss such a
heaven-sent opportunity. Even nature wants you in my arms, my love.”

Viviane laughed with him, but her eyes remained sad and
serious. All hope he was making headway with her vanished under her somber
gaze. Solemn and desperately concerned, he carried her up the stone steps to
the entrance of her townhouse. The gaslight over the doorway shone on her
auburn hair, bringing out golden highlights. His lips touched her head briefly
and with reverence as he sat her on her feet. He followed her into her home,
greeting the butler and then going with her as she marched in the open door to
the small parlor.

He loved to see her walk. He’d read enough to know Druids
trained their priestesses to glide almost silently about their duties. How far
had her training taken her? Not to the level of a priestess, he knew, or she
would be in seclusion in a temple most of the time. No, she’d left before the
final rites. But she’d certainly learned the most graceful walk he’d ever seen.

She left the door open and Ambrose soon ambled in. Ambrose
came over to shake hands and then settled down by his mistress, his head on his
big paws. Viviane gave him a loving pat.

“Don’t mind Ambrose, please. He knows everything I’m about
to say.” Her voice sounded constrained and unnatural and Devon suspected she
was thinking of how best to frame her next words. He had no doubt she meant to tell
him a story he didn’t want to hear. He didn’t care about her past, he loved her
and wanted her. Well, he would listen and then shoot down whatever argument she
mistakenly thought relevant. Knowing Viviane, she could never have been
dishonorable.

He sat in the large chair she motioned him to and leaned
back. Viviane always had flowers in almost every room in the house. For some
reason he didn’t understand roses made him sneeze and he appreciated she’d
noticed and massed an unusual arrangement of snapdragons and daisies in a low
bowl. His future wife possessed talents in many respects.