Druid's Daughter Read online

  Finally, after much discussion Lance and his men settled on three likely locations. There were others, but Lance decided to hold them in reserve, as they were either too close to St. Paul’s or too far to see the spire.

  Lance suddenly turned to Morgan. “Do you have normal eyesight, Morgan? No difficulty with eyestrain in reading, for instance?”

  She understood and thought the question an astute one.

  “I have good eyesight, my lord. And I am not notably far-sighted.”

  “Could you see the ground, Morgan?”

  She knew what he was really asking and blanched again as she answered.

  “No. I could only see the top parts if the fences. If there was a body on the ground I couldn’t see one. I focused on the writing on the back fence.”

  With a nod Lance turned back to his men.

  “I would like you to split up into three squadrons. I’ll head up one with Shriver and Thomas and Gilman can take the others. Be very careful. A murderer might be lurking around, or might not, but I don’t want any of you to take any chances. When you get there stay at your locations. If mine isn’t the right spot we’ll come along and check out yours.”

  “Lance, may I go too?”

  Blast, she’d forgotten she’d meant to keep him at a distance by using his title.

  His eyes were twinkling just a little as he came round the table, handed her her hat, put on his own and escorted her out the door. The reprehensible scoundrel had probably caught on to her little ploy.

  Still his voice was grim as he came close to her and commented for her ears alone, “Yes, I want you to come. I’ve saved the most likely spot for myself. I will want your corroboration if what we find is the same as your vision.”

  * * * * *

  Morgan and Lance went in his carriage with Shriver as usual driving, while five of his men followed in another cab. Morgan was silent, incredulous at the Lance she was discovering. One who valued her visions and her opinions. He’d sinned against her in caressing her to the point of idiocy and then disappearing. She didn’t dare forget he was capable of leaving her without a word. Yet in spite of herself this new Lance fascinated her.

  He tried to take her hand in the carriage, but she snatched it away. After giving her a sardonic smile, he turned and looked out the window. She did the same, although she saw little of what they passed. The man completely baffled her. Certainly as erratic as he seemed to be in his friendships, she’d be wise to guard her heart even more than she had.

  They’d long since come to one of the worst parts of town. Lance now watched the streets with tight-eyed intent. The houses were ramshackle, most of them narrow two-story houses with only one or at most two rooms to a floor. None of them had seen paint for a good many years. Refuse piled up in the streets and the smell was atrocious. The days had turned a little cooler and Morgan could only imagine the stench in the heat of summer. She could see a pump with a half-broken handle at the end of one street. How many homes did this one well supply?

  She’d never conceived of this kind of degrading poverty. No wonder her mother so much preferred living in the country. There, one could make a real difference. Here, any effort would be swept away by the sheer magnitude of the problem.

  Lance was leaning out the window, evidently watching for any signpost he could match to the map in his mind.

  “Ah,” his small sigh one of relief. “I think we are almost there. Morgan, I don’t have to ask you to register every point you can in that intelligent mind of yours. I think you’ll soon know if this is the right alley. The colors of the fences you described were quite specific.”

  He leaned even further out to shout to Shriver.

  “Turn right at the next corner, man. I think we’re here.”

  They were indeed there. Lance sucked in his breath and Morgan shut her eyes for a long moment. Before them extended a short alley, exactly as Morgan had described. Faded green planks on one side and weathered fencing on the other. In front of them was a whitewashed wall. Only now there were three Bible verse references written in smeared, uneven red. The red writing was surely in blood, running a little at the first set of letters and getting thinner as the script went along the fence. At the center bottom of the inscriptions was a faint “W”.

  And in front of the wall sprawled another pitiful, horribly murdered girl.

  Over the fence could be seen the marvelously beautiful spire of St. Paul’s. Morgan looked at the body once and then concentrated on the beauty she could see if she just raised her eyes.

  Lance leaped from the carriage before it stopped.

  “Damn it to bloody hell,” he cursed. “We’re too late once again.”

  Morgan was not offended by his language, indeed she thought the situation called for even stronger words. Almost in shock, she shifted her eyes and read the other two verses. The one to the left of center read Isaiah 13:11 and the one to the right was Proverbs 14:9. She memorized the references so she could look them up as soon as possible. She had little doubt they referred to retribution for sinners.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’d know what those numbers refer to, is there?” Morgan scrambled out of the carriage and went up to Lance, who was still standing staring at the corpse.

  “Oh god,” groaned Lance. “You shouldn’t have to see something like this. And the hell of it is I can’t take you right back. I have to do what I can do here. I’m so sorry, Morgan.”

  Morgan started to say everything was all right, when he hustled her back to the carriage almost bodily.

  “You’ve done your part by leading us here. Now get in there and stay. I don’t need anyone tampering with whatever clues there are.”

  He lifted her and sat her in the carriage and then closed the door. “Please, just this once do as I ask. I do not need to worry about you.”

  She started to bristle and then calmed down. He was right and she’d hate herself past enduring if she handicapped him in even the slightest manner. Beside, her stomach seemed to be doing the strangest flip-flops. She put her head down to her knees, but raised it as soon as she could. No way would she miss any action Lance might take. How thrilling to see him on the job, masterful, controlled and completely in charge of himself and his men.

  The second carriage with the five men arrived. Each officer filed out, going still and quiet as soon as he saw the body.

  “Keep away unless I call you up,” snapped Lance.

  He slowly circled the body.

  “This one’s different from the others.” Morgan thought he meant to train his men as he called out what he saw.

  “She’s on her back, which is a big departure. I’m guessing when he asked her for sex from the rear she’d read or heard enough to panic. The newspapers are getting that warning out at least, although they didn’t much help this poor girl. Her skirts are not drawn up, so I imagine she turned and tried to run. Yes, this one is different, her throat is bruised. I think he strangled her before he cut her throat. Probably strangled her to keep her from escaping. Yes. He stabbed her after she was dead, there’s no blood around the slash in her blouse. He seems to want to kill again and again. She was unconscious, although not quite dead when he cut her throat. There’s more blood this time, which gave him all he needed to write with.”

  He paced around again and then bent over the body and sniffed.

  “And once again the bloody bastard masturbated over the corpse. This spot is quite fresh and most definitely semen.”

  Morgan shrank back into the corner of the cab. Lance had forgotten she was there. She didn’t want him to think of her right now. Never would he be talking so frankly if he’d remembered her presence.

  Lance went on ruminating. Morgan wondered if he wanted to clear his own mind or to keep instructing his officers.

  “But he’s the same killer, I have no doubt. He deviated into a little different modus operandi, but still left his trademarks. Now we just have to figure out why he wrote the Bible verses. Not too much dou
bt about that either. He’s obsessed with punishing whores. There’s so much sick hostility evidenced that I pray nobody gets in his way before we catch him.”

  He paced once again around the body, but again did not touch it.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope he left a fingerprint when he wrote on the wall. Probably wore gloves the whole time.”

  He walked over to the fence, staring at the writing.

  “I don’t suppose any of you can pinpoint the references?”

  His men shook their heads and Lance’s lips curved in a grimace of his usual attractive grin.

  “Too much to expect, I guess. Let’s get the coroner and the rest of the crew out here. Donaldson, you and Thomas stay here with the body. Make absolutely sure nobody comes near the corpse.”

  He vaulted into the carriage and sat fuming. Morgan didn’t want to remind him she was there, so she sat in silence. When they were almost back to the station, Lance roused himself and picking up her hand, kissed its back. Then, turning her hand over, he set his lips on her palm. Was this his way of apologizing for what she’d been forced to see?

  Morgan didn’t make a sound. She didn’t want Lance to have any idea how warm and exciting she found his lips even through her gloves. Even with such a simple gesture and at such a time.

  He dropped her hand and looked out the window. There was another silence, although the air seemed to vibrate. She wished she could read the blasted man’s thoughts just this once!

  When he spoke, his voice sounded completely steady.

  “I’m so sorry you had to see such a horrible sight. I would have spared you if I could. Still, thanks to you we were quicker on the scene than the others. Perhaps this will make some difference in the long run.”

  “Lance, my feelings are not a bit important compared to that poor girl.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” he sighed. “Still I wish I could be with you tonight and help you erase that terrible memory from your mind. But I can’t. We’ll doubtless be up most of the night. Is your mother at home yet?”

  Morgan smiled. He wasn’t up on everything in London, then.

  “No, she’s still gone. And I’m staying right now at the Commissioner’s house with Jamie. The Commissioner is doubtless having his hands full trying to persuade my mother to marry him.”

  Lance raised his eyebrows, but asked no questions. He didn’t release her hand, but held it until they reached Commissioner Randall’s house. She didn’t think Lance was conscious of how very tightly he gripped it.

  He insisted on escorting her to the Commissioner’s door. She gravely bid him goodnight as he watched until she was safely inside.

  When would she see him again? She didn’t know why she cared so much about the answer, but she did. If past performance was any hint she might be in for a long wait.

  She sighed as she turned toward the stairs to her room.

  * * * * *

  After Lance and Morgan left the alley, the murderer moved stealthily away from the back of the fence where he’d been lurking.

  The damned slut. So she’d somehow led the police to his latest victim! How in hell had she known? He’d had a close call. Much too close. Lucky for him he’d heard the carriages coming. Still he’d barely had time to vault the fence before the police were there.

  What were the bloody Bobbies now thinking about his inspiration of the Bible verses? How he hoped they’d all be printed in the newspapers. He wanted every cursed whore in London to be afraid to ply her satanic trade.

  Now his mind locked onto a new and imperative mission. Lucky Lance’s latest inamorata was doomed for her interference. It would be easy to discover the name of the bitch in the carriage. Whore or so-called lady, he’d find her out. All women were whoring Jezebels anyway.

  He’d make her pay twelve times over. He wouldn’t be so merciful as to give her as easy a death as the others. She’d meddled in his affairs and she must pay.

  His insane thoughts cackled in his mind, as he ran in silence from the scene of his latest butchering.

  This victim’s death throes had been most satisfactory. He’d loved the terror in her eyes before he strangled her. Perhaps he’d made a mistake killing the others before cutting their throats. His sexual satisfaction was even greater with this one. All was going so well until the police arrived.

  It galled him to the point of fury he’d never be able to personally pay back the whore who’d once refused and laughed at him. She’d even had the nerve to call him insane. She’d died of tuberculosis a few months ago, but there was a plentitude of sisters in sin he could punish in her stead.

  Of course he hadn’t been caught. Close, but once again he’d proved too smart for the bloody coppers.

  Before he took care of another whore, he must take care of Lucky Lance’s woman. His madman’s eyes lit when he considered the increased pleasure he’d be sure to savor as he slowly killed her. Very slowly. He’d truly take his time with this slut. The sexual satisfaction would be extraordinary with her.

  Lord Lance would never be called “Lucky” again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lance sent word both to the Commander and to Commissioner Randall requesting an immediate conference. Word came back Commissioner Randall was out of town on personal business and did not wish to be disturbed unless the matter was vital. Lance immediately went storming into the Commissioner’s office.

  “How dare you put me off when I need to reach the Commissioner? Give me his address at once.”

  The secretary gave one look at Lance’s darkened face and stammered out the address of an inn in Kent. Lance immediately dispatched a messenger to inform Randall of the horrible new developments.

  Devon Randall received the message that evening at the Three Chimneys Inn in Bibbenden. He was amused every day when he walked out and could only count two chimneys. The garrulous landlord relished telling him the name came from a corruption of the French words “trois chemins” for the conjunction of three roads where the Inn stood. During the Seven Years’ War with the French, French prisoners kept at nearby Sissinghurst Castle were forbidden to go beyond the junction of the three roads in the village. The Inn and its unusual name were a source of great pride to all the villagers.

  Whitewashed and half-timbered, the old inn proved a delightful place to stay. The friendliness of the townsfolk more than made up for tiny rooms. He’d walked twice a day to Viviane’s home, a distance of only about three miles. The countryside looked and smelled delightful and he felt as if he were walking through one of the most beautiful gardens in England. Of constant entertainment and interest were the fertile fields of hops he passed along the road. No wonder the ale at the Three Chimneys was excellent!

  Viviane’s home was as charming as he’d expected, but much larger. A spacious country manor surrounded by fields, streams and a delightful wood blazoned the fact his love was not destitute. A big plus was that although he wasn’t making progress with Viviane at least all his walking provided exercise.

  Devon tapped the envelope from Lance against his thigh and whistled through his teeth. He did not need this. He badly wanted to stay where he was, hoping he could dream up some way to smash Viviane’s resistance. Still these murders were his responsibility, at least until they were solved. He knew no way in honor to avoid going back to London.

  His face resigned, he sat down to write Viviane a short note telling her the recent developments. He ended his explanation for his departure with a few short sentences. “I will tender my resignation as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police the day I return to London, to take effect at the termination of this case. Then I’ll be back to claim you. Your Devon, loving you for all of time.”

  While Devon was throwing his few belongings into his valise, Lance demanded a session with his Commander, who heard him out, looked down his lorgnette and again told Lance he was in charge and to use his best judgment. Exactly what Lance expected, but the formalities were there to be observed. Not for the first time he wondere
d if he’d been too hasty in refusing to be promoted to Commander. This one was worse than useless.

  In his own office, he sent for a Bible. Doubtless clever Morgan had already looked up the references. As suspected, both verses targeted sinners. Isaiah thirteen verse eleven contained the words “and I will punish the wicked for their iniquity” and Proverbs fourteen, verse nine ended with the phrase “and the lamp of the wicked shall be put out”.

  He sat thinking for a long time. The stiletto type knife had again been used, but this time after the victim was already dead. The heart was directly pierced but from a frontal angle. The stabbing itself revealed a frightening violence, even more than those before. A great deal of strength was needed to drive a thin knife so far into a body. Even more worrisome loomed the fact there was no need for this thrust to the heart. The first two he’d killed and then mutilated. The first stabbings were in identical spots and a methodical killer could have ascertained his target from books. This new direct hit from a different direction disturbed Lance.

  He was afraid the murderer’s violence was growing. He was beginning to form a hazy picture of the villain. This was a seriously disordered mind. A killer who was convinced he labored under God’s sanction and directions from the Holy Bible itself.

  He’d already ordered a search of doctors in London against whom complaints were once filed. A necessary first step and yet it consumed more policemen than he liked. He’d not forgotten a doctor was a chief suspect in the Ripper case and that particular doctor immigrated to the Americas. Now Lance felt he needed to extend the search to medical schools where students had dropped out of training, or were released for some kind of unusual problem. Lance thought it likely the perpetrator of these crimes evidenced disquieting traits a long time ago. There always lurked the chance the killer had studied on his own, but the accuracy of the latest stabbing seemed to argue against this theory.