Military Romance Collection: Contemporary Soldier Alpha Male Romance (140 page)

“You said ‘evolving,’” Logan pointed out, canting his head.  “In what way?”

“His most recent victim is the son of a person of some note,” Ruby explained.  She moved back around to the other side of the desk and began pulling the photographs and the written reports back together into an orderly stack.  “The murderer also allowed the child to live long enough to speak to someone, to deliver warning message.  ‘He is coming.’  And if I am correct, his
next
victim will be someone of even greater importance.”

“Why would you say that?”

“The sign which follows Cancer in the zodiac is Leo,” Ruby said, looking up at Logan.  “It is no coincidence your most recent victim had been the son of an ambassador, as Cancer represents the Diplomat.”  She treated him to a grim smile.  “It would stand to reason that the next victim shall be the child of
royalty
, for Leo is the symbol of the Ruler.  Leo is the Lion – and I do not think I need to remind you the significance of the lion to the British monarchy.”

“Dear God in heaven,” Logan muttered under his breath.  He sank back heavily in his chair, his mind abuzz with the implications.  He looked across the desk at Ruby.  “How do we prevent this from happening?” he asked.  “Contact every member of the royal family and tell them to keep their children under close guard?  Not that they aren’t already…”

“It would not matter, I think.”  She held up a cautionary finger.  “This killer, whoever he is, will find a way.  He is determined to carry out his mission and convey his message.”

“I still have no idea what this ‘message’ is,” Logan said irritably.  “’He is coming.’  Who
is
he?  What does he want, other than to torture and murder children?  There was no ransom demand for the Cotton boy, so he isn’t motivated by a desire for wealth.”

“The answers elude me, as well,”Ruby admittedwith a despairing sigh.  “But I believe there
are
some people we could consult, who might be of assistance in understanding his intentions.”  She tapped the edge of one photograph against her chin, a thoughtful smile playing about her lips, before placing the picture back on the top of the pile.  “I might have to call on Uncle Arthur for this, as he has expressed some recent interest in these matters.  He would have the names of the people we should seek out.”

“You are going to call Arthur Conan Doyle for advice in regards to this case?” Logan snorted.  “Next thing you know, Sherlock Holmes will be solving it in
The Strand.
”

“I assure you,” Ruby said, “he does not need to fish the waters of Scotland Yard for inspiration.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”  Logan frowned.  “And just who, precisely, are these ‘people’ he knows who could help us?”

Ruby wrinkled her nose with enthusiasm and whispered,“
Occultists.
”

***

Upon receiving word to meet her at the stylish Café Royal on Regent Street for lunch two days later, Logan found Ruby sitting at a table by the window, a book in one hand and a silk fan in the other.  For all its gilded trappings and pastoral paintings, to Logan
she
was the most beautiful thing in the whole room.  The sunlight pouring through the glass illuminated the red copper in her dark auburn hair and made her fair skin glow like porcelain – all except for her cheeks, which appeared flushed a bright pink, no doubt from the heat that had begun to grip the region almost overnight.  Despite this, she looked resplendent in her dress patterned with light and dark stripes of green and trimmed in ivory lace.  He smiled as he slipped into the chair across from her.  “Miss Waterford,” he said by way of greeting, unbuttoning his frock coat.  “You look quite lovely today.”

Ruby closed the book and set it on the table to her right.  “While I appreciate the compliment, Inspector,” she replied, rapidly waving the hand painted fan under her neck, “I do wish we lived in a society where women were not required to wear so many layers of material on warm summer days.”  She huffed.  “I am absolutely
wilting
.”

“You have my sympathies, for what they are worth,” Logan said.  He glanced around, feeling somewhat underdressed in his common grey frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers, while all around him the wealthy gentlemen of the upper classes donned the latest tailored fashions while smoking their cigarettes and sipping wine from one of the finest cellars in all of England.  “Were that I could have my say, I would be out at the seaside right now.”

“Oh, that
does
sound nice,” she said.  “I have access to a family cottage in Cornwall which I have not visited in some years.  Perhaps when we have finished this investigation, we could procure ourselves a barrel of ale and see how long it would take for us to deplete its contents as we sit on the beach and allow the waves to lick at our toes.” 

Logan raised his eyebrows.  “That,” he said, “is quite a scandalous suggestion.”  But he found himself picturing it in his head all the same, the two of them sitting in the wet sand, drinking together.  He could see her, shoes and stockings discarded, the sea rushing up to wash across her bare feet…  “Although I do wonder what you would be like, after a few too many.  I suspect the consumption of spirits would only serve to heighten your brilliance.”

“I can assure you,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice in an almost conspiratorial fashion, “that I am known to be reduced to a giggling, snorting
idiot
when I become tipsy.  Or so I have been told.”

He grinned.  “I should like to see that.”  He cleared his throat and nodded to the book.  “What’s that you’re reading?”

“
Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories
,” she replied.  “It’s a collection of humorous stories by Oscar Wilde.  I’ve read them all before, in their individual publications, but could not resist when I saw they had been released as a volume.” 

“Why would you read something again when you can recall every book you’ve read from memory?” Logan asked, bemused. 

“Some stories are written so well that they warrant a second reading,” Ruby said.  She passed the book across the table to Logan, who took it and thumbed through the pages.  “The first tale is about a man, the character for whom the collection is named, being prompted to seek the counsel of a cheiromantist – a man who can tell one’s fortune based on the lines in his palm.  He is told that he is to become a murderer.”

Logan glanced up.  “That’s rather disconcerting,” he said.

“Actually, it’s quite amusing, when you read it.  Most of Mr. Wilde’s work is full of wit.  I shan’t tell you more for fear of spoiling the ending for you.”

“Are you telling me you wish me to read this?”

Ruby’s cheeks dimpled in a most appealing manner.  “It would give us something to discuss,” she said.  “Not all our conversations need entail your current investigations, much as I do enjoy them.  Literature is among my many passions, one which I love to share with good friends.  I find it lifts the spirits.”

“Then I shall be sure to purchase my own copy, read it, and then call upon you to discuss it.”  He started to hand the book back but Ruby held up a hand to stop him, shaking her head. 

“Keep it,” she said.  “I have another at home.  I just saw that one on my way here.” 

He grinned.  “Thank you.”  Tucking the book into the inner pocket of his suit coat, Logan shifted in his chair, crossing his legs at the knee and leaning back.  “Speaking of spirits…were you able to talk with your
uncle
about his connections to local occultists?”

“Yes,” Ruby said, and resumed fanning herself.  Wisps of hair that had fallen free from the pile of curls gathered at the top of her head stirred in the artificial breeze.  “He gave me the name of one person – an astrologist connected to The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and a Professor of Ancient Historywho teaches at University of Kent in Canterbury, by the name of Cornelius Chetham.  Uncle Arthur said Professor Chetham is visiting London for a few days, and that he should be able to tell us if there is any significance to the use of the symbols in terms of current planetary alignments.”

“The Golden Dawn,” Logan murmured.  “Ah, yes.  A kind of new religion founded by Freemasons almost five years ago.”  His brows knit together.  “I was not aware Conan Doyle had an affiliation with their order.”

“It is not common knowledge,” Ruby said.  “So I must ask that you refrain from including his name in your reports, should there be any connection between the Order and my uncle – and yes, I did ask him outright if he knew anything about these children being murdered in ritualistic fashion.  He had been quite appalled to hear of it.  But he did recommend this Chetham fellow as an expert in the field of astrology to assist us in deciphering the meaning behind that particular part of the rite.  As a member of the Golden Dawn, Professor Chetham might also offer insight as to any secret pagan death ceremonies which could explain the other clues associated with each murder.”  She reached for her blackberry cordial and took a sip.  “I sent a message yesterday requesting an audience this afternoon.”

“I hope he was in agreement,” Logan said, his gaze following her tongue as she licked her lips and swallowed. 

“I might have used Uncle Arthur’s name as part of my request,” Ruby admitted, glancing up at Logan over the rim of her glass with a coy smile. 

He chuckled.  “That comes in handy.”

“Indeed it does.”  She finished off the drink and set the glass down again.  “Once we have finished here, we can make our way to his rooms.”  She looked around and then back at Logan.  “Are you feeling peckish, Inspector?  They serve a braised leg of lamb that is quite exquisite – you really must try it.”

“I shall take that under advisement,” Logan said, smiling at her with fondness.  He could see other couples around them, men and women dining together.

A member of the wait staff came to their table.  “Good afternoon, monsieur and madam.  How may I be of service to you?”

“I think I should like to try your braised lamb,” Logan replied.  He glanced across the table at Ruby.  “I’m told it’s exceptional.”

“Very good, sir.”  The waiter smiled.  “And, for your wife?”

Logan opened his mouth, the instinct to correct the fellow on the manner in which he had just referred to Ruby at the tip of his tongue, but she stepped right over him with a bright smile.  “I’ll have the lamb, as well, if you please.” 

“An excellent choice.” 

As their server glided away, Ruby favored Logan with a wry smirk.  “Your sergeant is not the only person who believes we are a couple,” she remarked.  “I do believe this ruse of ours is working quite well.”

If only it were not a ruse,
Logan thought, but returned her smile all the same. 
Any man would be proud to have you at his side, on his arm.  Sadly, it would seem I shall never be that man – not in any reality.  If a ruse is all I may have, I suppose I shall have to enjoy it.

***

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Professor Chetham,” Logan said, clasping the older man’s hand in greeting.  “I am Inspector Tummond with Scotland Yard, currently conducting an investigation in which you might be of assistance in solving.  I understand you are well versed in matters of astrology.”

“I am, yes.” A silver haired gentleman with pale blue eyes set atop a bulbous nose and surrounded by the deep lines of age, Cornelius Chetham had a jovial nature about him.  “And this must be the exquisite Miss Waterbrook,” he said, turning to Ruby. She offered her hand and he bowed to kiss it.  “Conan Doyle has made frequent mention of you.  He speaks of your mind but rarely of your beauty.” 

“Perhaps he feels it would be improper,” Ruby said, “to mention the beauty of any woman who is not his wife, even if she is someone he has known since her girlhood.”

“Quite,” Chetham agreed, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.  “Both you and he are guilty of the sin of omission, for neither of you mentioned that you would be coming to call upon me with your suitor, the good Inspector Tummond.” 

Logan and Ruby exchanged glances at Chetham’s reference to their relationship.  Apparently, everyone thought them to be a couple, even learned scholars from Canterbury. 

“Now, then.”  Chetham straightened to his full height and smiled.Tall and thin, his square shoulders jutted out from below his neck as though someone had jammed a plank beneath his light brown frock coat.  He reached up to the mantel for a pipe.  Selecting a wood match from the dispenser next to the fireplace, he lit the tobacco in the bowl and took a few puffs before blowing out the flame and casting the burnt remains into the cold fireplace with the flick of his wrist.  “Now.”  He turned back to Logan.  “How may I be of service to you today, Inspector?”

“We have recently found the bodies of two young boys,” Logan said, launching straight into the facts about the case.  “One appeared in June, and the other just this past week.  Each one bore marks upon his forehead.”  He produced the photos, those of Thomas Cotton and of the other of the unknown child, and handed them to Chetham.  “We have reason to believe there may have been two others, in April and May.”

“I can see why you would think that,” Professor Chetham murmured, reaching up to adjust his spectacles as he peered at the photographs.  “The symbols are those of Gemini and Cancer.”

“That much we know,” Ruby said.  “But what we wondered was if there might be anything
more
you might tell us in relation to these marks.  We have reason to believe their deaths were carried out in a ritualistic fashion.  Is there some
celestial event
happening right now which could lead the killer to use these symbols as part of some ceremony?”

“There is nothing of note,” Chetham said.

“What about some connection to other symbols which represent death?” asked Logan.

The elderly man arched an eyebrow at him, the question sparking his curiosity.  “Such as?”

“Yew branches,” said Ruby.

“Yew branches?”  The professor hummed thoughtfully and drew on his pipe, the sweet smoke swirling around his head.  “The yew is quite sacred to many ancient cultures.  To the Celts, it was linked to death and rebirth.  To others, such as the Scandinavians – Vikings and Old Norse beliefs – it is often thought to be the embodiment of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life.  But the yew itself?  There is no astrological correlation for it, even among ancient Druidic people.”

“What about angels?” Logan asked.  “How would they correlate with astrology?”

“Ahh,” Chetham said.  “Now you speak of the Grigori – a name which, when translated, means ‘those who watch.’  According to the Book of Enoch, there were two hundred angels who had been sent from Heaven to watch over mankind here on Earth.  In time, their leader, an angel named Samyaza, fell in love with a human woman and against the Will of God, chose to procreate with her.  All the Grigori ‘took wives of the daughters of men,’ as it is said, and in doing so, shared with them the wisdom of the angels.  Among these were writing, the resolving of enchantments; the making of cosmetics, metallurgy…and astrology.  From their union, the Nephilim, a race of giants, was born.”

“What about an Angel of Death?” Ruby inquired.

“That would be Azrael,” the professor said.  He walked over to a bookshelf that spanned the entire wall, floor to ceiling.  “Azrael was an Archangel, the highest member of the Angelic Order, and on par with the likes of Michael and Gabriel.  He does not appear in the Book of Enoch, but he is well known in Christianity, Judaism, and Islam as the Angel of Death.”  He selected a tome and pulled it out.  “Unfortunately, you will find no reference to Azrael in the Bible.  The only book in Christendom in which he appears is the
Apocrypha.
”  He placed the large, leather bound book on a desk.  “Biblical scholars argue its validity, however there are some who believe the accounts it gives to be as true as those found in the Old Testament.”

Ruby stepped up to the desk and ran a gloved fingertip over the worn cover before carefully opening to the yellowed title page.  “The
Apocrypha
,” she murmured.  She leafed through it carefully, looking at the various illustrations found throughout.  “Do you know of any correlation between these symbols, Professor?” she asked, briefly peering up at him.  “The zodiac, the yew, or the Angel of Death?”