'Til Death Do Us Part (24 page)

“S
OMEDAY
,”
T
RENT
SAID
,
“I would very much like to do something normal when we go out together—a stroll through the park, perhaps, or we might go to the theater if we want a bit of excitement.”

“Either would certainly be a novelty,” Calista said.

They were back in the library at Cranleigh Hall. Calista was behind the desk, paging through the notebook she had discovered in Shipley's bedroom. Trent was at the window. Eudora was sitting in front of the fire, sipping a cup of the strong tea that Mrs. Sykes had produced. Andrew was making inroads into another plate of sandwiches.

Calista's nerves were stretched to the breaking point and she doubted that she would sleep much that night, but at least she no longer felt physically ill. Focusing on Shipley's notebook was proving a useful distraction.

“Elizabeth Dunsforth, Jessica Forsyth, and Pamela Townsend—those are the names of the three dead governesses,” she said. “But there are several other names in this book, as well. There is a sum beside each name. Twenty-five pounds and so on.”

Eudora shuddered. “Those are the amounts Dolan Birch paid her for the names and addresses of the women he, in turn, sold to his clients.”

“To think Birch had the gall to call himself a gentleman,” Andrew said. “Jonathan Pell is a paragon of virtue compared to him.”

Trent looked at Calista. “Anything else of interest in that diary?”

“Not unless you count my name,” Calista said. “It appears that Miss Shipley sold me to Dolan Birch for a thousand pounds.”

Trent's jaw hardened. “You were potentially the most valuable one of all. When she sold your name, she was selling your whole agency and, with it, another list of spinsters who could be seduced and carelessly abandoned by Birch's wealthy clients.”

“Or in the case of your wealthy spinster clients, seduced and married for their fortunes,” Eudora added.

Calista closed the journal. “Obviously one of my clients from the Grant Agency confided in the wrong person.”

“She no doubt thought she was doing Miss Shipley a favor by recommending your agency to her,” Eudora said.

“Instead, Shipley sold the information to a man she hoped would come to love her if only she could make herself valuable to him.” Calista shook her head. “It is all so sad.”

“At least we have one more chapter in the story.” Trent crossed the room and selected a sandwich from the tray Mrs. Sykes had provided. “We discovered the connection between Kettering and Birch, the Grant Agency and you, Calista.”

Calista closed the notebook and absently tapped one finger against the cover. “The thing I don't understand is why Nestor Kettering murdered those three women. Evidently he seduced them, but why kill them?”

“It is obvious that he is a madman,” Eudora said. “As Harry suggested, he is in the grip of some bizarre obsession.”

Andrew frowned. “Perhaps he killed the women in an attempt to permanently conceal the evidence of his affairs from his wife.”

“I doubt if he cares about his wife's feelings,” Calista said.

Trent eyed the uneaten portion of his sandwich. “That might not be true. Perhaps he does care a great deal about her feelings.”

“That's hard to believe,” Calista said.

Trent looked at Andrew. “You said that Anna Kettering's father attempted to protect her by stipulating in his will that if anything happens to her the money goes to distant relatives.”

“That's what the maid told me,” Andrew said.

“What if the will went a step beyond that?” Trent continued. “If Mrs. Kettering actually controls her own inheritance, she could decide to leave her husband.”

“And take the money with her,” Calista finished very quietly.

“A man like Kettering might see that as reason enough to commit murder,” Andrew said.

“Y
OU
WERE
RIGHT
,”
Jonathan Pell said. “I did have some interest in Dolan Birch—at least I did until I learned of his rather convenient fall down a flight of stairs yesterday.”

He smiled benignly at Trent.

“What did you discover?” Trent asked.

Calista's first impression of Pell was that he did not look like a crime lord. He was a distinguished-looking man, well-dressed, with excellent manners and a respectable demeanor. If he had sought out her introduction services she would not have hesitated to consider him as a possible client.

It also occurred to her that if she had seen him standing with Trent in a crowded room and not been aware of the truth about each man she would have assumed that Trent was the crime lord. It wasn't just the scars
,
she thought. There was no doubt in her mind that, under the right circumstances, both men could be equally dangerous.

The three of them were sitting in a closed carriage parked at the edge of a deserted graveyard. Pell had arrived in an anonymous cab.
The coachman, however, did not look quite so anonymous. He wore the heavy, many-caped overcoat and slouchy, low-crowned hat common to the men in his profession, but he had the thick shoulders and big, powerful hands of a boxer.

A heavy fog afforded additional privacy for the appointment. The mist was so thick that Calista could make out only a few of the closest headstones. There was a distinct chill in the atmosphere and not all of it was inspired by the weather.

How had her calm, orderly, lonely life taken such a bizarre turn? she wondered.

She certainly was not lonely these days. The feeling that she was watching her own life from the perspective of a spectator had evaporated entirely. It was as if she had awakened from a long sleep. She had experienced a chaotic mix of powerful emotions in the past few days—fear, anger, a fierce determination to survive, and a breathless passion.

And something else as well, she thought.

She looked at Trent, who was deep into a serious conversation with Jonathan Pell.
I'm falling in love
.
So this is how it feels.

The realization stole her breath.

“What news do you have for us?” Trent said to Jonathan.

“I let it be known in certain quarters that I was interested in any information relating to Dolan Birch,” Pell said. “As it happens, there have been rumors about him circulating for some time now. I had not paid any attention because Birch's business did not infringe on any of my own enterprises.”

“What do you know of him?” Trent asked.

“It appears that Birch was, in fact, a crime lord of sorts who provided a variety of services to a rather exclusive clientele—wealthy gentlemen who moved in Society.”

Calista pulled herself together and focused on the conversation.

“We are aware that he was selling the names and addresses of young governesses to his clients,” Calista said.

Pell's mouth tightened, his disgust obvious. “Quite true. That was not his only business, however. He offered other services to those who could afford him. I suspect he may have managed to make a few inconvenient wives and assorted relatives who were standing in the way of inheritances disappear.”

“Birch told us that he had agreed to get rid of Kettering's wife,” Trent said. “But he died before he could tell us how he intended to do that.”

“I believe I know the answer,” Pell said. “I discovered that a few days ago Birch bought a ticket on the morning train to Seacliff, a small village on the coast. He returned on the evening train that same day. Yesterday I sent one of my men to Seacliff to make a few inquiries.”

“What made you do that?” Calista asked.

Trent glanced at her. “It's safe to say that Dolan Birch was not the sort of man who would take a short day-trip to a small village unless he had pressing business there.”

“Precisely,” Pell said. “Men in his position usually book passage to New York or Rome when they want a change of scene. Yet he chose a day-trip to a rather boring little village on the coast.”

Calista leaned forward, gloved hands tightly clasped, anticipation sparking. She knew that Trent was also paying very close attention.

“What did you discover?” Calista asked.

“My man spent most of the day in a local pub. He learned that there was a very odd business operating out of an old mansion some distance outside the village. On the face of it, the owner of the house is running a seaside hotel and spa for a very exclusive clientele that demands absolute privacy. The guests arrive in closed carriages.”

“I don't understand,” Calista said. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters,” Pell said, “because according to my employee, there are
rumors in the village that the hotel guests tend to remain for extended stays. When they do leave, it is always in another closed carriage. There is a high wall around the grounds and the gate is locked and guarded at all times.”

“Are you telling us that the owner of this spa may be operating a private asylum?” Trent asked.

“I believe that to be the case,” Pell said. “But my agent returned with another rumor, as well. Evidently the owner of the establishment will make a guest disappear altogether,” Pell said. “For a price.”

“Even if it's true,” Calista said, “what good would that do Kettering? If we are correct, he will lose the fortune if he tries to have his wife committed, just as he would if she dies.”

“The critical word here is
disappear
,” Pell said.

Trent looked thoughtful. “I understand what you are saying. The question is, what would happen if Anna Kettering is said to be enjoying an extended stay in a health spa? Perhaps, after some time had passed, it could be made to look as though she had left the spa on a sea voyage.”

“Months or even years might pass before anyone questioned her absence from London,” Pell said.

“Assuming anyone ever did notice,” Calista said. “Anna Kettering has no close family, only some distant relatives in Canada. They would never be able to prove that something terrible had happened to her.”

“Even then, how could anyone prove that she was imprisoned or dead?” Trent said. “All that would be required to put the fortune in Kettering's hand would be a few forged papers.”

“Which would be easy enough to produce provided Anna was not around to deny the legality of the papers,” Pell added.

“The scheme would hinge on making certain that the body was never found, but that wouldn't be difficult,” Trent concluded. “There are a number of ways to make one disappear. It's really quite ingenious when you think about it.”

Calista looked at him, startled.

A flicker of amusement came and went in Pell's cool gaze.

“As I have noted on more than one occasion, it's just as well you didn't pursue a career in my world, Hastings,” he said. “I believe you would have proven to be serious competition.”

“Y
OU
INTEND
TO
go inside the Kettering house,” Calista said quietly.

Trent walked across the library to the windows and looked out at the expansive gardens.

“I cannot delay it any longer,” he said. “I can think of no other way to search for evidence that will link Kettering to the deaths of those women.”

“I must remind you that there is one other thing we can try before you take such a risk. I have no idea if it will work—I admit the odds are against it—but we have little to lose.”

Trent turned to look at her. “You want to confront Mrs. Kettering with our concerns.”

“At the very least, we must warn her about her husband.”

Trent shook his head. “I told you, she will not talk, and even if she did, no wife can testify against her husband. It would be worth her life to assist us. If she does know what is going on, she will understand that. She's trapped, Calista.”

“She must at least suspect what her husband is doing,” Calista said. “But she thinks she has nowhere to turn. Don't you see? That is why she is seeking help from the mediums who conduct séances. She must be desperate. We must at least offer to help her. It is the least we can do.”