Chapter 2

2

C hief Constable Peter Kendrick arrived at Vauxhall just after dawn. He stepped from the hackney carriage, paid the driver, and lit a cheroot before proceeding toward the pleasure garden's front entrance where one of his Runners was stationed.

"Lewis," he said, greeting the younger man with a stiff nod. "Give me the details while we walk."

Lewis swallowed, the hesitance in his eyes informing Peter that he had no wish to accompany him. But rather than argue, the younger man straightened his shoulders. "Of course."

Peter set his cheroot to his lips and pulled the smoky flavor into his lungs. He nodded toward the entrance while exhaling through his nose. "That bad?"

"Worst I've ever seen, sir."

Peter considered Lewis. He'd been off duty when Miss Fairchild had been murdered in June, and again when Lady Camille's body was found last month. Judging from his queasy expression, Lewis was sorry he'd not been off duty this morning as well.

"Right," Peter told him. "Best get on with it then, hadn't we?"

"Aye, sir."

Peter brushed past him and started walking. It wouldn't take long to know if the murder committed last night was connected to the previous ones.

Lewis followed, directing him toward the right and onto a graveled path. A hushed atmosphere enveloped the garden, adding an eeriness made more pronounced by the mist dispersing across the ground.

"A gardener made the discovery," Lewis began. "He was getting ready to trim the tree branches growing too close to the wall when he happened upon the young woman's body."

"Any idea who she is?" Peter asked.

"None. She's still wearing her mask from last night's masquerade. However, a Mr. and Mrs. Irvine did file a missing person's report. Their daughter, Miss Alice Irvine, went missing at Vauxhall yesterday evening."

"How the hell does that even happen?"

"No idea, sir. She must have wandered off."

Peter sent Lewis a sideways glance. "Cause of death?"

Lewis clenched his jaw as he met Peter's gaze. "Her throat was slit and…"

The young Runner drew to a halt and bent over, hands clasped on his shins. His breaths came heavy and fast, as though he were fighting the urge to vomit. When he finally straightened, he looked a touch paler. "No one should die as she did. It's morbid beyond compare."

Peter reckoned Lewis was right. And although he'd suspected he knew what he'd find, he was still shocked by the sight that greeted him when he stepped between the trees moments later and caught his first glimpse of the victim.

Her body, dressed in a light-blue shepherdess costume, was not only still and lifeless, but stained by the blood that had spilled from her throat. It was a ghastly sight, not just a thin slash, but a deep and damaging wound. Her glassy blue eyes stared at the sky from behind her white satin mask, and her faded pink lips were parted as if in a whisper.

Pinned to the front of her bodice, was a square piece of paper containing one word, written in thick black ink. WHORE.

Peter drew a sharp breath as he surveyed the scene. Although this wound was deeper than the ones on Miss Fairchild and Lady Camille, the cause of death was as identical as the note left behind.

Despite having twenty-seven years of experience dealing with the darker side of humanity, Peter still shuddered. The air was thick with the sickly-sweet smell of death, and the sight of the corpse, her skin pale and cold, made his stomach churn. He couldn't help but imagine her final moments. Thankfully, her dress was intact and her positioning gave no indication of any sexual violation.

He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, deliberately cutting off all his emotions so he could be objective. When he was ready, he bent to remove the victim's mask, gently peeling it back to reveal her face.

A quiet rage built inside him as he beheld her youthful beauty. It wasn't fair. What kind of monster had done this?

He glanced at the Runners positioned nearby before fixing his gaze on Lewis. The poor man kept his attention well off the ground. Peter didn't blame him. "Lewis, I'll need to speak with the Irvines – see if this is their missing daughter. You have their address?"

"Yes, sir."

Peter huffed a breath. This was the kind of news every parent dreaded. "Call on them. Take Anderson with you and have the Irvines accompany you to the Bow Street office. I'll meet them there."

Peter watched the two men stride off. Anderson, an older more seasoned member of the force, would lend the support Lewis needed.

Lowering into a crouch, Peter scanned the area for evidence, his gaze fierce and focused. The ground had been disturbed to suggest the frenzied movement of feet. Most likely the victim's as she'd fought to free herself from the killer's grasp. A larger set of footprints were imbedded in the dirt, and Peter quickly ordered measurements to be taken.

There were several broken twigs and branches as well, indicating that whoever had done this had fled the scene quickly. Leaning forward, he examined the body, looking for any additional clues, but none stood out. Hopefully the coroner would have greater success. If they were lucky, they'd find something meaningful under her nails, like a piece of fabric or some hair.

If not…

He sighed and stood, hating the fact that another woman might die before he managed to track down the killer.

* * *

It was almost nine by the time Peter entered the Bow Street Magistrate's Court. Interviewing the gardener who'd discovered the victim had taken some time. The elderly man had been so shaken he'd barely been able to speak.

Peter swallowed the last of the bread roll he'd managed to buy from a bakery on his way over and wiped the crumbs from his fingers. He then greeted a couple of Runners and started toward his office, only to halt when Lewis came striding toward him.

"The Irvines are here," he said, his expression grim. "I showed them into your office."

"What did you tell them?"

"That you might have some news about their daughter." Lewis held up a file with some papers inside. "The missing person's report, in case you'd like to go over it first."

"Thank you." Peter took the papers and scanned the description the Irvine's had provided. He then glanced toward his office door. For now, those people had hope. Unfortunately, he was about to crush that. "I'll need some coffee first."

"There's a fresh pot in the back room. I can fetch you a cup if you like?"

"Thanks, but I'll manage." Peter began turning away, then thought of something and said, "See if you can get hold of the rest of Vauxhall's employees and have them come in for an interview. It's possible one of them witnessed something."

Stepping back to let another Runner past, Lewis said, "I can also put an announcement in the paper asking anyone who was there last night to come forward with information."

"Let's wait on that. I'd rather keep the investigation as private as possible for now, though I do appreciate your line of thinking. What you may want to do is locate the files on Miss Fairchild and Lady Camille. Their cases have the same modus operandi."

Lewis nodded and Peter went to pour himself a cup of coffee. He took a sip and savored the heat as it slid down his throat. Right. Time to meet with the Irvines.

He told himself it was part of the job and that someone had to do it. Might as well be him. But delivering bad news never got easier, no matter how many times he did it. Lady Camille's mother, the Countess of Hightower, had flung herself at him when he'd spoken to her, beating him with her fists while shouting that it wasn't true – that he must have made a mistake. Miss Fairchild's parents had been more stoic, but their pain had been palpable nonetheless.

Despite his feet being heavy, Peter forced himself to walk down the hallway. He had to get past this so he could move on with his investigation and try to find justice for these three women.

On that thought, he opened the door to his office and greeted the Irvines.

They rushed to their feet and stood before him, hope brimming in their watery eyes, like sunshine dancing on dewdrops. The husband stepped forward first and stuck out his hand.

Peter shook it and wished the murdered woman was someone else's daughter – that the awful heartbreak waiting around the corner could be delayed just a little bit longer.

"A couple of Runners came by our house this morning," said Mr. Irvine as soon as the introductions were out of the way. "He told us there was news about Alice."

"Possibly." Peter glanced between the couple. "Would either of you like something to drink?"

Mr. Irvine sent his wife a questioning look, in response to which she shook her head.

"Very well then." Peter gestured toward the chairs they'd been using before his arrival. "Please have a seat. As I understand it, your daughter went missing last night while the three of you were enjoying an evening out together at Vauxhall. Correct?"

"That's right." Mr. Irvine glanced toward the piece of paper Peter had placed on top of his desk. "We gave the clerk a description of her."

Peter kept his expression carefully schooled. "If you don't mind, I'd like you to tell me about your evening, up until the point where Alice disappeared."

He needed to understand what had happened – how it had happened. It was vital he got as many details out of the Irvine's before he delivered the damning news. After that, they'd likely be incapable of any coherent thought.

Mr. Irvine leaned forward, propping his forearm on his thigh. He frowned at Peter. "I was led to believe that you'd be the one giving us information. Not the other way around."

"They haven't found her," Mrs. Irvine muttered. "Have you?"

"Please," Peter said, his eyes on the husband. "What time did you arrive at the gardens?"

Mr. Irvine flattened his mouth and leaned back. For a moment, Peter didn't believe he'd answer. But then a distant look entered his eyes and he finally said, "Our carriage dropped us off around eight o' clock. There were six of us, including our sons and youngest daughter. We were all dressed in costume, because of the event."

Peter didn't bother asking him to elaborate on that. The shepherdess costume was already mentioned in the missing person report. "Did you have supper upon your arrival, or did you stroll about?"

"We had supper, after which we went to watch the cascade. There was a ballet performance after that. It was scheduled to last fifteen minutes and I…" Mr. Irvine drew a shaky breath. "It was a very good show. Absorbing. I never noticed Alice's disappearance until it was over and I turned to ask her opinion. Only she wasn't there."

"Did either of her siblings see where she went?"

Mrs. Irvine shook her head. "No."

"Were you familiar with any of the other spectators? Anyone we might be able to call upon and question?"

"I…I don't recall," Mr. Irvine muttered. He reached for his wife's hand and clasped it tight. "The Marquess of Lundquist approached Alice earlier in the evening, at the cascade. They exchanged a few words before he strolled off."

Peter made a note of it. "Are the two of them friends?"

"They've danced together a few times at various social events, but he's never called on her or invited her out for a walk," Mr. Irvine informed him. "I don't believe they're especially close."

"So you would say it's unlikely that the marquess convinced your daughter to meet him for a rendezvous while you were distracted by the ballet." Peter kept his voice soft as he spoke, for he knew what he implied would not be well received.

Mrs. Irvine blanched. "Alice would never resort to such mischief. She's a decent person, Mr. Kendrick, not the sort to be led astray by a man. Not even by a marquess."

Apparently, Mrs. Irvine didn't know her daughter well. Or maybe she did and the killer had made a mistake? Peter considered that possibility. It had been dark and Alice was wearing a mask when she met her fate between those trees.

"If anything," Mr. Irvine said, his voice stiff, "she received word that one of her friends was in need of help and went to lend her assistance."

An unrealistic theory, Peter decided, considering she had since failed to return. He glanced at his coffee and wished it were brandy, then folded his arms on the table.

"Mr. and Mrs. Irvine," he began while doing his best to keep his voice level, "I regret to inform you that a young woman was found murdered at Vauxhall this morning. She matches your daughter's description, though I cannot say for certain—"

Mrs. Irvine's anguished cry cut him off. Her slender body doubled over in pain as she wept with heaving sobs. Mr. Irvine slid from his chair and crouched before her, his arms embracing her as best he could while tears slid down his cheeks.

He glanced at Peter. "It cannot be true. I want to see her. Just to be sure."

"Of course." Peter stood from behind his desk and crossed to the door. "Take as much time as you need. I'll accompany you to the morgue when you're ready."

He left the office, closing the door on his way out. The Irvines still held on to some small sliver of hope, but Peter already knew this too would soon be gone. There was no doubt in his mind. The woman he'd seen in Vauxhall that morning would soon be identified as Alice Irvine.