“Inspector! I think this is what we’re searching for.” Excitement wove through his driver’s voice as he eased the vehicle to a halt at the curb. William jumped out to converse with the man. “Looks like candles are lit behind those shades.”
A placard swinging from chains above the door read, “Newton’s Butchery and Slaughterhouse.”
His stomach twisted in on itself. “Excellent work.” He drew the pistol from a pocket of his greatcoat. “If I’m fortunate, this will end swiftly.” It would only take one well-aimed shot, one ball to that woman’s head, and justice would be served. After so many murders, she didn’t deserve a trial or to wait for hanging at Newgate.
Yet, that wasn’t what being a Bow Street Runner was about, and he knew it.
“Godspeed, Inspector.” The driver glanced between him and the shop door. “Shall I accompany you?”
Thank goodness for people like George. “No. I’d rather you wait here. If Miss Bancroft is incapacitated, I’ll need help then. If you’re itching for a fight, heartily dissuade anyone who grows too curious about the carriage.” A high-pitched feminine scream rent the relative silence of the night, and the muffled sound constricted his heart. “I must go.”
That sound hadn’t come from the front of the shop. Deciding against entering the butchery from the back as originally planned, he crept to the front door. A bell on a rope would tinkle once he opened that door. No sense in alerting the killer. With his free hand, he grabbed the tin bell in his fist, yanking until it came off the rope. Then he tossed it away into a rather sad pot of wilted and browned flowers that hadn’t made it through the winter. Pausing, he listened for any sign of further violence or an alert the bell might have brought, but the area was dead quiet. Then William tried the handle. The knob turned in his palm. Thank goodness for over-confident killers. Miss Newton should have expected immediate retribution.
But madness seldom was logical.
As soon as he’d pushed the scarred and marked panel open enough, he slipped into a shop room where a single candle burned atop a battered cabinet. It featured a wooden counter where folks would purchase their neatly packaged meat. Shelves at the walls held a few bottles of spices and cooking implements, but by and large, the room held the air of staleness and disuse. Obviously, no one had, as yet, taken up the mantle of butcher.
A scream followed by a whimper and pleading words in a frightened tone urged him onward toward another door. It was open and connected the front of the shop with another, more gruesome area. The ambient temperature in this space was considerably cooler than outside due to thick blocks of ice stacked against the walls. And then he realized why. A few slabs of beef and lamb hung from massive hooks suspended from chains on the ceiling. How long had the meat been there? There was the distinct odor of decay in the air. Who minded the butchery since Miss Newton’s father had abandoned his profession?
Dark stains on the cement floor indicated the animals had been butchered here… or human victims. William’s chest tightened when he saw a couple of lady’s reticules that had been thrown in a corner like so much garbage. Yes, this was the kill site… or one of them.
The scene that met his eyes chilled the blood in his veins and caused his heart to momentarily pause.
Francesca was rigged up in the middle of the room, her wrists tied behind her, but more horrific was the chain that had gone around her delicate neck and secured above her head by one of the massive meat hooks. He followed the chain up and around the ceiling to where the other end was wrapped around a massive wooden wheel, much like what a ship would have to haul up an anchor. The reason for it sent bile into his throat. This was how the butcher would raise the side of beef or lamb from the floor to dangle in the air to better carve off portions. As of right now, Francesca’s toes rested on the floor, and the absence of the one slipper squeezed at his heart.
The madwoman, Miss Newton, flitted between her and the wheel. She’d obviously just thrown the lever, which had resulted in Francesca being incrementally lifted and why she’d screamed and resorted to pleading.
Oh, dear God!The woman meant to strangle her victim and would no doubt eviscerate her during the deed. This was different from the other victims, and no doubt Miss Newton had strung them up by their wrists. So then why was Francesca different?
But he knew. He always had.
Because I’m in love with her, and that’s a direct threat to the killer.
A veil of red fell over his eyes as Miss Newton came at Francesca with a butcher’s cleaver, taunting her. She slashed at Fanny’s gown and the fabric gaped open, putting one side of her body on macabre display, while his darling reporter tried to dance away, twisting her body to avoid being cut. His gasp must have alerted the killer, for she darted behind Francesca’s body, and he couldn’t get in a clean shot.
“Welcome, Inspector Storme.” Miss Newton’s eyes glimmered with happiness that was a direct contrast to the torture she was inflicting.
“Put down the knife, Miss Newton.”
“William!” Francesca’s face lit, temporarily displacing the terror in her expression. “Help!”
Miss Newton rested the blade at Francesca’s neck. “I knew you’d come for me.”
He advanced further into the room of death, his hand steady as he pointed the pistol at her. He’d fire at the first opportunity, but if she even spilled one drop of Francesca’s blood… “Of course I did. It’s my duty to put down a murderer no matter who he—or she—is. But in the interest of full disclosure, I’ve actually come for Miss Bancroft.”
“Oh, pish posh.” The woman waved her free hand as if he’d misspoken. “Once I dispatch her, you can begin to forget about this damaged woman, for you’ll have me instead. We were always meant to be together, you and I, don’t you think?”