“Did she know her attacker?”
William shrugged. He examined the other hand. Bruising had occurred on that wrist. “It seems that she was partially restrained.”
“By rope or a hand?”
He prodded at the left wrist. “Looks like finger marks. Slim ones.”
“Interesting.”
“Indeed.” Then he peered closely at her neck. “She still wears a necklace, and one with rubies in it. Matching earbobs.” The pieces had probably been selected to compliment her pink gown. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. “There are thin scratches here.” He indicated the skin near her collarbones and again at her vocal cords. “I’ll wager at some point she was attacked from behind—surprised. A struggle ensued. She was able to get free. Faced her attacker. Tried to ward off the blows.” Raising his head, he glanced about the immediate area. “Because of the cold, there wouldn’t have been much foot traffic, but even so, she would have screamed.”
“Oh, indeed. We canvassed the area but could find no one. It’s after ten o’clock, and with the cold, no one is going for a romantic ride through the park.” The chief inspector stood. “What do you make of the initial? A man staking his claim?”
“Possibly.” Once more William frowned at the body. “The cut and stitching of her gown, as well as the jewelry, suggests she’s connected to the ton. It should be easy enough to discover if someone is missing a daughter. The fact that she still wears her jewelry says it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong.” How increasingly odd and interesting. Those things would net a tidy profit in hawk. “Yet the violence of the kill says someone knew her and hated her personally.”
The chief inspector nodded. “My preliminary examination doesn’t show she’d been raped. No bruising on her legs or thighs, and there is no presence of semen either on her person or clothing.”
“Now that is interesting. So not a sexual predator or a man who didn’t take rejection well.”
“That we know of right now. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t one, and there is still that carved initial. Also, she’s not wearing a wrap or a garment suitable for the weather,” his superior added.
“And neither does she have a reticule.” William pocketed his pencil. “That tells me she definitely knew her attacker, trusted them enough to come out to this location on the spur of the moment. But why and how?”
“That’s what we need you to discover.”
“Right. I look forward to the challenge.” He sighed and looked away from the body. Such a tragic waste. “Please keep me informed of any new developments. I need more information before I can form a theory.”
“I will.”
“Good.” With a nod, he added, “I’m due at a function, but I’ll make discreet inquiries while there. Someone knows something, for this wasn’t a random crime.”
“I don’t think so, either. Good luck.”
“Thank you.” There’d never been a case he hadn’t solved yet in his career, but his gut instinct told him this one might prove an Achille’s heel.
*
When he finallyarrived at the Northingtons’ townhouse in Berkley Square, every part of his body felt frozen. With stiff fingers, he handed over his outwear to a footman and then wandered through the corridors toward what sounded like a full drawing room. Wanting to stand by a fire with a snifter of brandy, those creature comforts were uppermost in his mind as he entered the large drawing room filled with an expected crush of guests.
Laugher and the low buzz of conversation filled the air. Blessed warmth of a fire and the mass of bodies hit him like a wave, and he gratefully moved toward the cheerful blaze in the hearth. A few men stood locked in conversation, one leaning a fist upon the marble mantel, and all around, the ladies in attendance wore varying shades of reds, pinks, whites, and golds in appreciation of the day. Paper hearts and cutout cupids hung suspended from string on the ceiling and above the door frame and mantel. Clearly his hosts held the day in fondness.
No sooner had he held out his frozen hands to the fire’s warmth than he heard a trill of laughter that sent another shiver down his spine, and this one had nothing to do with the winter’s chill. That woman’s voice was familiar, and one he’d heard as recently as the Storme Christmastide house party in Derbyshire almost two months past. Slowly turning about—and taking the opportunity to warm his backside—he scanned the room.
Ah, there.Miss Fanny Bancroft, daughter of Viscount Nattingly. He’d met her at the Christmastide party his cousin Andrew had hosted, and he’d found her pleasant and intelligent enough during the scavenger hunt. She was a particular favorite friend of his sister Isobel—they’d struck up a remarkably fast friendship—so that said something to her character. However, over the course of that house party, he hadn’t had the opportunity to know anything further of her other than the fact she was painfully shy and prone to blushing.
At that second, the crowds shifted, and she looked about, her gaze crashing into his. Her light blue eyes widened with recognition and pleasure. Briefly, a smile of welcome curved her lips, and as she made her way toward him, he noticed her limp, which had made her overly self-conscious during Christmastide activities.
“How lovely to see you here, Inspector Storme.” The dulcet tones of her voice were immediately familiar and pleasant. They set him at ease, and after examining the gruesome crime scene earlier, he needed that.
“Indeed. You look well, Miss Bancroft.” In fact, the dark crimson gown she wore suited her petite frame and gave the modest curve of her bosom more definition. She wore no jewelry but a set of mother-of-pearl combs in her upswept chestnut hair. The pair glimmered beneath the gaslights. The pretty pink blush that stained her pale cheeks spoke of her unease around so many people… or perhaps it was his presence that gave such life to her round face. “How have you been keeping yourself of late?”
“Oh, I’ve had a few projects that have taken my attention.” Worry clouded her eyes, but for what?
He desperately wished to discover, merely to assuage his own curiosity. “How are your parents?”
The worry shifted into sadness. “Papa is showing early stages of forgetfulness. Mama and I believe he’s slowly losing his faculties.”
“I’m sorry to heart that.” He didn’t personally know the viscount, but the family had a long, sad road ahead. “When our parents are vulnerable, it deeply affects us.”