Chapter 4

4

April, 1818

A pprehension clung to Peter Kendrick's shoulders as he climbed the steps of Number 21 Albemarle Street. The chief magistrate would not summon him to his private residence without good reason, and Peter very much feared that reason involved him having to stand to account for failing to catch the man who'd murdered Miss Fairchild, Lady Camille, and Miss Irvine.

Inhaling deeply, he drew back his shoulders and used the knocker.

"Yes?" asked the slender middle-aged man who answered his call. His aloof expression left no doubt in Peter's mind that this was the butler, though it did surprise him a little that his superior could afford one. His own salary barely covered his monthly expenses.

"Chief Constable Peter Kendrick to see Sir Nigel Clemens," Peter said, his voice so even and dry there would be no debating that he preferred to be anywhere else.

"Of course. Do come in." The reed-like servant stepped aside, allowing Peter to enter a narrow foyer. "Your hat and gloves, sir?"

Peter handed him the items, then waited while the butler went to announce his arrival. Moments later, he was shown into the chief magistrate's study.

Sir Nigel had always struck Peter as an imposing figure of a man with wide shoulders, thick salt and pepper hair, and sharp eyes.

"Chief Constable," the magistrate said, his voice tight as he rose from behind his desk. "Thank you for coming."

Peter answered the greeting with a firm nod while trying to gauge his superior's mood. "Of course."

Sir Nigel held his gaze. "Would you care for some tea or coffee?"

"Coffee would be welcome."

The order was placed and then Sir Nigel motioned Peter to one of the chairs in front of his desk before returning to his own seat. He leaned forward, interlocking his fingers on top of the mahogany surface as he began to speak.

"Judging from your silence regarding the murderer responsible for the deaths of those three young ladies last year, I'll assume you're no closer to seizing him now than you were seven months ago."

Peter shifted uneasily in his seat. A dressing down it was then. Not that he didn't deserve it. He'd failed those women, failed their families, and failed the city as a whole. Hell, those crime scenes still kept him awake most nights. Despite every effort on Bow Street's part, there had been no progress in finding the killer or identifying a motive for the murders.

All he could do was pray that there was a reason why he'd not managed to track down the villain. Hopefully, the bastard himself had met with a tragic end and no longer posed a threat.

Even as he thought it, an icy shiver slid down his spine. Unfortunately, such luck was rare. Nevertheless, he raised his chin. "Evidence was lacking. The two men I brought in for questioning were quickly let go."

One had provided a compelling alibi. Sir Nigel himself had vouched for Lundquist. Peter hadn't liked that one bit. Given the severity of the case, he'd considered it an abuse of power. Especially since the measurement Peter had taken of the footprint left at the crime scene matched the size of the marquess's.

But what could he do? Not a lot, it would seem. Sir Nigel had simply reminded him that thousands of men shared that size.

"I think we can both agree they were unlikely suspects."

Peter was tempted to argue, but chose to refrain. Instead he said, "As you are aware, we have deduced that the man who did this is upper class."

"That has been your conclusion, Mr. Kendrick. One based on nothing more than supposition." A maid arrived at that moment. She served the coffee with efficient movements and swiftly departed. Sir Nigel leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking beneath his bulk. "It is a theory I refuse to subscribe to until you provide me with concrete proof."

A challenge, to be sure. "The fingernails of all three victims were clean."

"I beg your pardon?"

"They showed no sign of struggle."

"Your point?"

Peter stared at the magistrate. How could he not see it? To be sure, rumor did suggest that he'd been unwell of late, but still… He took a deep breath. "The killer was either so stealthy that he was able to sneak up on them and deliver the fatal wounds before they realized what was occurring, or he was someone they had no cause to fear. A man they happily approached with no concern for their well-being."

The deadly wounds had been dealt at extremely close range.

"Again, without witnesses, something left behind at the crime scene, or even a disgruntled suitor lurking somewhere in one of these women's pasts, you're at a dead end."

Peter was well aware of the fact. He hated every second the monster who'd done this went unpunished as much as he'd hated showing the Irvines their daughter's lifeless body.

Some parts of the job were best forgotten. But there had been one thing. Each woman had burned a piece of paper before she'd gone to meet her demise. Remnants had been found in their bedchambers when he'd searched them. He was convinced it had to have been a letter inviting them to their secret rendezvous, but with nothing but ash left behind, he had no proof.

"Powerful people are very unhappy with our incompetence in this matter," Sir Nigel said bluntly, jolting Peter out of his reverie. "Complaints have been made. Most notably by the Earl of Hightower, as I'm sure you can understand."

The earl's daughter, Lady Camille, had been the second victim. Her body had been discovered beneath Westminster Bridge.

"It ought not surprise you," Sir Nigel continued, "that the earl has the whole bloody peerage up in arms over this. The Prince Regent himself has written to me, demanding answers. To put it bluntly, our jobs are at stake, Mr. Kendrick. Yours especially."

The gravity of Sir Nigel's words weighed heavily on Peter. It took a great deal of effort for him not to slump in his chair. Instead, he sat straighter and reached for his coffee. He frowned at the steaming hot liquid before allowing himself a soothing sip.

"I can begin again, review the entire case from start to finish. It's possible I missed something. At the very least, it should appease the public by making it look like we're not giving up."

Sir Nigel sighed heavily. "Unless you expect to do what you've been unable to do until now, within the next couple of days, I propose we come up with something else."

"Sir?"

"I'm not saying we should stop hunting for the killer, but we do need an immediate distraction. A victory if you will. Something that will take attention away from Bow Street's lack of progress in this matter." His gaze fell upon Peter who did his best to refrain from showing emotion. Sir Nigel cleared his throat before speaking again. "I suggest we go after Adrian Croft."

Peter almost dropped his cup. The dainty piece of porcelain dipped, spilling hot coffee on his thigh. He winced and set the cup aside on the desk. "We've tried before without result. Are you sure another attempt won't make us look even more foolish?"

"I'll admit it's a gamble," Sir Nigel murmured. He drummed his fingers lazily on his armrest while seeming to ponder his options. "However, all things considered, it's one I'm prepared to make. If we can remove Adrian Croft, the newly minted King of Portman Square, from the game, everyone of consequence will breathe more easily. The prince included. Instead of demands for answers, we shall be thanked, celebrated even."

The chief magistrate wasn't wrong. Bow Street had always suspected the Crofts of building their wealth through nefarious means. Acquaintances of theirs had mysteriously vanished on several occasions after speaking against them. According to what Peter himself had managed to piece together, the family traded in damning secrets, playing people against one another, and providing favors in exchange for political gain.

Their influence made them the most sought-after allies and the most hated foes within London Society. And yet…

"We've never been able to prove their involvement in any illegal matters. Everyone connected to them is either incredibly loyal or too afraid of what will happen if they betray them."

"Correct. They've always seen us coming and as such, they've always been prepared. Mr. George Croft was especially careful – sly as a fox, that one. But he's gone now and his son is in charge. Mr. Adrian Croft is younger, less experienced and, most importantly, unmarried."

Peter tried to work out the logic behind those words, only to find himself saying, "I'm not sure how that signifies."

A smug smile stretched Sir Nigels's lips into a tight line. He leaned forward once more, pausing as he folded his arms on the table. "It signifies because it allows us the chance to use The Nightingale Project on him."