Sonnet to a Dead Contessa (12 page)
“You’re certain, of course—but it’s hard for me to believe.”
Grant dropped his head and studied the carpet. “Well, you’ll believe it when you see her, Lady Trent.”
“See her? Why should I?”
“Because I need you. You knew her better, perhaps, than anyone else, and there are strange circumstances. I have little faith in the imagination of the average Scotland Yard inspector, and what we have here is something out of a nightmare. I hate to ask you to do this, but I’m sure you want to have her killer brought to justice.”
“Certainly. Do you want me to go now?”
“If you would.”
“Should I ask my father to accompany us? He’s in the middle of an autopsy.”
“No, not right now.”
“Let me change clothes.”
She moved quickly out of the room without another word, went to her own room, and changed to a simpler dress. She put on a rather severe chocolate brown velvet dress with a chatelaine pin as the only ornament. When she returned, Matthew was waiting for her, and the two walked out to the carriage he had brought. “Shall I order my own carriage, Matthew?”
“No, I’ll bring you back when we’re finished.”
She took Matthew’s hand as he assisted her into the carriage, and then he walked around and entered from the other door. He sat down beside her, and after he spoke to the driver, the carriage lurched forward. For a time neither of them spoke, until finally Matthew said, “What sort of a marriage did Lady Acton and her husband have?”
Turning quickly, Serafina had a strange feeling. He was questioning her as if she had special information. She and Dylan had asked that sort of question of many suspects, and although Matthew was aware that she could not be the Slasher, as the murderer had been called, she could not answer for a moment. Finally she said, “They didn’t get along too well. That’s no secret, Matthew. Everyone knew that.”
“What was the trouble?”
“They never should have married in the first place. She had money, and he had none. So, after they married, for some reason, he felt obliged to bully her.”
“You mean physically?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do. I had seen bruises on her face that she tried to cover up but could not. When he came into a room, she would almost physically flinch.”
“And everyone knew about this?”
“Their close friends did. He was sly about it though. He appeared to be very careful of her well-being and was always
asking her if she needed another coat to keep warm or was there too much breeze. But the smiles that he gave her never reached his eyes. I think he eventually just grew tired of her and treated her like she didn’t exist. Then she left to stay with her ailing mother for a while. Now that she is . . . was . . . back in town, he rarely is.” Serafina paused and said forcefully, “I can’t stand the man, Matthew.”
“Do you think he’s capable of committing a murder?”
The wheels were rumbling over the gravel and broken rocks in the road, and the carriage lurched from side to side as it hit holes created by the rain two days earlier. Serafina thought and tried to make herself as objective as she could. “I suppose most of us are capable of murder if the circumstances are right.”
“That’s an evasion, Serafina.”
She did not notice that he used her first name. “I suppose it is,” she said wearily. She sat back and looked out the window, and he questioned her no further.
The Acton town house was large and extremely gracious. The furniture was Regency and Georgian in keeping with the architecture of the house itself. As the two entered, admitted by a rotund butler with the mundane name of Smith, Matthew Grant asked a smaller man who was waiting, “Kenzie, has anyone called?”
“No, sir.” Kenzie shrugged and said, “I didn’t expect anyone, sir.”
“Come along, Lady Trent,” Matthew said shortly.
They climbed a winding staircase, and skylights gave the stairs excellent clarity, or would have during the brilliant sunlight. It was late now, and the darkness seemed oppressive to Serafina. They entered the room, and although Serafina had steeled herself against the sight she knew awaited her, still when she saw her friend lying in her bed laced with crimson blood, her eyes opened wide and a silent scream issued from her mouth. Margaret’s throat was cut, and other slashes soaked the snow white shift she wore as if she had been in a slaughterhouse.
She moved closer and forced herself to look down. “The vocal cords were cut. She couldn’t have cried out.”
“The same as Lady Welles. I’m afraid there seems to be a pattern here.”
Serafina tore her eyes away from the body, unable to look at it. Her training seemed to have flown out the window. “Why would you say that?”
“It would be better if there were no patterns. This proves that the killer is methodical. If there are two murders, there may be three or half a dozen. There have been other serial killers, as they’re called, in England, like William Palmer, who poisoned a number of people.”
Serafina said, “I remember reading about that trial at the Old Bailey. He was convicted and executed by hanging, wasn’t he?” She shook her head and looked around the room, noticing what appeared to be unrelated items scattered over the floor. “Have you examined all these pieces of evidence?”
“I don’t know as you could call them that,” Matthew said grimly, his face set. “It’s the same as when Lady Welles was murdered. They’re all sorts of things that have no place here. I’ve made you a copy of a list that we compiled.”
Serafina took the paper and studied it:
small cameo of a woman
newspaper article about Gerhard Von Ritter
silver spoon
silver snuff box
fine handkerchief with “Violet” sewn in
small kitchen knife
small key
queen of hearts playing card