Chapter Twenty-Four
Huddled around a table at the Herald’s London office, Sophie and the Colton Agency directors studied Trask’s meticulous notes. What had occurred during the sittings? What was the common thread that bound the victims in life—and in death?
“These séances occurred days before Eversleigh’s death. Months passed before Fenshaw and Peter Garner were killed,” Mac Campbell pointed out. “Could the timing indicate some sort of ritual?”
“It’s possible, but unlikely.” Jennie made a notation on a sheet of paper. “If these deaths were indeed murders, the killer took pains to affect the appearance of an accident. In Mr. Garner’s case, his supposed suicide bears clear parallels to the attempt on Stanwyck’s life last night.”
Her words sent a shiver creeping along Sophie’s spine. Peculiar, how she’d remained calm and focused during the incident, but now, the thought of Gavin’s fate if she and Bertram had not happened along set her to trembling. She laced her fingers together and settled her hands in her lap, out of sight.
“Eversleigh and Fenshaw attended sittings with Lady Valentina, but Peter Garner was not present at those events.”
“Garner attended gatherings during the months of May and June, after the other men’s deaths.” Sophie glanced down at the notes she’d sketched out. “There is one common element that connects all of these men—Adam McNaughton.”
Jennie’s mouth pressed into a seam. “What would be his motive?”
“I haven’t puzzled that out. Not yet.”
Colton tapped a finger against Trask’s notes. “This appears to be the final sitting attended by Eversleigh, Fenshaw, and McNaughton. If I’m interpreting these symbols correctly, the medium conducted an exercise in mesmerism.”
Sophie stared down at the cryptic symbol, an eye contained within a circle. Could Colton have deduced its meaning? “Trask never demonstrated an interest in that dubious skill. Perhaps Lady Valentina fancied herself a mesmerist.”
“An interesting possibility,” Jennie commented. “Trask indicates a fourth person in attendance at that gathering, a woman by the name of Beatrice Hathcock. If McNaughton is indeed the link between the dead men, we must assume she may be in danger. She deserves to be warned.”
Colton nodded. “I’ll assign an operative to identify her location.”
A series of light raps upon the door pulled Sophie from the conversation. Miss Beddingham. Campbell’s ever-efficient secretary served as a trusted researcher for the Colton Agency. The tall, slender woman stepped into the room with near soundless steps.
“Begging your pardon for the interruption, but I believe this matter cannot wait.”
Campbell motioned her forward. “Please, come in. What’s happened?”
“A reporter covering the docks arrived a few minutes ago. He’s preparing a story for the evening edition as we speak.”
Beneath her crisp linen sleeves, dread prickled Sophie’s skin with gooseflesh. Colton’s jaw tensed as Jennie clasped her hands, whitening her knuckles.
Campbell’s dark brows raised. “What of it?”
“They fished another unfortunate soul out of the Thames this morning.” Miss Beddingham’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Neil Trask drowned last night.”
…
“Sophie Devereaux—where is she?”
Bypassing the pretty, bespectacled secretary who’d coolly instructed him to arrange an appointment, Gavin marched into the office of the Herald’s managing editor.
“This can’t wait,” he said, equally cool, and opened the frosted glass door to Campbell’s private office.
“Sir, you cannot go in there,” she called, following him into the space. “Mr. Campbell, this man should not be here. I will call security.”
Seated in a leather chair behind a massive oak desk, MacAllister Campbell looked up from a map he’d been examining. Removing the eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his prominent nose, he acknowledged his secretary with a nod. “I understand, Miss Beddingham. There will be no need for security.”
“Very well,” she said with what seemed a calculated sigh. “I shall be on the alert if you change that decision.”
“Thank you.”
The editor’s thick dark brows came together in a blunt line. He regarded Gavin silently, waiting until the door closed behind his secretary’s enormous bustle. Gavin had met the towering Scot on more than one occasion, obligatory society functions and such, and he’d been impressed with the man’s no-nonsense attitude. With any luck, he would not attempt to evade Gavin’s questions.
“What the devil is this about?” Campbell asked.
Gavin stared down at Campbell. “Where is Sophie Devereaux? I know she’s a reporter for the Herald.”
“And if she is? What business is it of yours?” Campbell rose to his full height, some three inches or so taller than Gavin’s six feet.
Anger coursed through Gavin’s veins. “What in bloody hell were you thinking, assigning a woman like Sophie to tangle with the likes of Neil Trask?”
Campbell regarded him with a cold scowl. “Word is out that you were set upon by thieves last night. I’m apt to wonder if you did not suffer some injury to your head in the encounter.”
“I know she works for you, Campbell. I also know that if anything happens to her, I will hold you personally accountable.”
Campbell folded his arms, regarding Gavin as if he’d gone quite mad. “Is that so?”
“I’d say your judgment is questionable at best, sending a woman into a den of jackals.”
The Scot cocked his head, regarding Gavin with unmasked contempt. “Might I suggest you go back to one of those tombs you’re so fond of and dust the sand off some bloke’s sarcophagus?”
If Campbell thought a petty insult would send him on his way, he would discover he was grossly mistaken. “Where the bloody hell is she?”
“What makes you think she wants to be found, much less by the likes of you?”
“She is in danger. I know a way…a way to protect her.”
“Assuming the Miss Devereaux you seek is indeed in the employ of this paper, what in the name of all that is good and holy would lead you to believe I’d trust a word out of your mouth?”
The hinges behind him gave a slight groan. Sophie quietly entered the office and closed the door.
Relief flooded Gavin’s veins, even as her mouth pursed into a frown. “I should have known you’d puzzle out where I’d gone,” she said.
“Not the greeting I expected, but I’ll take it.”
“Indeed.” Her frown deepened. “As my secret is out, the need for pretense is over.” She nodded to Campbell. “Given the events of the past two nights, I believe he can be trusted.”
Campbell nodded. “If it were not for the attack ye suffered last night, I’d be tempted to suspect you’re the one who did the bloke in.”
“Did the bloke in?” Gavin questioned.
Sophie offered a grim nod. “Trask.”
Her matter-of-fact tone could not camouflage the distress in her eyes. Brushing past him, she settled into an upholstered chair to the right of Campbell’s desk. She motioned Gavin to take a seat on the opposite side, then shot the editor a speaking glance.
Campbell settled back into his leather wing chair, eyeing Gavin with a protective scrutiny. “Workers on a barge fished Trask out of the river shortly after dawn.”
“A suicide, or so it appears,” Sophie explained. “A witness well in his cups saw him plunge from a bridge, miles from his studio. Rather convenient, I’d say.”
“Especially given the fact the unlucky bastard suffered a broken neck, likely before the fall,” Campbell added. “Our source indicated his head had been turned one hundred eighty degrees.”
Sophie’s complexion blanched, but she drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair and maintained her composure. “It would seem Jack and Reggie had a busy night.”
Campbell stood, pointing at the map of Britain on his desk. Several cities and hamlets throughout England and Scotland were marked with cryptic symbols. The right margin had been inscribed with another symbol and a location—Paris. “If those curs were indeed the culprits. Given the scope of this investigation, the person who ordered his killing likely has an assortment of assassins at his disposal.”
“Or her disposal,” Sophie pointed out.
“Of course.” Campbell’s brows hiked, and his mouth curved in something that might’ve been respect. “Sophie fancies herself a suffragette.”
Her soft smile brightened features that had paled to the color of freshly laundered linen. “Murder is not a solely masculine providence.”
“Indeed,” Gavin agreed. “It would appear Trask was not behind the attack on my life.”
“He may well have sent those men to silence you, to clean up the mess he’d made by taking you on as a client.” Sophie spoke calmly, with authority. “He let his greed overrule his caution, and he paid the price.”
A light rap upon the door added to the tension in the room. The secretary’s crisp tones followed. “Mr. Campbell, the director has arrived. Mrs. Colton has accompanied him.”
“Very good. Please send them in.”
Moments later, a tall, dark-haired man and a strikingly beautiful woman strode into the office. The Sinister Inspector. Gavin recognized Matthew Colton at first glance. Colton’s image had been depicted in the Herald on more occasions than he could recall. The former Yardman’s murder trial had been the talk of London. Colton’s acquittal had been met with jeers from those who had believed he’d cheated the hangman. God knew the Herald had portrayed Colton as a fiend, a murderer who’d richly deserved a noose tightened about his neck—what in blazes was the man doing, taking a meeting with the Herald’s managing editor?
The woman at his side regarded Gavin with a slightly narrowed, unabashedly curious gaze. Jennie Quinn Colton. The former journalist’s well-honed skills and keen intellect no doubt served her well at the exclusive detective agency her husband had founded.
As Mrs. Colton reached up to pat the black velvet hat perched atop her auburn hair back into place, she frowned. Deep green, almond-shaped eyes flashed, and she shot Campbell a questioning glance.
“My, if I’d known we were entertaining a guest, I might’ve brought some of Gerry’s scones.”
Colton’s reaction was more direct. “Why the bloody hell are you here?”
Gavin stood, eye to eye with Colton. “I take it you know who I am.”
Colton slowly nodded. “What I don’t know is what you think to accomplish by coming here. Your interference has done enough damage.”
“That is not a valid assessment of the situation,” Sophie spoke up.
“You think not?” Colton kept his tone low and tightly controlled. “You were nearly abducted, and this bloke was nearly killed, days after he first consulted Trask. I cannot attribute the proximity of those events to coincidence.”
“There does appear to be a correlation,” Jennie Colton said. “But need I remind you, correlation does not imply causation.”
Colton set his jaw, appearing to digest his wife’s words. “Quite so,” he said finally, “but that does not change the truth. Stanwyck’s game with Trask exposed Sophie to greater scrutiny, compromising her cover.”
“That is likely not the case. Those men came after me the first night Stanwyck attended a sitting. Someone had already dispatched them. His actions could not have influenced that near miss.”
“She’s right,” Jennie Colton said. “The timing is off. I can only conclude you are both targets, but for different reasons.”
Even though he’d known Sophie was in danger, fear for her burrowed under Gavin’s skin. “Why would anyone want to hurt her?”
Jennie Colton cleared her throat. “My, it’s so dark in here, I feel like I’ve entered a cavern. Shall we let in a bit of light?” She went to the window and threw open the curtain, then fixed Gavin with her penetrating gaze. “Professor Stanwyck, there is something you should know. Sophie is indeed a reporter for the Herald. But she is also a valued operative of our agency.”
The revelation slammed into him like a bare-knuckle blow. “Is this true, Sophie?”
“Yes.” Her mouth pulled taut as a bowstring. “As you can understand, I was not at liberty to disclose this to you.”
“Of course. Is there anything else I should know?”
“My question to you is this, Professor Stanwyck—now that you know Sophie is a detective, what do you plan to do with that intelligence?” Jennie Colton’s voice was calm and firm.
The implication in Mrs. Colton’s question rubbed against the grain. Surely they did not suspect he would betray her. Bugger it, did they truly believe he’d trade his honor for the safety of his own hide?
“Not a damned thing.” He watched Sophie’s reaction. Was it his imagination, or did she release a breath she’d been holding?
“So, let’s return to my initial inquiry. Why did you come here today?” The calm in Matthew Colton’s tone was somehow more unnerving than his anger.
“I was concerned for her safety.” Gavin turned toward her. “I can protect her, if she will allow me that privilege.”
“Quite commendable, Professor.” Mrs. Colton turned to the editor. “Might I trouble you for the documents I brought over earlier.”
With a brusque nod, Campbell produced a binder labeled with Gavin’s name.
“You kept a file on me?”
“It is a recent development, I assure you.” Mrs. Colton took the binder from the editor’s hand. “Until you began delving into Trask’s enterprise, we had no reason to look into your background.”
“You have been spying on me?”
“We prepared some preliminary research, but there was no time to embark on an investigation. The situation has changed dramatically, and with alarming speed.” Jennie Colton produced a neatly trimmed square of newsprint. “This may be of interest to you.”
He stared down at the clipping. Sophie had correctly interpreted the meaning of the image. Trask knew of the connection between him and Peter Garner. With such information, even a fool could have deduced the true intention behind Gavin’s visits to the incense-clouded salon.
Gavin ran a finger around the edge of the paper. Had it been only three years since he and Peter had returned from their joint expedition to the Sahara? So much had changed in that brief time. Peter had been so driven then, so enthralled by the prospect of unearthing antiquities that had lain untouched for millennia. That had been before he fell headlong in love with his bride, before Amelia’s death had gutted him.
Before Trask had duped him into believing Amelia called to him from the grave.
Before Peter plunged to his death in the unforgiving current of the Thames.
“Someone felt threatened by you, Stanwyck,” Campbell spoke up. “They sent Trask that scrap of newspaper by messenger. We suspect Trask hired the men to kill you in an attempt to save himself.”
The words hit Gavin like an uppercut he hadn’t seen coming. “Someone is trying to tie up their own loose ends. Trask has been eliminated. If not for Sophie’s courage, I would also be a dead man.”
Colton went to the shelves behind Campbell’s desk, producing a grid of London’s streets. He placed that map over the one spread out upon the editor’s desk and tapped a finger against a neatly penned black X. “Each of these marks indicates a death or an assault we believe may be connected to Trask’s clientele. Those marked in red indicate the victim did not survive. Fortunately for you, Bertram is a fine shot.”
Gavin leaned over to study the maps. “The killings are not confined to London, or Britain, for that matter.”
“One of the men died while on an impromptu holiday in France,” Campbell said. “We suspect he knew he was in danger and attempted to outrun the menace.”
The color drained from Sophie’s cheeks. Jennie Colton placed her index finger on the spot where Sophie was attacked, then to another location, not far from Trask’s studio. “Were you aware that Sophie was accosted the night before you came to her assistance?”
He shook his head. Bugger it, if he’d known, he would’ve done everything in his power to get her away from that damned studio.
Mrs. Colton’s mouth settled into a grim seam. She reached out to Sophie, offering a reassuring squeeze of her hand. And then, she turned to Gavin.
“The question now is, how do we keep the both of you alive?”
For a breath, perhaps two, Gavin took in Sophie’s face, seeing the fright she valiantly struggled to hide. “I know a way… I can protect her.”
“Is that so?” Colton did not disguise his skepticism.
“As you’ve pointed out, fleeing to the Continent will not offer a guarantee of safety. I propose another refuge. A veritable fortress.”
“A fortress?” Sophie regarded him with what seemed a blend of doubt and hope. “What do you propose?”
Jennie’s expression brightened. So, she knew of his estate, of the sprawling lands and structures his father had referred to in a colossal bit of understatement as a hunting lodge. “That may provide a solution. A temporary one, at best. But a solution nonetheless.”
Sophie turned to him. The hope in her eyes had transformed to something more akin to indignation.
“Are you suggesting I take up residence in some moldy castle in the middle of nowhere…with you?”
God above, she was lovely when that flush tinted her sweetly rounded face. Why did it amuse him to vex her? “You say that with some measure of disdain.”
“Some disdain. The notion is madness.” She turned to Jennie. “I am prepared to board the first train out of London to the Continent.”
“Any form of public conveyance puts you at risk. There’s reason to believe you would be followed, and we cannot monitor everyone who boards a train or a ship,” Campbell explained. “The deaths on the Continent point to the danger involved.”
Colton shot his wife a speaking glance. “Jennie, I have my doubts.”
“We can provide security to a private estate,” she said. “It can be done.”
Sophie rose and walked to the window. She stared down at the street below. “I do not care for this solution. Not at all.”
Blast it, he wanted to take her in his arms, if only to reassure her she would not face the threat alone. But this was neither the time nor the place. He joined her at the window, reaching for her, his touch light, nearly chaste. How was it that the merest contact between his body and hers generated undeniable heat?
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper.
“Trust me, Sophie. That’s all I ask of you.”