Truth be told, the part of him that responded to the hunt was excited by the prospect of sharing the venture with her. Furthermore, he sensed that the intense reaction was not all on his side. Energy resonated between Lucinda and himself. He had never experienced anything like this with anyone else.
“I’m sure of it,” Lucinda said. “I did not get a good look at either man but I could sense the particular blend of Nicotiana tabacum that each man smoked.”
He looked at her over the corpse. Her face was shadowed by the hood of her cloak but he could make out the serious expression on her intelligent face.
“Yours is an astonishing talent, Lucinda.”
“Tobacco is a poison, after all. A slow-acting one, but a poison, nonetheless.”
“Huh. I’ve heard it’s good for the nerves.”
“Do not believe everything you read in the press, sir.”
“I never do.” He focused his attention on the dead man again. “Well then, I doubt that Sharpy died from smoking. But, as in Daykin’s case, there is no sign of violence. Any thoughts?”
“He did not die of poison.” Lucinda looked down at the dead man. “I can tell you that much.”
Caleb crouched beside the body and studied the expression of wide-eyed horror etched on the face. “It appears he was in a state of great fear when he collapsed.”
“Like Mrs. Daykin?”
“Yes. That would account for the screams that Kit says were heard in the tavern.”
“And why his companion was seen fleeing from this alley as though all the demons of hell were after him,” Lucinda said, repeating Kit’s exact words.
“But who or what did they see?” He went swiftly through Sharpy’s clothing. “There is no question but that this was murder.” He drew a knife out of a concealed sheath strapped to the dead man’s leg. “But by what means? He was a hardened man of the streets but he did not even have time to draw his blade in self-defense.”
“Do you think that he was literally frightened to death?”
Caleb rose. “I suspect that the cause of death was of a psychical nature.”
Lucinda looked at him through the shadowy mists that pooled in the alley. He sensed her astonished shock.
“There are those who can kill with their talents and leave no trace?” she asked, sounding quite horrified.
“The ability is extremely rare,” he assured her. He studied the body. “But I have occasionally come across descriptions of such talents in the journals and records of the Society. In essence, the killer induces a level of panic so great that it causes a stroke or heart attack.”
“But it would appear that this man did not even try to flee.”
“Neither did Daykin. According to my research, the victim is literally paralyzed with fear and cannot even raise a hand to defend himself, let alone run for his life.”
“My parents were registered members of the Society. I was born into it. But I have never heard of such ghastly talents.”
“For the very good reason that the Council and my family have always gone out of their way to suppress the information.” He took her arm and drew her back toward the mouth of the alley. “Just as they do their best to relegate the founder’s formula to the status of myth and legend.”
“I suppose I can understand why.”
“For the most part, the public considers the paranormal as a source of amusement and wonder. The vast majority of those who claim to possess psychical talents are viewed as magicians and entertainers or, at worst, frauds. But imagine how the citizenry would react if it got out that some people could actually commit murder without leaving any clues or evidence.”
Lucinda shuddered. He felt it because he had his fingers wrapped around her elbow.
“The perfect poison,” she said softly. “Undetectable and un-traceable.”
“Yes.”
She turned her head to study him from the mysterious darkness beneath her hood. “The police will be helpless in this matter. They will find nothing to indicate that this was a case of murder. There will be no justice for that poor man unless we find his killer.”
He tightened his grip on her arm. “That poor man recently attempted to kidnap and murder you.”
“I will allow that he most certainly tried to abduct me but we cannot be positive that he intended to kill me. It is your theory and it is only a theory.”
“Trust me on this. I have had far more experience with the criminal mind than you, Lucinda.”
“Given the nature of my consulting work with Inspector Spellar, I think it is unlikely that your expertise is vastly more extensive than my own.”
“Declaring whether or not a man has been poisoned is not the same as investigating the death.”
“And just how long has the Jones agency been in business?” she asked far too sweetly. “A little less than two months? I have worked with Inspector Spellar for nearly a year.”
“I cannot believe we are arguing about this.” He smiled ruefully. “If either of us gave a damn about respectability or propriety, we would doubtless be shocked by our mutual fascination with the criminal mind.”
“Everyone finds the criminal mind fascinating,” she said briskly. “Although most are reluctant to acknowledge it. One need only count the number of newspapers and penny dreadfuls available for purchase on any day of the week on the streets of London. And all of them feature the most lurid accounts of crime and violent death.”
“I will concede the point.” He glanced over his shoulder at the body in the alley. “But I doubt that this murder will garner much attention.”
“No,” Lucinda said somberly. She looked back, too. “The press prefers that the stories be accompanied by a titillating scandal. The death of a lowly street villain who evidently died of natural causes will not raise any brows at breakfast tomorrow morning.”
The headline on the front page of The Flying Intelligencer the following morning had nothing whatsoever to do with the discovery of a dead body in an alley. Lucinda gasped and promptly choked on a sip of coffee. She grabbed her napkin to cover her mouth while she tried to catch her breath.
Patricia, seated across from her, frowned in alarm. “Are you all right, Lucy?”
Edmund Fletcher, in the middle of his second helping of scrambled eggs, put down his fork, pushed back his chair and walked swiftly around the table. He thumped Lucinda quite briskly between the shoulder blades.
“Thank you.” She waved the napkin, shooing him back to his chair. “I’m fine, Mr. Fletcher,” she sputtered. “Really.”
Patricia raised her brows. “Something in the morning paper upset you?”
“I am ruined,” Lucinda said. “For the second time, I think, although I admit I may be losing track.”
“It cannot be all that bad,” Patricia insisted. “Whatever it is, you must read it to us.”
“Why not?” Lucinda said. “The rest of London is no doubt doing precisely that at this very moment.”
She began to read the piece aloud. Patricia and Edmund listened, transfixed.
REPORTS OF ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING IN GUPPY LANE VILLAINS INTENDED TO SELL VICTIM TO A BROTHEL
by Gilbert Otford
A lady whose name once figured prominently in this newspaper in a case of murder by poison barely escaped a shocking fate in Guppy Lane earlier this week.
Miss Lucinda Bromley, daughter of the infamous poisoner Arthur Bromley and later suspected in the death of her fiancé, was nearly abducted by a pair of villains who make their living selling respectable women into a life of shame. Witnesses claim that only the heroic action of a number of persons at the scene saved Miss Bromley from a fate worse than death.
Propriety and a profound regard for the delicate sensitivities of our readers forbid this correspondent from providing details of the grim future that awaited Miss Bromley had the kidnappers been successful. Suffice it to say that there is little doubt but that the lady would have found herself ensconced in one of those despicable establishments that cater to the unnatural desires of the most debauched and degenerate of the male gender.
Your humble correspondent wonders, however, if the would-be kidnappers would have selected a different victim if they had known the identity of the one they chose. After all, a lady whose fiancé died of poison after he drank a cup of tea that she had poured for him might be deemed something of a risk to her intended employer, not to mention the patrons of the establishment.
“I disagree,” Caleb said quite seriously from the doorway. “In my opinion, an interesting past always adds a bit of spice.”
Startled, Lucinda slapped the paper down on the table and glared at him. A stunned silence gripped the morning room. Caleb’s expression was that of a man who has just made an entirely reasonable comment on the morning news. But there was a gleam in his eyes. This was, Lucinda thought, a rather poor time for him to exhibit what could only be described as his extremely odd sense of humor.
“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” she said brusquely. “I did not hear you knock.”
“Sorry I’m late. One of the maids saw me arrive a moment ago and very kindly opened the door for me.” He went to the sideboard and studied the array of dishes. “The eggs look excellent this morning.”
“They are,” Edmund said quickly. “And do try the gooseberry jam. Mrs. Shute makes her own.”
“Thank you for the suggestion.”
Caleb selected a large serving spoon and heaped scrambled eggs onto a plate.
“Coffee, sir?” Patricia asked, picking up the pot.
“Yes, thank you, I could use some.” He sat down at the head of the table. “I was up most of the night doing research in my library.”
Lucinda tapped a finger on the damning headline. “You read Gilbert Otford’s piece, I take it?”
“I never miss an edition of the Flying Intelligencer,” Caleb assured her. “Best source of gossip in town. Would you mind passing the butter?”
“It is outrageous,” Lucinda fumed. “I vow, I am tempted to go to the offices of the Intelligencer and give Otford’s editor a piece of my mind.”
“It could have been worse,” Patricia said quickly.
Lucinda narrowed her eyes. “I do not see how.”
There was another short silence while everyone tried to imagine a more notorious story.
“The kidnappers might have been successful,” Edmund offered finally.
The others looked at him.
He reddened. “I was merely concurring with Miss Patricia. The story could have been far worse.”
Patricia made a face. “Mr. Fletcher does have a point. I cannot bear to contemplate what would have happened had those dreadful men succeeded in snatching you off the street, Lucy.”
“Well, they did not succeed,” Lucinda said darkly. “And now you will likely find yourselves dealing with the results of Otford’s story. Or perhaps I should say Lady Milden will. This news is bound to reawaken the old scandal.”
Caleb reached for a slice of toast. “I think you underestimate Victoria’s power within both the Society and the social world, Lucinda.”
“You refer to the power of the Jones family?” Patricia asked.
“In a word, yes.” He was neither proud nor apologetic, simply stating the facts as he viewed them.
Lucinda shook the folded paper at him. “There are some things that not even a Jones can fix.”
“True.” He glanced at the newspaper with little interest. “But that story by Otford isn’t one of them.”
She sighed, dropped the paper on the table again and smiled a little.
“You never fail to astonish me, Mr. Jones,” she said wryly.
“I hear that a lot.” He picked up the jam knife. “But generally speaking, the comment is not uttered in an approving manner.”
“If neither Mr. Jones nor Lady Milden is worried about the effects of that newspaper story on your reputation, Lucy, I do not think that we need concern ourselves, either,” Patricia said. She looked at the tall clock. “Speaking of Lady Milden, she will be here any minute. We have a very full schedule today, beginning with a shopping expedition this morning.”
Edmund grimaced. “How thrilling. I cannot wait.”
Patricia glowered. “No one said you had to accompany us.”
“Yes, someone did say that he had to accompany you.” Caleb forked up a bit of his eggs. “Me.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Patricia cleared her throat and continued down her list. “This afternoon we are to attend an archaeological lecture.”
“Where that idiot Riverton will no doubt put in an appearance,” Edmund muttered.
Patricia angled her chin. “Mr. Riverton assured me that he is quite passionate about the subject.”
Edmund was coldly amused. “The only thing Riverton is passionate about is acquiring your inheritance.”
“Lady Milden would never have introduced me to him if she believed that to be the case,” Patricia shot back. A muffled knock sounded from the front hall. “That must be her now.”
“What’s so fascinating about archaeology?” Edmund demanded. “Just a bunch of ancient relics and monuments.”
“Pay attention at the lecture today and you might find out what is so intriguing about artifacts.” Patricia returned to her list. “Tonight there is another large social affair, the Wrothmere ball.”
Edmund scowled and looked at Caleb. “How am I supposed to keep an eye on Miss Patricia at a ball?”
“Obviously you will have to attend, as well,” Victoria announced, sweeping into the room. “And in your role as a friend of the family you will, of course, be obliged to dance with Miss Patricia at least once or twice to maintain the illusion.”
Caleb and Edmund got to their feet to greet her. Edmund pulled out a chair. He looked stunned.
“What is the matter?” Victoria seated herself. “Don’t you have any evening attire, Mr. Fletcher? If not, I’m sure Caleb’s tailor can outfit you.”
“I, uh, have evening clothes,” Edmund said in a low voice. “I required them in my previous occupation.”
“When you were a stage magician, do you mean?” Victoria said. “Excellent. Then that won’t be a problem, will it?” She turned to Lucinda. “Did Madam LaFontaine deliver the second ball gown that we ordered for you?”
“It came yesterday afternoon,” Lucinda said. “But surely you have seen the unfortunate story in the morning paper?”
“Hmm?” Lady Milden glanced at the copy of the Flying Intelligencer. “Oh, yes, the one about those men who attempted to kidnap you and sell you into a brothel. Very exciting stuff, I must say. I’ll wager that every gentleman in the room will be lined up to dance with you tonight.”