Druid's Daughter (16 page)

“You can try, sir, although she often comes by this time of
day to pick up fresh clothing. Would you care to wait?”

The bloody butler certainly was oily enough with a Duke’s
son! The murderer chewed his lip and waited.

“No, I think I must go back to the office. But thank you,
Jackson.”

The murderer slunk back in his bushes. He needed only to
wait a little longer. He cracked his knuckles over and over as he grinned his
rictus grin. Now that he knew he’d have success it was easier to stay.

His tarrying was not in vain. Late in the afternoon he saw
his quarry approach. He noted her graceful walk with a sneer. No wonder she
captured men so easily. She was dressed simply, with only a small scarf tying
back her hair. Certainly no lady ventured out minus a proper hat. Her abundant
hair hung down her back as she looked up at the sky with a joyous smile. Soon
she wouldn’t have a thing to smile about. She was just the slut he’d expected.

He moved just a little so he could see the door.

She knocked briefly and the bloody butler opened for her
with obvious pleasure on his face.

“I need to get a few things, Jackson. Could you find me a
cool drink while I pack what I need? Walking over was hotter than I expected.”

Jackson nearly split his face smiling. He held the door open
for his mistress.

“Certainly, Miss Morgan. It’s always good to see you.
There’s a letter from your mother you’ll want to read. Oh and Lord Lance was
here looking for you.”

“Indeed! I’m…” As the door closed quietly behind her the
killer grimaced and shrunk back in the bushes. So. She wasn’t going to stay at
the house right now. Where was the slut sleeping? Who was Jamie? Another lover?
Not that mattered. No one was ever going to see her alive again.

He flexed his hands to make sure they were limber. And
waited once again. This time the wait was pleasurable, as he felt the
anticipation begin to build throughout his body. He smiled as he felt his male
member start to stretch his pants. This killing would be even more satisfactory
than the others.

Nothing must go wrong while he dragged Miss Morgan McAfee
into her own garden and slowly killed her. The Chief Inspector would never be
able to forget this particular crime. There was no way the killer could be
caught and that would only add to the Chief Inspector’s terrible guilt. If he’d
only waited for Morgan he might have saved her. He’d never forgive himself.

The killer chortled with barbaric glee as he dragged a scarf
out of his pocket and wound each end securely around his hands.

Miss Morgan McAfee would be coming down the front steps
soon.

He was ready and waiting.

* * * * *

Lance went back to his office to find reports seeming to
identify the killer. Lance sat there, leafing through them, wondering why he
was not more elated. He should be feeling on top of the world. He was positive
he’d cracked the case and there remained only the technicalities of arresting
the murderer.

A certain Tom Tomlinson, a student ejected from Kings
College. Tomlinson had been a brilliant student, but one who refused to obey
any of the rules. He’d only studied the subjects interesting to him, notably
the physiology of the human body and its anatomy. His professors tried again
and again to persuade him to conform to the curricula, but finally gave up.
He’d shown an almost pathological interest in points of pain and the
circulatory system. Even now, three years later, they remembered him with
regret for a wasted brilliance.

Lance had nothing definite to go on but this information and
the inner intensity of his conviction he’d found his man. He’d always been
right on the occasions when he felt this sureness.

He would bring his staff up to date and start them searching
for Tomlinson and then go see Morgan. A feeling his visit was important nagged
at him and made him uneasy. He should have gone straight to the Commissioner’s
home when he did not find her at her own place. His stupid pride made him want
to avoid the appearance of chasing her. A foolish concern when a vicious killer
was still loose in London.

Did Morgan feel this unease when she sensed something was
wrong? Did this inner certainty accompany her visions?

He called his men together, anxious to get the meeting over
with and be on his way.

“And now you all know as much as I do,” he finished with a
slight smile. “No, one other thing. As I’ve told you Tomlinson is a rather
nondescript man with sandy hair, not very big or noteworthy in any way. He
does, however, have a definite tic in his left eye. I’m told it’s quite
noticeable. So keep your own eyes open.”

Lance half turned to go when he noticed one of his younger
sergeants turning white as the pad of paper he was using to take notes. Lance
wheeled around.

“Murdock, you look as if some of this triggers a memory.
Have you seen this man?”

The sergeant nodded, his young face a mask of horrified
guilt.

“I’m afraid so, Sir. I think I had drinks with him two
nights ago. He was asking questions about a lady named Morgan. I’m afraid I
blurted out her last name.”

“Dear God.”

Lance almost ran from the room. Shriver, who’d been sitting
with the rest of the team, leapt up to get the carriage. Very shortly after
Lance ran out Shriver pulled up with the carriage and the two set out for
Commissioner Randall’s house.

The logical part of his brain assured Lance no harm could
come to Morgan when she was staying at the Commissioner’s home. My god, Randall
was the head of all the Metropolitan Police Force. Who would dare attack her in
such august surroundings?

Another part, stoked to a brooding fire by his visceral
instincts, told him Morgan was in mortal danger. The murderer knew her name and
had somehow found her and Lance might not be in time to save his love. Maybe an
irrational reaction, but he felt in his innermost being this was true. Surely
this was the exact certainty Morgan sometimes felt.

Suspected danger to Morgan downed all his defenses. His mind
settled into a sure conviction she was indeed his love. He might never be able
to claim her, but all doubt of his feeling for her was swept away with a surety
that shook him to the toes of his boots.

He knocked on the roof of the carriage, even though he knew
it was a needless question.

“Shriver, can you manage to go any faster?”

They made it to the commissioner’s in record time, although
the trip seemed hours long to Lance. He ran up the steps and when Millson
opened the door he asked to see Miss Morgan immediately.

“But she’s not here, sir. She went back to her house to get
some things she needed. She said she’d be right back, but something must have
delayed her.”

Lance thanked him and started running to the carriage when
he stopped. If Tomlinson indeed held Morgan in his power, the sound of a
speeding carriage would alert him. Morgan had walked, so perhaps he’d find her
if he took her return path. His heart didn’t believe that, but he could then
also be on the lookout for any sign someone had dragged her into the bushes.
More importantly, if he ran he would raise no signal of pounding horses’ hooves
to anyone in hiding.

He called to Shriver to wait five minutes and then follow
him with the carriage at a discreet distance. And to go slowly to Miss Morgan’s
house and to keep his eyes open. He himself would run. He was a strong man in
his prime and could speed almost as fast as the horses for such a short
distance. He would slow down when he got close. He definitely needed the
advantage of surprise.

He set out, a big man running as easily as only an athlete
can. He covered the distance in record time, leaving it to Shriver to search
for any clues along the way. At the corner of Morgan’s block he slowed down to
a walk. Any footsteps should sound normal if someone were actually listening.

He didn’t think she’d be in the house. There were too many
people for the murderer to dispose of to accost her inside. Lance cautiously
crept along the side of the house, noticing instantly where the bushes were
crushed as if someone had hidden in them. What small doubt he’d permitted
himself fled his fearful mind.

He forced his mind to steady into the cold, calculating
machine he’d always been able to summon when necessary. Especially when a case
was drawing to a close or disaster threatened.

Tomlinson had either dragged Morgan away or he was in the
backyard with her. There was no sign of a scuffle nor any blood near the place
where he’d hidden. He knew his Morgan well enough to know she wouldn’t leave
without a fight.

He’d better try to figure out where in the garden they could
be. That Morgan was there with the killer was by far the most likely answer. He
wished he could be sure, but after a second’s hesitation decided to go with his
instinct.

He prayed to his own God and especially to Morgan’s Goddess
that her Druid daughter still lived.

* * * * *

Morgan left the house carrying a small valise and started
down the street. In a matter of seconds Tomlinson darted out and looped his
scarf around Morgan’s neck. He pulled it tight immediately, so only slight
choking sounds came from her almost garroted throat. Much stronger than he
looked, he had no difficulty dragging her to the bushes where he’d hidden. He’d
done it all quite quickly.

He speedily grabbed the valise, shoved it in the back of the
bushes and frowned. This was not a good location. He needed much more privacy
for the delicate delights in mind. He could gag and muffle her but he still
needed to be sure no one would interrupt. Not likely, but he preferred a spot
more secluded. Even though the bushes were dense, they were too close to the
street and a passerby could possibly spot them as she thrashed about.

Morgan kept frantically trying to loosen the scarf, but then
her hands went limp. Alarmed that he might be about to lose the games he wanted
to enjoy with her, he drew his knife and held the wicked blade against her body
as he slowly slackened the scarf.

“I’ll take this off if you remain silent.” His obscene whisper
sounded in her ear. “If you call out I’ll stick this knife in your stomach. I
know a place where you’ll die from the wound in ten to twelve hours. You can’t
imagine the amount of pain you’ll suffer in those hours. Do you understand me?”

Terrified, she nodded and he loosened the scarf with one
hand, leaving it around her throat in case he needed to apply more pressure.
His other hand held the wicked-looking, very thin knife pointed at her upper
stomach.

Morgan tried to speak and only produced a croak.

The murderer grinned in such an evil way that Morgan’s
considerable fear escalated.

“Well,” he commented. “I guess I don’t have to worry about
you screaming. All to the good. Now march down the garden, staying behind those
trees along the fence. You can stop behind that big clump of bushes near the
back of the yard.”

Morgan lowered her eyes while she tried to conquer her
terror. This would never do. She must keep her wits about her if she was to
have any chance. Above all she couldn’t let him see her fright. She was sure
that was exactly what would make him gloat. Peering up from under her downcast
eyes, she saw him looking at her, evidently trying to gauge her feelings. She
would not oblige him by showing her terror in any degree.

She started to the back of the garden, going exactly as
directed. She tried to mask her glee, as he pointed to a thick clump of bushes
and pushed her toward them. He’d directed her to the bushes hiding her herb
garden. Surely a propitious spot for her, since many of the plants were Druid
healing herbs. The very aura of the place should be of help to her.

Nearby a large rowan tree shaded part of the area. Did the
killer know she was a Druid and rowans were a sacred tree to her people? To
make her garden more hallowed, she’d encouraged a mistletoe to grow in the top
of another nearby tree. An additional plant revered by Druids and one
considered a strong protection against evil.

He could not have picked a spot more favorable for her, nor
one silently proffering her more courage. She and her mother had planted this
area together, with flower beds on the other side of the tall bushes. Only the
bushes with flowers in front of them were visible from the house. Somehow she
could feel her mother reaching out to her now. Her courage mounted as she
turned to face him.

She summoned up as disinterested a tone as she could manage.
Her hoarseness didn’t help convey the attitude of uncaring acceptance, but
still she hoped she’d shake him by her lack of pleading. She suspected begging
for mercy was exactly what he wanted.

“I do admire you, you know,” she croaked. “Not many men want
to tangle with a witch.”

He slammed his fist against her cheek so that she needed all
her strength to keep from crying out. In spite of herself a few tears escaped.

“I know you’re a witch,” he growled. “All women are.”

“No,” she murmured, mustering a smile from somewhere. “I’m
really and truly a witch. I can cast any spell I want. Do you want to risk one
of my curses?”

For the first time his gloating wavered. “Don’t lie, you
slut. Nobody nowadays is a real witch. You’re just making it harder on
yourself, you know. I think you just added about an hour to your death throes.”

His knife lashed out and cut a long slash in her blouse,
starting at the neckline and going almost to her waist. The very tip of the
knife sliced her and she could feel blood welling. She resisted the impulse to
grab the sides of her blouse and hold them together. She forced herself to
smile at him instead, pleased as she saw his obscene grin waver.

“That was a mistake.” Her voice was clearing a little, but
was still rasping. “Now I think I’ll have to use the curse my mother once
dreamed up for a man who was annoying me. She thought it appropriate if his
private member shriveled up so he could never find enjoyment again with a
woman. Yes, if you hurt me badly, that’s the curse I’ll be forced to wish on
you.”