Leaning heavily on his cane, Bainbridge dropped to his haunches to examine the body more closely. He could sense Foulkes standing over his shoulder, and for the first time since entering the room he registered the fact there were two uniformed men standing in the corner, trying their best not to look at the corpse. He supposed he could understand that-they were young and this was probably one of the worst things they had ever had the misfortune to see. But they had a job to do, and they needed to get used to it. It wouldn’t be the last violent death they’d encounter during the course of their careers, and Bainbridge would be doing them no favour by going easy on them now. They would stay with the body until it was safely removed to the morgue.
“She must have put up quite a fight,” he said a moment later, taking the woman’s right hand and turning it over to expose her wrist. There were multiple gashes crisscrossing the soft flesh on the underside of her forearm, where she’d clearly raised it to protect her face. “The killer must have come at her with a long-bladed knife. I’d wager he didn’t expect her to defend herself so vehemently.”
“Not that it did her much good in the long run,” replied Foulkes, levelly.
Bainbridge twisted around and glowered at the inspector. “Show a little respect, man.”
Foulkes looked momentarily taken aback. Then he nodded, his expression suddenly serious. “I mean to say that the killer was obviously relentless, despite the fact that the woman put up a tremendous struggle.”
Bainbridge sighed. He was taking out his frustration on the other man, and Foulkes didn’t deserve that. Three unsolved deaths in as many days, however, were starting to take their toll on Bainbridge. Three apparently linked deaths, at that, suggesting there were probably more to come. They’d all been virtually the same: Each of the victims had been found in their own homes, their chests cracked open and their hearts removed. The organs themselves were nowhere to be seen, spirited away from the scenes, Bainbridge assumed, by the killer himself. The only differences this time were the fact that the victim was a woman, and that she’d clearly tried to defend herself against her assailant. But once again, there was no obvious motive, no clear links between the victims, and thus-much to Bainbridge’s chagrin-no leads.
“Was she married?” he asked, spotting the gold band on the woman’s ring finger and frowning. Nothing he’d seen since entering the house suggested a man might have shared her home.
“No. She was a widow. She lived alone. Had done so for the last fifteen years.”
Bainbridge nodded. That made sense. She still wore the ring for sentimental reasons. “A housekeeper?” He glanced up at Foulkes, who shook his head dolefully.
“Just a maid who came in once a day to see to the washing and cleaning. Either she was fiercely independent, or she’d run into financial difficulties.”
Well, at least that fit with what Bainbridge had already surmised, although he cursed himself for not even considering that the dead woman might simply have been deeply private and independent. It wasn’t impossible, especially in this age. After all, Bainbridge had spent a great deal of time in the company of Miss Veronica Hobbes, who, to his mind, was the epitome of a modern, independent woman. He should have at least considered the option before jumping to conclusions. Shades of grey.
Nevertheless, there was hardly a comparison to be made here. The victim in this instance was older, a widow, and about as far from Veronica Hobbes as one could imagine.
Bainbridge sighed. “The maid. Has she turned up for work yet this morning?”
Foulkes nodded. “She was the one who discovered the body. Her routine was to arrive early and take care of her errands before the victim rose for the day. She’d then move on to another household, where she’d carry out similar chores before lunch.”
Bainbridge nodded. “Where is she now?”
“She’s rather shaken, as you might imagine. She’s in the kitchen with Cartwright. There’s very little she can add. The entrance and exit point of the killer is obvious from the broken window at the back, and there’s no reason to suspect she played any role in her mistress’s death.”
“Good work, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, and he meant it. Foulkes had saved him a great deal of legwork, making sure all the basics were taken care of before Bainbridge had even arrived. He grunted as he pulled himself upright again. He turned away from the corpse to face the inspector. “There’s one thing you haven’t me told me, though.”
Foulkes looked perplexed. “What’s that, sir?”
“Her name,” said Bainbridge, indicating the body with a wave of his cane.
“Ah, yes. Right. Elizabeth Peterson, sir. She has one living relative, a son, who’s currently somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean on an airship bound for New York. We’ve sent word, so there should be a message awaiting him when he arrives there in a few days.”
Bainbridge nodded. Poor bastard. That was no way to find out about his mother’s death, especially in circumstances such as these.
“There’s one thing that’s been troubling me, sir,” continued Foulkes.
“Only one?” replied Bainbridge, and realised he was now being facetious. “I’m sorry, Foulkes. What is it?”
“The missing hearts, sir. There has to be some significance that we’re not seeing. Why does the killer take their hearts? He goes to a great deal of trouble to crack the victims’ chests like that. I just can’t work out what it’s all in aid of. I hesitate to say it … but do you think there might be some sort of ritualistic element to it?”
Bainbridge felt the corners of his lips twitch into a thin smile. Foulkes had been paying attention. “I think you’re right about the occult significance, Foulkes. The damn trouble is in working out what it might be.”
“And doing it before they strike again,” added Foulkes.
“Quite.”
“So…?”
“You never were very good at subtlety, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, but there was an edge of levity in his voice.
“So you’re going to ask for his help?”
Bainbridge sighed. “Yes. I’m going to send for Newbury. If anyone can shed any light on the matter, he can. And, let’s face it: We’re not getting very far on our own, are we?”
Foulkes smiled for the first time that day, but he didn’t say another word as the two men filed out of the blood-spattered library, leaving the young bobbies to guard the corpse until dawn.
CHAPTER 3
Sir Maurice Newbury lounged on the sofa like a listless cat, warming himself before the fire.
A smouldering cigarette dripped from his thin, pink lips, smoke twisting in lazy curlicues from its glowing tip. His expensive black suit was rumpled and creased, his shirt open at the collar, the cravat long since discarded. He was unshaven, and his flesh had taken on a deathly pallor, as if it hadn’t seen the sun in many days. His eyelids were closed and his breathing was shallow.
The pungent aroma of opium was heavy in the air, mingling with the tobacco smoke to form a thick, sweet fog that clung to the corners of the room as if Newbury’s Chelsea home was now a microcosm of the city, choking amidst the tendrils of yet another pea-souper.
The fire spat and crackled noisily in the grate. The only other sounds in the small room were the gentle rasp of Newbury’s breath and the clacking of his clockwork owl as it hopped nervously from foot to foot on its wooden perch by the window.