A sigh escaped him. There was no way to know, for she rarely spoke to anyone. Caroline had been the Storme family’s shameful secret for more years than he cared to remember. His father had sent her away to an institution for the mentally insane when she’d been a young girl of twelve. They’d been allowed to visit her twice a year but were never given a reason as to why she’d been sent, left there to be forgotten. It had caused a huge rift in the family, only recently mended during the Christmastide holidays and through a scavenger hunt, no less.
“You’re friends now. Let Andrew lend assistance again,” she insisted. Another stronger cough followed her entreaty, a sure sign she was becoming excitable.
“All right.” He held up a hand. “Don’t tire yourself.” The less aggravation she had, the better off she’d be. “I’ll pay him a visit later this week and ask for his advice. If he can manage not to dictate to me, I might even take it.” Though the last thing he wanted was to admit to a weakness before his cousin, he would if it brought his mother peace.
“Good.” Exhaustion edged the grin she gave him. “Perhaps tonight’s rout will prove fruitful, for it’s Valentine’s Day, and if I remember right, the Northingtons always did do the holiday with smashing success.”
Belatedly, he remembered the date. A groan escaped. “Bloody hell.” His annoyance level raised exponentially. The night would be full of women on the prowl, for romance would be at the forefront of the whole event. William pinched the bridge of his nose when a headache began to gather behind his eyes. “I truly hope this rout isn’t the disaster I think it will be.”
Before his mother could answer, the clearing of a masculine throat at the door broke the silence. William frowned as he stared at the butler. “What is it, Hankins?”
The man of indeterminate age stepped into the room and extended his gloved hand, offering a simple ivory envelope. “A missive was delivered for you, Mr. Storme. The courier said it was urgent you read it directly.”
“Thank you.” He snatched at the envelope, and as the butler left the room, William slipped a pair of reading spectacles from the inside pocket of his jacket. Once he’d perched them on the tip of his nose, he broke the plain seal, then withdrew a note with hastily scrawled writing across it.
Dead woman found stabbed by the North Gate in Hyde Park. Foul play. Come at once if convenient.
Chief Inspector Pryce
His heart leapt even as his gut tightened from yet another murder. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I’ve been summoned to a case.” He tucked the note into an interior pocket of his evening jacket along with his spectacles.
The sigh she uttered sounded long-suffering. “You spend entirely too much time with Bow Street. I think you use your occupation as a way to shield yourself from other responsibilities or from moving forward in your life.”
“Perhaps I do, and I’m sure we’ll discuss it at length again, but for now, I must go.” He closed the distance between them, leaned over, and place a kiss upon her wrinkled cheek. “Stay well. I promise once I assess the scene, I’ll go directly to the Northingtons’ rout.”
“Thank you, dear. I worry about you.”
William gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Everything will come about as it should.” Then he was off, with a considerable lighter load about his shoulders than he’d had before.
It was too odd that the notice of a dead body could put him in such an uplifted mood. Not many women would appreciate that, which was just another reason why he wouldn’t look hard for a wife. There simply was no excitement in it.
*
By the timeWilliam arrived at the crime scene, the February chill had seeped into his bones. After climbing down from his carriage and telling his driver to wait, he turned up the collar of his greatcoat, settled the black wool muffler more snugly about his neck, and approached the knot of people clustered about the body of a woman lying a few feet off the main road.
His boss pulled away and met him. “It’s an odd case to be sure, which is why I summoned you,” the tall, older man said. With a barrel chest and a rather stumpy neck that supported his large head, he resembled an English bulldog, and had the sagging jowls to prove it. He consulted a small leatherbound notebook. “The victim seems to be in her mid-twenties. Dead for probably a few hours. We’re waiting for the coroner.”
William nodded. His breath clouded about his head, and a shiver of cold went down his spine. Damned winter. He elbowed past the various constables as well as a junior principal officer from Bow Street and then kneeled beside the body despite the trace of snow clinging to the winter-dead grass. “Was there a reticule?” He peered into her face, leaned down, and took a sniff. No trace of alcohol or opiates about her person. Not even a hint of perfume met his nose. When he eased back onto his heels, he removed a pencil from a pocket of his greatcoat.
“A preliminary check of the scene hasn’t turned up one.” Chief Inspector Pryce gestured to the junior agent. “Walk the area. Comb through the bushes in case the reticule was tossed by the attacker.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man darted off to do his boss’ bidding while William shook his head. That should have already been done. The chief inspector was slipping.
“Do we have an identification yet?” With care, he moved the woman’s head with his free hand. Upswept blonde hair decorated with jewel-encrusted combs spoke of quality, yet the combs were still there. So not a robbery. There were no signs of blunt force to the skull, nor was there an excess of blood beneath, ruling out a head wound. A dark stain of blood had soaked the front of her gown. The metallic scent of it filled the air.
“Not that I can fathom. We’ll wait and see if a missing persons notice is filed.” The chief inspector frowned. In low tones, he told the constables to keep the scene secure and free of trespassers. “And absolutely no reporters. The last thing we need is for this to grip London with sensationalism.” Once alone, William’s superior kneeled on the opposite side of the body. “I didn’t want to show this to the lot of them but look here.” With a gloved hand, he peeled back the front of the woman’s gown, that only now William noticed had been ripped on one side. So much blood had soaked the gown that it had congealed on the snow and grass, not visible when he’d first arrived on the scene.
“Good God.” For an instant, William swallowed a few times in quick succession, for the sight was gruesome enough. “She was stabbed and half-gutted.” That was the cause of death, surely. Stabbed with a ferocity that left her innards spilling out. “This suggests a crime of passion.”
“Indeed.” Then the chief inspector pulled down the bodice of the gown to reveal a portion of her right shoulder. “What do you make of this?”
The initial “W” had been carved into the woman’s skin. Blood had welled, leaving it a macabre mark in the dim moonlight, but the cut was thinner, more precise than the stab wound. A second blade, then?
“I’m not certain.” He’d never seen such violation before. “Was it done postmortem?”
“Difficult to ascertain right now, for it’s freezing out here.”
With the tip of his pencil, William pushed at her right hand. “Look here.” A few thin slashes had cut the flesh of her palm, for she hadn’t been wearing gloves. Odd that. “She’d had her hand up in defense.”