'Til Death Do Us Part (13 page)

“Even though he's not the man who attacked us?” Calista said.

Andrew frowned. “Mr. Hastings is right. There must be a connection between Kettering and the man with the knife. It defies logic to think that it is all a bizarre coincidence.”

“Yes, it does,” Trent said. “I can think of one version of a story that fits the facts that we have obtained. The tale goes like this: After having married his heiress, Kettering is now back in London. He has what he wanted, a wealthy bride, but he cannot forget that you rejected him. After obsessing on that rejection for many months he decides to exact revenge. He buys the memento mori items and arranges to have them sent to you. But when we turn the tables and track down Mrs. Fulton, he panics and hires someone to get rid of her.”

“And you as well,” Andrew added. “The note about the appointment at Fulton's was sent to you, sir, not Calista.”

Calista looked at Trent. “You're suggesting that Nestor hired a professional killer to murder Mrs. Fulton and you?”

“As I said, it's a story that fits the facts that we have at the moment.”

“This is not a story, sir. This is my life we are talking about.”

“I'm an author, Calista.” Trent sounded abruptly weary. “The older I get, the more I am convinced that a truth only makes sense when it is revealed in the form of a story. Without that context it is simply a random event with no meaning. It cannot teach us anything and it cannot be used for any purpose. But a good story—that is another thing altogether. It can set us on a new path. It may be the wrong path, but at least it takes us somewhere.”

“Such as?” Andrew asked.

“In this case, the story raises a logical question,” Trent said. “Where does a gentleman go to hire another gentleman who is skilled in the art of murder?”

Calista considered that. “An excellent question, but where does one go for the answer?”

“As it happens, I know someone who may be able to point us in the right direction. But first we need a better understanding of the mind of the killer.”

“We know one thing about him,” Calista said. She shivered. “It is obvious that he is mentally unbalanced.”

“I agree,” Trent said. “Which means that my brother might be able to give us some guidance. Harry is a doctor who has developed an avid interest in the new science of psychology.”

“Yes, your sister mentioned that,” Calista said.

“With luck he may be able to provide us with some insights into the character of the man we are hunting.”

“What good will it do us to talk to a doctor?” Andrew asked. “We already know we're dealing with a madman who is capable of murder.”

“If we gain some understanding of the nature of the man we are pursuing, we may be able to predict his actions,” Trent said.

“I would remind both of you that we are making some very big
leaps here,” Calista said. “We do not even know why this madman murdered Mrs. Fulton tonight.”

“I think we can fit her into our story with a bit of speculation,” Trent said. “I wouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Fulton attempted to blackmail the customer who purchased the memento mori objects. That explains why she was so vague about her answers when we interviewed her today.”

“She attempted to blackmail Nestor Kettering and got murdered for her pains?” Andrew asked. “Yes, that makes sense.”

Calista shook her head. “I don't know what to think, Trent. This is all getting so complicated and so very dangerous.”

Andrew and Trent exchanged glances. Belatedly she realized that she had used Trent's name for the first time in the conversation, and in a casual manner that signaled the new level of intimacy between them. So be it, she thought. Trent had been right earlier. Considering what they had been through together, they had every right to employ each other's first name.

“We may be able to untangle some of the threads if we acquire more information about Nestor Kettering,” Trent said. He looked at Andrew. “You have had some experience discovering the truth about the finances, marital status, and character of the men who apply to Calista's agency. Would you be willing to dig a little deeper into Kettering's background?”

Andrew frowned. “I told you, he's a fortune hunter who married an heiress. What more do you want to know?”

“I won't have the answer to that question until you discover something that we don't already know about him—something that gives us another chapter in our story.”

“The servants,” Andrew said. Enthusiasm gleamed in his eyes. “They always know what is going on inside a household. I have had some luck in the past with inquiries among the staff who serve in a gentleman's house.”

Trent looked amused. “You do, indeed, have the right instincts for this sort of work.”

Andrew made a face. “Some would say it's just an excuse to indulge my natural sense of curiosity. But I like to think that my research into the backgrounds of Calista's clients has helped her keep a few cads and fortune hunters off her list.”

“That is very true,” Calista said.

It occurred to her that Andrew was looking considerably more cheerful, more enthusiastic, than he had been a moment ago. Trent had assigned him a task to fulfill.

“Perhaps we should give this plan some more thought,” she said. “Making inquiries of Kettering's household staff might carry some risk.”

Andrew scowled. “I would remind you that I am not without experience in this sort of thing.”

“The inquiries you make for me are different.”

“Damn it, Calista—”

“I believe Andrew will be reasonably safe, at least for now,” Trent said. He gave Andrew a sharp look. “Assuming he exercises some common sense and takes precautions to hide his identity.”

“Absolutely,” Andrew vowed.

“At this point Kettering has no way of knowing that we are focusing our attention on him. He won't be aware that we have the journal.”

Andrew grinned and opened the door. “I'll get started first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, if you will excuse me, I will get some sleep.”

He disappeared out into the hall.

My little brother has now become my protector, Calista thought. My world is changing.

T
HE
DOCTOR
WAS
nervous. His fingers shook a little as he set the stitches in the wound. He'd been paid well to come out late at night to attend the patient. The explanation provided was that the gentleman had suffered a fall down the stairs and taken a nasty blow to his head. One could hardly leave a man to bleed until morning, not when the man was willing to pay double the doctor's usual fee. After all, the address was in a respectable neighborhood, not some dangerous, unlit street in the stews.

But one look at the man who answered the door had chilled the doctor's blood. There was something unnerving about the patient, something the doctor could not put his finger on but that made him wish quite devoutly that he had not been available when the summons had come.

The patient was nude above the waist. There was a pile of blood-drenched garments in the corner of the firelit room.

The patient had said little but when he did speak his accents were those of a well-bred gentleman. That should have been reassuring. But
the sight of the strange little altar was almost too much for the doctor's nerves. There was a sheathed knife on top. A photograph hung on the wall above it. He wondered if he had been called out to tend a practitioner of the occult.

“I understand you fell down the stairs?” the doctor said. The last thing he wanted to do was converse with the patient but in his anxiety he found himself needing to shatter the frightening silence.

“Yes.”

“You were fortunate. I have stopped the bleeding but a blow to the head is always concerning. Were you unconscious for any length of time?”

“No.”

“In that case I don't expect that you will have any lasting problems, although you will likely have a headache for a day or so. I will leave you some medicine to ease the pain.”

The patient did not respond. He remained stoic as the last few stitches were set.

The doctor finished up quickly, wrapped the patient's head in a clean bandage, and then hastily closed up his satchel. He headed toward the door, intent only on escape.

“That should take care of things,” he said over his shoulder.

“One moment.”

The doctor froze. The door was at least three, perhaps four strides away. His mouth went dry.

“Yes?” he managed.

“Your payment.”

The doctor turned slowly, his heart pounding. “Quite all right. Happy to have been of service.”

Without a word the patient held out some banknotes. The doctor stared at them, mesmerized.

“Your payment,” the patient said softly.

The doctor took two steps toward the patient, grabbed the banknotes, and fled to the door.

He did not breathe freely until he was safely aboard the hansom and on his way home. He thought about the strange altar, the sheathed blade, and the photograph. He shuddered. He had no idea of the identity of the woman in the picture but he pitied her. She had the misfortune to be the focus of the attention of a very dangerous man.

He just hoped that the woman was still alive. Because whatever had occurred tonight, he was quite certain that the patient had not taken a tumble down the stairs.

W
HEN
TH
E
DOOR
closed behind Andrew, Calista gave Trent a long, considering look.

“I am not quite sure how you did it, but you succeeded in calming Andrew's temper,” she said. “For that, you have my gratitude. A short time ago I feared that you and he would come to blows. Now the relationship between the two of you appears almost cordial.”

“Your brother needs to feel useful, Calista. Every man, rich or poor, needs a profession of some kind.”

“I do understand that.” She rose from her chair and crossed the room to stand in front of the fire. “Lately it has become clear that he yearns to be more independent. Soon he will want to move out of this house and into his own lodgings. I suspect that the only reason he is still here is because he doesn't feel right about leaving me on my own.”

Trent moved to stand beside her. “In spite of the quarreling this evening—or perhaps because of it—it is obvious that the two of you are close.”

“We are the last of our line. There is no one else now that Grandmother is gone. She took us in and left us this house and a little money but she never approved of my parents' marriage. To the end of her days she remained furious with my father because he fell in love with Mama and convinced her to run off with him. They were both engaged to other people at the time, you see. It was a great scandal.”

“Your grandmother never forgave your father?”

“No. She cut him off without a penny. But Papa and Mama made do with a little money that came from Mama's side of the family and the money that my father made with his engineering consulting.”

“I suppose the fact that they did not come around begging for help from your grandmother only made her all the more bitter,” Trent said.

“Yes, but that was not the worst of it. You see, Andrew takes after Papa. If you look at a photograph of my father you cannot miss the resemblance. The likeness is unmistakable.”

“In other words, every time your grandmother looked at Andrew she saw her son.”

“And every time she looked at me, she saw the daughter-in-law she despised.” Calista swallowed hard. “She was very cold to Andrew and me. There was a great bitterness eating away inside her. After Andrew and I came to live with her she focused her unhappiness on us. In a way, she blamed us for my father's death.”

“It must have been difficult for you and your brother.”

“I would have given anything to avoid living with Grandmother. I had an excellent education thanks to my parents and I could have found work as a governess. But I had Andrew to think of. I was sixteen when our parents were killed. Andrew was only nine. No family would have considered hiring a governess who came with a younger brother as baggage.”

“So you sank your pride and accepted your grandmother's offer.” Trent got a knowing look. “And then you tried to be both mother and father to Andrew.”

“I tried to shelter him from Grandmother's moods. Things got very difficult toward the end because she was determined to see me married before she died. She was convinced that I had inherited what she considered my mother's wild temperament. As I got older she became very agitated at the possibility that I would inflict yet another scandal on the family name with a runaway marriage.”

“Obviously your grandmother failed to find a match for you.”

“She blamed me for that, I can assure you. I was twenty and still unmarried when she died. I have always believed she deliberately took an overdose of her sleeping tonic in part because she was so angry with me.”

“She hoped to punish you by making you feel guilty for her death?”

Calista gave a small, short, humorless laugh. “I think it is far more likely that she wanted to punish me by trying to impoverish me and Andrew as well. It was after her death that we discovered there was very little money left, you see. She had been discreetly selling off her jewelry and the silver for several years to keep up appearances. Her favorite saying was,
appearances are everything
.”

“She is not the first person in Society to survive by those words of wisdom.”

“Very true. And I must admit I took that advice to heart when I established my business.”

Trent surveyed the elegant library. “You didn't have to sell the house.”

“No, but we sold off almost everything of value that we could find, including some paintings and what was left of Grandmother's jewelry. Fortunately she had some rather nice pieces left. I used the money to refurnish the rooms on this floor and make certain the gardens presented a good first impression on potential clients. Then I purchased a couple of new gowns and dedicated myself to fashionable spinsterhood.”

Trent turned to look at her. “I admire your ingenuity and your spirit, Calista.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Very kind of you to say so but we both know that I am operating a business. In short, I am in trade. Grandmother is no doubt rolling over in her grave.”

“She would very likely not approve of me, either,” Trent said. “I, too, am in trade.”

“You are a successful author. I would hardly call that a trade. It's a respectable profession.”

“You don't know much about the writing business, do you?”

“No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“It is all about deadlines, a fickle reading public, demanding editors, and the necessity to hound one's publisher for the money that one is owed while enduring endless complaints about lackluster sales. Then one gets up in the morning and repeats the process.”

Calista laughed, startling both of them.

“To say nothing of the fact that everyone feels compelled to critique your books,” she concluded.

“Very true.”

She smiled. “But there is nothing else you would rather do, is there?”

“No,” Trent said. He sounded both amused and resigned. “I'm afraid I must admit that the writing is nothing short of an addiction, a drug of sorts. I do not think I could stop if I tried.”

“Even if you were unable to sell to a publisher?”

He winced. “Please don't say that out loud. I'm not especially superstitious but there is no sense tempting fate.”

“I'm a businesswoman, Mr. Hastings. I hold similar views on the subject of fate, believe me.”

He turned back to the fire.

“Not everyone understands, you know,” he said after a while.

“That writing is a passion for you?”

“Yes,” he said. “They consider it a hobby or an eccentricity—a relatively harmless pastime.”

“Perhaps one must experience a passion of one's own before one can comprehend another's.”

“You have a passion for your work, don't you?” he said.

“There is so much unnecessary loneliness in the world. Marriage is not necessarily the answer, at least not for women. But an enduring friendship is a great gift and a blessing.”

“You find satisfaction in helping others obtain that gift.”

“Yes, I do.”

Perhaps it was the brandy. Perhaps her nerves had truly been shattered by the violent events of the evening. Whatever the cause she was suddenly feeling curiously light-headed, even a little giddy.

“If Grandmother could only see me now,” she said. “Drinking brandy with a dashing author of detective novels after a night spent fending off a fiendish killer in a chamber full of coffins.”

“It all sounds so much more entertaining when you tell it as a story.”

“Yes it does,” she said.

She started to giggle. Trent watched her, bemused. She never giggled, she thought, horrified. The giggles were abruptly transformed into laughter. The laughter was unnatural but she could not seem to contain it.

Then she felt the tears on her cheeks.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, choking on the words.

Humiliated, she hurried toward her desk, intending to find a hankie. But Trent was suddenly there, in her path. His arms closed around her and she sobbed into his shirt for what seemed an eternity.

He did not try to console her with words. He simply held her very tightly. She realized with a sense of wonder and dismay that it felt very good to be in his arms. In that moment it was exactly where she wanted to be.

After a time the tears were purged. She raised her head.

“Please forgive the display of emotion,” she said. “I am, of course, quite mortified.”

He ignored that. “You forgot the kiss.”

“What?

“You mentioned the late-night brandy and the fiendish killer and the room full of coffins but you neglected the kiss we shared. Was that because you did not enjoy that part of the story?”

She would never forget the kiss, she thought.

“I believe that was the very best part,” she said.

Trent's eyes heated. He caught her gently by the shoulders, pulled her close and kissed her slowly, as though she were a rare wine to be savored. When he finally raised his head she was shivering a little. Not with nerves, she thought. With a glorious, energizing excitement.

“I'm glad,” he said. “Because it was certainly my favorite chapter.”

It was as if the library was locked away in another dimension, a place inhabited by only the two of them.
Seize this moment,
she told herself.
Store it up in your memories so that you can take it out and warm yourself with it in the future
.

Common sense descended.

She yearned to remain in Trent's arms but she knew it would be folly to think herself safe there. Reluctantly she pushed herself away from his heat and strength. Reluctantly he let her go.

“My nerves seem to be somewhat wobbly tonight,” she said.

“As are mine,” he said. “I think it's fair to say that we both have cause to feel a bit unsettled.”

She managed a smile. “You do not appear to be at all unsettled by events.”

“As you have recently observed, appearances are deceiving. But it is time I let you get some sleep.” He picked up the journal. “It has been a very interesting evening but also a rather long one.”

“I'll have Sykes whistle for a cab.”

“Thanks, but that is not necessary. I need the exercise and the night air to clear my brain so that I can think clearly.”

“I understand. Events tonight have been nothing if not chaotic.”

“It is not the events at J. P. Fulton's that are clouding my brain at this moment. It is you, Miss Langley.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He crossed the room in long strides, heading toward the door. “I will call on you tomorrow so that we can discuss our plans in detail, but I believe that our first move should be a consultation with my brother, Harry.”

“I would very much like to accompany you when you speak with him.”

“Certainly.”

Sykes was waiting in the hall. “Shall I summon a cab, sir?”

“No thank you, Sykes,” Trent said. “I'll walk.”

Sykes led the way toward the front door.

Calista followed, stopping at the threshold. She watched Trent go down the front steps.

“Are you sure it's safe for you to walk home tonight?” she asked.

Trent paused to look back at her. “The killer failed and he is wounded. I doubt he can do any more serious damage tonight. As for Kettering, if he is, indeed, behind events this evening, he will need time to concoct a new scheme. It's not easy to find reliable talent when it comes to murder.”

“A sobering thought,” Calista said.

Trent looked at Sykes. “You will check the locks on all the doors and windows, will you not?”

“Of course, sir,” Sykes said.