'Til Death Do Us Part (10 page)

T
RENT
OPENED
THE
door of the cab and kicked down the steps. He got out and reached back to assist Calista. It was the second time he had touched her. This time she thought she had braced herself for the strange little thrill that had whispered through her a half hour earlier when he had handed her up into the carriage.

She was wrong. When his powerful hand closed around her gloved fingers, another rush of sensation swept across her senses. It reminded her of the energy one felt in the atmosphere just before a summer storm struck. The promise of lightning was enough to make her pulse quicken.

Judging by his broad shoulders and the lithe, coordinated way he moved, she had known that Trent was a man in his prime. But when she experienced the masculine strength in him as she did when he handed her down from the carriage, she was even more intensely aware of him. That awareness reached deep into the very core of her being.

They were both maintaining a façade of cool control but she knew that Trent was tense with anticipation. So was she—which was no doubt the reason for her heightened sense of awareness, she decided.

They were here because of the note from Mrs. Fulton that Trent had received three hours ago. At last they were about to take positive action. She was fed up with not being able to do anything except wait for the next memento mori gift to arrive. Now, thanks to Trent deducing the source of the coffin bell, they appeared to be on the verge of a revelation.

They stood quietly for a moment, studying the fog-drenched scene. All of the shops, including J. P. Fulton's, were closed for the night. The rooms above the businesses were also dark. It was a quiet, respectable neighborhood that went to bed at an early hour. There were no taverns or music halls in the vicinity to draw an unsavory or boisterous crowd. No prostitutes congregated beneath the streetlamps. No pickpockets or drunkards hovered in the shadows.

“I shouldn't have let you come with me,” Trent said. “I don't know what the devil made me think this was a sound idea.”

“Common sense is what made you see reason,” Calista said. “Mrs. Fulton is a widow who no doubt lives alone. Furthermore, she is in the sort of business that demands an aura of dignity. If she is seen entertaining a single man in the middle of the night her livelihood might well be in jeopardy. My presence will reassure her and no doubt induce her to be more forthcoming.”

“She sent the note to me, not you. If she wants money she had better be prepared to be very forthcoming.”

“I would remind you yet again, Mr. Hastings, that this investigation is my affair. I appreciate your offer to assist me but I will not allow you to take control of it. I do hope that is clear.”

“I should not have sent word to you that I had received the note.”

“If you hadn't told me about it, I would have been furious.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid of my wrath?” She smiled, rather pleased. “That is good to know.”

He tightened his grip on his walking stick.

“Please don't make me regret my decision,” he said.

She glanced at him but the collar of his coat was pulled up, concealing much of his face. In the fog-and-gaslight shadows it was impossible to read his expression. He offered no more arguments, however. There was nothing additional to say on the subject and they both knew it. She was the reason he was involved in the affair in the first place. She had every right to be at his side.

He instructed the cab to wait and then clamped a hand around Calista's arm to steer her across the street.

They stopped at the entrance of the shop. The shades in the windows had all been lowered but a faint, ghostly light seeped out at the edges. The lamps inside had been turned down very low but they burned.

Trent knocked quietly.

“She's in there,” Calista said. “I wouldn't be surprised if she has grown anxious at the thought of meeting you alone.”

“Perhaps.”

Trent tested the knob with his gloved hand. It turned easily. He used his walking stick to ease the door open.

“Mrs. Fulton,” he said into the silence. “Miss Langley and I are here to speak with you.”

Calista moved into the salesroom. The dim light was coming from the coffin chamber at the rear of the shop.

“Mrs. Fulton?” Calista moved to the foot of the narrow stairs and raised her voice. “I do hope you don't mind that I accompanied Mr. Hastings tonight. I thought you might be more comfortable if there was a woman present.”

Somewhere in the darkness a floorboard creaked.

“This is not good,” Trent said quietly. “We need to leave. Now.”

“No,” Calista said quickly. “We can't leave, not yet. We must find out what she has to tell us.”

“Out.” Trent seized Calista's upper arm and yanked her away from the bottom of the stairs.

He started to give her a push toward the door. She hoisted her skirts so that she could run.

A tall figure exploded out of the shadows behind the counter and blocked the path to the front door. The spectral light from the coffin chamber glinted on the blade in his hand.

He did not hesitate for even an instant. He lunged toward Trent, the wicked knife outstretched for a killing thrust.

Trent swung his stout walking stick in a short, slicing arc aimed at the knife in the man's hand. Startled by the unexpected counterattack, the intruder reacted with a quick sideways movement and managed to retreat just out of range.

Calista knew there was little hope of escaping through the front door as long as the man with the knife was in the way, not unless Trent got lucky with the walking stick. And to do that, he would have to get closer to his opponent and risk the long blade.

Trent evidently came to the same conclusion. He hauled Calista back through the doorway of the coffin chamber. The man who was attacking them followed but more cautiously this time, wary of the walking stick.

The heel of Calista's high-button shoe caught on the hem of her petticoats. Frantically she struggled with her skirts but it was too late. She was off balance.

Trent released her abruptly, putting himself between her and the assailant. Helplessly entangled with her gown and underclothes, she reeled sideways and fetched up hard against an elaborately decorated coffin. The lid was open. She landed on her knees and grasped one edge of the ornate burial box for support.

She was about to push herself upright when she saw the body in the coffin. Mrs. Fulton gazed up at her with eyes that were blank with
the shock of death. Her throat was a bloody sash. The white satin interior of the box was stained a terrible crimson.

A primal roar of rage from the assailant made Calista whirl around. She saw that Trent had grabbed an urn off a pedestal. He used his free hand to heave the heavy object at the attacker.

Hemmed in by the closely spaced coffins, the attacker could not dodge out of the way. He threw up an arm to ward off the urn but it struck him with enough force to drive him back a couple of paces.

The big vase crashed to the floor, shattering into dozens of jagged shards. Both men ignored the debris.

The attacker recovered and surged forward again but he was careful not to get too close to Trent's walking stick. The situation would have been a standoff, Calista thought, if not for her.

The attacker seemed to realize that at the same instant that she did. He switched directions and lunged toward her. But she was already on her feet, skirts and petticoats hauled up to her knees. The assailant was fast and quite athletic but Calista had one singular advantage—she had anticipated that he might try to use her as a hostage a few seconds before the same notion occurred to him.

She slipped between two coffins and rushed down an aisle created by twin rows of burial boxes. She could hear the attacker behind her. She glanced back and saw that he was in the process of climbing over the coffin that contained Mrs. Fulton's body.

She raised her skirts higher and sidestepped between another pair of coffins.

Behind her she heard a soft, sickening thud. The unnerving sound was followed by an anguished howl of rage and pain. The attacker, Calista thought. Not Trent.

She reached the end of the row of coffins and grabbed an urn off a pedestal. It was similar to the one that Trent had employed. She had not expected it to be so heavy. She could barely hold on to it using both hands.

She swung around and saw that Trent had abandoned the walking stick in favor of a tall, ornamental iron stand designed to display a funeral wreath. It was long enough to be used against the attacker without making it necessary for Trent to get within striking range of the blade.

She realized that he had just employed the floral stand to reach across a row of coffins and strike the assailant.

Blood spurted from the intruder's head, some of it cascading down his face. He howled again and dashed the back of one gloved hand against his eyes. Simultaneously he tried to retreat out of range but he was hampered by the coffins that hemmed him in on either side.

Trent moved between two coffins. He was now in the same aisle as the intruder, blocking the path to Calista. He readied the iron stand for another savage blow.

The assailant abandoned the attack. He clambered over the nearest coffin and ran toward the door.

He rushed out of the display chamber, across the salesroom, and disappeared into the night. The blood from his wound marked his path.

T
RENT
LOOKED
AT
Calista.

“Are you all right?” he said.

His voice sounded harsh and fierce, even to his own ears. The energy of the recent violence was still heating his blood. His heart was pounding and he was breathing hard from exertion and the gut-twisting knowledge of what had almost happened. My fault, he thought.
I should never have let her come with me tonight
.
I was almost too late.

Another moment and the bastard would have had his hands on her.

I was almost too late
.

“Yes. Yes, I'm all right.” She glanced out the display chamber doorway toward the front entrance of the shop. “Do you think he will return?”

“We are not going to remain here to find out.” He tossed the heavy iron stand aside and moved into the next aisle of coffins to retrieve his walking stick. “Come. There is one thing I want to do before we leave.”

“He killed Mrs. Fulton.”

“What?”

“She's in that coffin.” Calista motioned toward a white coffin fitted with white satin. “See for yourself.”

“What in blazes?” Distracted, he went to the open coffin and looked down. Mrs. Fulton was, indeed, in the coffin. Her blood had soaked the satin lining. “It seems she will not require one of her husband's patented safety coffin bells.”

“That villain who tried to kill you must have been a burglar who broke in shortly before we arrived. He murdered Mrs. Fulton. We no doubt interrupted him while he was searching for valuables.”

“That's a possibility, but a rather remote one, I think.”

Calista moved down the aisle of coffins, careful not to look into the white, satin-lined box.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

She wanted a logical answer but he could tell from the shock in her eyes that she suspected the same thing he did.

“I can't be positive but I find it difficult to believe that, by sheer coincidence, someone murdered the proprietor of this shop within hours of me receiving the note that brought us here.”

“It was a trap.” Calista drew a shaky breath.

“It is the only logical assumption under the circumstances. We must leave.” He motioned her to go ahead of him down the aisle. “I can only hope the cab waited for us but with our luck the killer will have commandeered it.”

“What about Mrs. Fulton? There's been a murder here tonight. We cannot ignore it.”

“We do not want to be found at the scene. When you are safely home I will send a message to my acquaintance at the Yard.”

“You know someone at Scotland Yard?”

“I thought I made it clear that my research has provided me with a number of connections at various levels of Society. Inspector Wynn is a very capable policeman. More to the point, he can be counted
on to respect your privacy. I will give him an account of what happened here tonight and a description of the killer. There is no need for you to become involved.”

Calista did not argue. She understood as well as he did that getting caught up in a murder investigation would devastate her business.

He followed her into the salesroom. She went warily toward the door.

“One moment,” he said.

Calista paused, her hand on the knob, and glanced back. “What is it?”

“Mrs. Fulton's journal of sales transactions. With luck it's still here.”

He went behind the counter and struck a light. The leather-bound volume was precisely where he had watched Mrs. Fulton place it earlier that day. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm.

“Right,” he said. “Now we can leave.”

Outside, the fog still seethed in the streets but a great hush had fallen over the neighborhood. No ominous footsteps rang in the mist.

There was no cab, either.

“No surprise,” Trent said, “given the way our luck is running tonight.”