Chapter Sixteen
“Please, Alex, do make yourself comfortable.”
Jennie motioned to an overstuffed wing chair, but Alex had no desire to sit, comfortably or otherwise. Pacing the length of the library in her sister’s spacious Mayfair home, jittery as a cat tiptoeing past a sleeping bulldog, she pulled in a deep breath. Releasing the air on a slow exhalation, she moved to the chair and sat perched on the edge of the seat.
“Matthew regrets he could not join us,” Jennie went on. “He is attending to some urgent business of great importance to the Home Secretary. As I’m sure you understand, I am not at liberty to discuss the specifics.”
“Of course,” Alex said. To her left, Benedict leaned almost casually against a leather settee. His nonchalant stance did not fool Alex. She knew he was filled with the same nervous energy that had set her feet in motion over the plush carpet.
Seated behind a modest-sized desk of polished cherry, MacAlister Campbell opened the folder containing Mrs. Donohue’s research and placed her neatly penned notes atop the maroon desk blotter. “Well done, Miss Quinn,” he said. “Given this new information, it appears your theory may be valid.” He tapped the nib of his fountain pen against the list. “However, there are certain inconsistencies that might actually prove meaningful.”
“What are you saying?” Alex stopped her pacing and stared down at the table Mrs. Donohue had prepared. November 19. Her date of birth was referenced with the symbol astrologers linked to that precise day. Beneath the date, Benedict’s birthday was noted, followed by the birthdates of each man who had died. Some had been paired with a symbol she had identified from Hamid’s cryptic message, while others were unmatched.
“Take a look, Miss Quinn. I think the discrepancy will be obvious to you.”
She leaned closer, taking in the information bit by bit. “Professor Stockwell came into this world on June 1… Gemini. The twins.” She pointed to the glyph on the photograph, repeating the process for each of the men who’d been identified by Mrs. Donohue’s research.
“Some of the men listed here were not depicted in the guide’s message. I suspect his strength gave out before he could complete the warning,” Benedict said.
“But there are two symbols that do not correspond to any of the men we’ve identified,” Alex pointed out. “The incomplete circle and the second hieroglyph of Capricorn. Other than Lord Marlsbrook, none of the men involved was born in December or January.”
“An excellent observation. As for the final symbol, Mrs. Donahue’s research indicated that the circle could have been intended to indicate Taurus. The icon is incomplete, but appears to be a half-formed representation,” Campbell said. “There’s no way of knowing what the guide’s birthdate was, so he may have meant to indicate himself among the victims.”
Tension cramped the muscles in Alex’s shoulders and throat, bringing about a dull, miserable ache. She rubbed the back of her neck, as if that might get rid of the discomfort. “Or he’d intended to depict additional victims who have not yet come under attack.”
“It is also possible that these symbols represent the villains in this piece,” Benedict observed coolly.
“As you are still very much alive, Marlsbrook, the guide may indeed have been referring to you as a villain,” Campbell said, his tone edged with flint. “I feel confident we might rule out Miss Quinn’s involvement, but we have not reached that conclusion where you are concerned.”
“Ah, I’d always aspired to be considered a brilliant villain.” Benedict’s razor-sharp glance made his response to Campbell’s veiled accusation quite clear. “While you’re drawing your conclusions, I would advise you to do a better job with surveillance than where that bastard Rooney was concerned. In my book, it’s not every day that a man whose neck has been broken in two places manages to rig up a noose and do himself in.”
Alex gasped. “What are you saying?”
“Come now, Lord Marlsbrook, there is no need to be uncivil,” Jennie said quietly, though the sudden pallor of her complexion validated Benedict’s statement.
“I am only speaking the truth. I would hardly count that as uncivil. Isn’t it a fact that Rooney’s neck had been fractured? And yet, his death was deemed a suicide. Rather convenient, I’d say.” Benedict pinned Campbell with his gaze. “I suggest you start telling us the truth, as it is our necks that are now on the line.”
Campbell met Benedict’s hard stare. “Where did you come by this information?”
He regarded Campbell as if he were a fool. “It is amazing how easily a good amount of tin in one’s palm can induce a bloke to talk.”
“I am not in a position to confirm what you’ve been told,” Campbell said, gritting each word between his teeth.
“Come now, they deserve to know the truth,” Jennie spoke up, turning to Benedict. “As I understand it, the information you’ve been told is correct. Rooney’s death was not a suicide.”
“Someone wanted to make sure he didn’t talk,” Campbell said.
“Obviously, whoever wanted him dead is close enough to know what’s going on,” Alex said.
“It is possible that the instruction came from afar,” Campbell said. “But it’s more likely that whoever ordered Rooney’s death is right here. In London.”
“We will position agents among the servers and musicians to be present at the ball tonight,” Jennie said. “I’ve received word that Sophie and Gavin will also be in attendance. She is eager to join the investigation.”
The word that Sophie Atherton Stanwyck and her husband would be present was both exciting and a shade troubling. Sophie was a dear friend and a skilled agent, while her husband, Sir Gavin Stanwyck, was a well-respected Egyptologist. Pity he and Benedict had previously clashed over Benedict’s tomb raiding.
She slanted him a glance. He appeared utterly nonplussed by the revelation. If he gave a fig that a man who’d often served as a rival in his race to an antiquity would be present in the same ballroom that night, his features did not show it.
“My, that is exciting news,” Alex said, perhaps none too convincingly. “I have not chatted with Stanwyck since the celebration following his knighthood.”
“Sophie is an extremely competent agent, and she’s quite adept at providing a distraction if the need arises.” Campbell rose to his full height, towering over Alex. The Scot was a formidable figure of a man, broad shouldered and powerfully built. Handsome, despite the ever-present scowl he wore like a mask.
“We’re confident her presence will be an asset,” Jennie went on.
“You will not be in danger,” Campbell said. “Try to be relaxed and natural, and interact in a conversational manner with Raymond Stockwell and his brother. We are convinced they may be linked to the deaths. But we cannot rule out the possibility that they are in danger.”
“Indeed, their lives may also be at risk.” Jennie’s tone grew solemn with concern. “A connection with Professor Stockwell appears to be the link between the persons indicated in Hamid’s message. What closer connection could there be than the professor’s own sons?”
Alex considered her sister’s words. If the men were in danger, they needed to know. This was not a sleuthing game. “Have they been informed of the potential threat?”
“Matthew took it upon himself to meet with them after Rooney’s attack. He took care to reveal as little as possible, while alerting the brothers to the fact that their safety might be at risk.”
“And if one of them is actually the cur responsible for the murders?” Benedict questioned. “Was it wise to inform them of the investigation?”
“Unfortunately, we saw little alternative,” Campbell explained, drumming his long fingers against the desk. “Given the circumstances, it would be unethical to withhold that information. If either of them is the scoundrel responsible for the killings, he should be getting nervous.”
“The brothers are aware that we have identified a common link between the deaths.” Jennie looked down at the document, hesitating for a heartbeat. “If one of them did indeed engineer the murders, he is aware that we have deduced the deaths were not accidents. If he is agitated, he may well reveal himself.”
“Then again, he may simply kill to protect himself.” Benedict’s eyes were steely and cold. “Once you have condemned so many to their graves, what is one more death?”