Military Romance Collection: Contemporary Soldier Alpha Male Romance (138 page)

Logan sighed and scrubbed at the growth of ginger beard on his chin and upper lip with his free hand.  “Right,”he said to the doll.  “Let’s see what Ruby Waterbrook has to say about you, my friend.”  Rising from his desk, he grabbed his brown bowler hat and suit jacket from the hook next to his office door. 

“Homeward bound for the evening, Inspector?” asked the constable on desk duty as Logan passed his way.

“Eventually, Hannigram,” Logan replied, and shrugged his lean shoulders into his coat.  He flashed a grim smile at the clerk. “Home is where I go when my work is done.”

“Then I should wonder if you even have a home,” Hannigram said with a light chuckle.  He gestured around the room.  “Unless, of course, it’s what you call
this
place.”

“Sometimes,” Logan said, “I tend to think they are one and the same.  Good evening, Constable.”

“And a good evening to you, as well, Inspector Tummond.”

***

The hansom cab pulled up in front of a set of elegantly appointed, first rate terraced homes at Belgrave Square.  A lamp burned in the front window of the first floor drawing room.  Inspector Tummond stepped out, paid the driver, and then turned to face the large, black door with its gleaming brass fixtures.  Ruby Waterbrook came from money, he knew that much about her.  An only child, she had come by her inheritance at an early age, a tidy sum which would see her set most comfortably for the remainder of her days.  As a woman of twenty-three, however, Ruby knew she could not live alone as she chose to do without inviting great scrutiny.  Thus, the apartments had been maintained in the name of a fictitious male benefactor, possibly an uncle, or so she had disclosed to Logan during one of their previous clandestine meetings, conducted only at night when prying eyes might be closed in sleep. 

Logan took a deep breath and let it out again.  He had to prepare himself mentally and emotionally for his audience with Miss Waterbrook.  In the year of their acquaintance, he had come to admit to himself that he had begun to develop feelings for her of a romantic nature.  He could still recall the day when Ruby deduced this about him.  For her part, she had been kind. 
I am flattered, Inspector,
she had said,
but you must understand, I have no interest in matters of the heart; rather, I prefer to focus on the cerebral, honing my wits and filling my mind with as much information as possible.

And it was true about Ruby.  She spoke at least five languages and several dialects.  She could handle any firearm with ease and skill of practice.  She had been trained in the use of the bow.  Before blossoming into womanhood she claimed she had posed as a lad to take fencing lessons.  Disguising herself had become something of a challenge and a pleasure, for she would often dress as a man in order to attend events where only men would be allowed such as boxing matches, which she would study and recreate every move in order to improve her repertoire of defense skills. 

Aside from being accomplished in many sports, Miss Waterbrook possessed a keen memory.  She could recall every book she had ever read.  Once, Logan had tested this claim by pulling a random tome from a shelf in her library and upon giving her the page number, listened in awe as she had recited every word of the first three paragraphs with haunting precision.  This memory would also be responsible for housing all matter of information on subjects considered to be foreign to Logan.  To say she had a superior intellect would be an understatement.  It could be even more unnerving to realize she had achieved all these successes over the course of the last twenty years of her young life.  Logan believed Ruby could out-smart even the wisest scholars of Oxford and Cambridge.  But she could never let on, simply because of her sex.

That she trusted Logan with this secret could have been one of the many reasons he found himself attracted to her.  He admired her for her mind, but also for her beauty.  No delicate flower, she; no, Ruby Waterbrook would never be mistaken for a shrinking violet.  But she had all the classic beauty of a rose, thorns and all.

He rang the bell and waited for the housemaid to answer.  The girl had been a child prostitute at thirteen when Ruby had come upon her selling herself in the streets as a common tart not five years ago, just before the age of consent had been raised to sixteen.  Ruby had just arrived in London, a young woman of eighteen.  According to her story, she had spied Ginny trying to nick a gentleman’s purse only to be caught, struck several times, and threatened with imprisonment.  Ruby, who had named Josephine Butler as one of her role models, had been at the shops; she had noticed the exchange, and had taken that moment to step in.  She had claimed the girl to be her long-lost sister, a child of feeble mind who had been shanghaied and forced into slavery.  She had told Logan with some amusement how she had then broken into a great display of tears and gratitude toward the gentleman for finding Ginny, before absconding with her, loading her into a cab, and rushing off. 

Ginny had been grateful to Ruby for the intervention.  Ruby, in turn, had made her promise to abandon that life for something more favorable.  Ginny would have to work, she had said, but she would always have a roof over her head, clean clothes, a warm bed of her own in which to sleep, and hot meals every day.  In addition, Ruby had begun to tutor her.  Being able to read and write, Miss Waterbrook had often said, were paramount to every person’s well-being.  This, again, had been a nod to her heroine, Mrs. Butler, a champion of education for women.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Ginny said, as she opened the door to Logan.  Dressed in a housemaid’s uniform, the petite girl smiled coquettishly, batting her blue eyes at him as she peered up at him through the fringe of her blonde hair.

“Good evening, Ginny,” Logan said, doffing his hat and treating her to a warm smile.  He raked his long fingers back through his short brown curls.  “Is your mistress about this evening?”

“She’s in the study,” the girl said, her Duncaster accent quite pronounced.  “I’ll announce you, shall I?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”  He stepped inside, allowing her to close the door behind him.  Ginny brushed past him, the long ties on her white apron fluttering behind her as she made her way ahead of him through the marbled foyer. Logan followed her to the drawing room that faced onto the street. 

“If you’ll wait here, sir,” Ginny said, and then slipped off to fetch her mistress. 

Logan stood in the center of the room, slowly turning his hat in his hand.  He always found himself taking in his surroundings no matter how often he came to call.  Aside from the exquisite décor, there always seemed to be something new to notice, some odd trinket or work of art added to the collection on the blue and black damask walls.  Beneath his boots lay a large woven rug from the Orient adorned in intricate red, black and gold designs.  Lush green palms in huge, painted pots filled the room’s four corners.  Heavy, gold brocade curtains framed the windows.  The marble fireplace stood dark and cold on this midsummer evening, but he could recall many winter evenings when he came to call and would warm himself by the fire in one of the comfortable sitting chairs positioned near it. 

“My dear Inspector Tummond.  To what honor do I owe this evening’s visit?”

Turning around, Logan found himself staring at the vision of beauty standing in the doorway.  For a moment, he could not speak, only to swallow softly at the sight of her.  His heart thumped heavily in his chest.  As much as he had tried to respect her request to keep their relationship professional, if not platonic, he still could not deny the feelings that rushed through him every time his gaze fell upon her.  Ruby Waterbrook had always struck Logan as a strong woman in build as much as in character.  Her square-cut jaw gave her a boyishness when she pulled her thick, dark auburn hair back from her face in an austere knot, only the voluptuousness of her lips and her long-lashed eyes the color of Darjeeling tea giving any indication of feminine softness.  She filled out the front of her bustier and the hips of her tailored trousers, the latter being her preferred garment when working in the privacy of her own home but which, should she appear in public, would cause much scandal.  And when she smiled at him…

He managed to find his voice.  “There’s been a murder,” he said, and then cleared his throat so his words did not come out sounding so coarse.  “A child.”

This announcement made a line form between her perfect brows, as Ruby frowned in concern.  “A child, you say?  Oh, dear.  How very unfortunate.”  She walked into the room, moving to draw the curtains before turning up the light.  “It gives one pause to wonder what could possess another to end a young life.  For you to be here, I take it there must be more unpleasantness to this story.”

Ginny returned, silently carrying a serving tray with a porcelain teapot and two cups.  She set this on the mahogany table that stood between the two chairs in front of the fireplace and quietly retreated from the room. 

“He is – was – the son of Sir Henry Cotton, a diplomat under the Prime Minister,” Logan said.  He walked over to the tea service and poured a cup for himself.  “Horribly abused, sodomized with yew branches, with a number branded upon his forehead…and holding this.”  He reached into his coat pocket and produced the doll, holding it out to Ruby. “It was found with the victim.  What do you make of it?”

“Well, let me see.”  Taking the grotesque child’s toy, Ruby carried it over to the light where she could have a better look.  “Hm.  The head appears to be carved from some soft wood, possibly pine.”  She pointed. “It was first turned on a lathe to make it into this egg shape, with the bit at the end forming a neck where the cloth body is attached.”  She gave a slight shake of her head.  “Intriguing.  The eyes, cheekbones, and other details you would find on a human skull are quite accurate.  By my first guess, I would say someone with a background in carpentry, but this is far more meticulous and would require much more refined instruments, so I would be more inclined to say a toymaker, even someone who specializes in miniature.  The only discrepancy is in the teeth.  They are oddly shaped, some wider than others, just a simple horizontal line with a series of vertical lines drawn through.  As for this black cloth for the body…”  Her frown deepened.  “Now, this is interesting.  I should like to take a closer look at the fiber construction under my microscope, if you don’t mind.”

“Mm.”  Logan took a sip from his cup and swallowed before shaking his head.  “Not at all.  I was hoping you might be able to discern something from it, with your vast knowledge.”

Ruby chuckled.  “As always, you flatter me, sir.” 

“I only say what is true.”Setting his unfinished tea back on the tray, Logan followed Ruby back through the house to the study.  A table had been set up with a brass scope, all the lenses lined neatly in their case to the side.  “New, is it?” he asked, gesturing to the device.

“What a keen eye you have, Inspector!” Ruby grinned as she slid onto a stool at the viewing station.  “Yes, it arrived only yesterday.  I’ve been enamored with it since, looking at anything I can get my hands on.”  She took up a pair of shears and carefully snipped a bit of the black cloth from the doll’s sleeve before placing it on the tray.  Bending over the eyepiece, she turned various knobs to adjust the focus.  “Well, now.  It’s as I thought.  This fabric is a ribbed silk commonly known as faille – in fact, I would go so far as to say it had been taken from another garment.  A petticoat, for example.”

Logan felt a chill run up his spine and his smile faded.  “A
petticoat
, you say?”  Suddenly, he found himself thinking back to another time, not long ago.  “Whitehall…”

Raising her head, Ruby twisted to look at him.  “Are you referring to the Whitehall Mystery of nearly three years ago?” she asked.“The unsolved case of the woman whose torso and limbs had been discovered on the site where Scotland Yard now stands?”

“The very same,” Logan said, and grimaced.  “The torso had been found wrapped in a black petticoat.  The head has yet to be located.”

“Yes, I remember that one…there was a lot of talk going around that it might have been one of old Jack’s victims.”  She raised her eyebrows.  “Are you beginning to think there may be some connection between Whitehall and this child?”

“The thought had not crossed my mind, until now,” Logan said.  “But it would make little sense, as there is nothing that connects the two murders aside from the cloth.  We do know the lad’s last words, according to the woman who found him last night, were ‘he is coming.’  When asked to whom he was referring, the child responded with his dying breath, ‘the angel.’”

“Of course,” Ruby said.  She held up the doll for emphasis.  “That could be the meaning behind this, and what it represents:
The Angel of Death. 
It is the killer’s signature, signifying him or the figure he would have others believe him to be – but what is even more disturbing, he uses both the doll and his victim to send the message that there will be others.”  She gave a brief hum of amusement as she regarded the toy again.  “A poppet of promise…”

“’Others?’” Logan repeated, frowning.  “You think this is no isolated incident, then?”

“Most likely, no.”  Ruby drummed her fingertips on the table and chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment.  “What were the other things you said about the child?  That he had been sodomized – with
yew
branches, did you say?”

“Yes,” Logan said.

“Interesting.  In some cultures, the yew represents death – much like your poppet, here – as well as rebirth.”

Logan blinked.  “I never considered that,” he said softly.  “I remember as a child, when my grandmother died, they placed yew branches on her grave.”

“That’s an old Irish tradition,” Ruby confirmed.  “So, you have the doll which is a representation of Death, the yew branches…  Did you also say there was a number on the boy’s forehead?  What was it?”

“Sixty-nine,” Logan said.“The killer branded it there.  The mark had begun to heal but it would have left a scar.”  He snorted.  “Why would he use what is commonly a long-lasting method of marking the child, if only to kill him within days of placing it there?”

Ruby considered this.  “Yes, that does seem rather odd.”  She folded her arms beneath her breasts.  “The number alone is just as puzzling.  Was this his sixty-ninth victim?  Does it refer to a date?  An address?”  She shook her head in frustration, as if to dislodge the questions building in her head faster than they could leave her rosy lips.  “You
are
certain it was this number, though.”