The Collared Collection (26 page)

‘No harm done,’ she said. ‘St John was my knight in shining armour, saved the day.’ It was a subject she wanted to drop. ‘How did your meeting with the publisher go?’

She was sure she heard Elizabeth groan.

‘Very encouraging, m’dear, very encouraging – has Buffy told you what my book is about?’

‘Err … no.’

‘This will give you indigestion,’ St John warned, grinning mischievously as he handed her a plate of streaky bacon, grilled tomatoes and toast.

‘Hah! You’ll soon change your tune, m’boy, when it turns into a best-seller.’ He jutted his chin forward, ‘Are you really interested, Callie?’

He looked so keen to tell her, she didn’t feel she could refuse the offer of a verbal synopsis. ‘Oh yes.’ Her heart sank when she saw the facial contortions of Elizabeth, St John and in particular Mrs Cross, as she speedily left the room.

‘Then I’ll begin. Don’t take any notice of these two whipper-snappers,’ he twiddled his moustache, forked food into his mouth and spoke while chewing it. ‘They think I’m as mad as a hatter, but they’ll soon see.’

‘Is it fact or fiction?’ she asked politely.

‘That’s for you to decide.’

‘OK, what’s your subject matter?’

‘England’s favourite serial killer,’ he beamed at her. The others lowered their heads and concentrated on eating.

She had to think for a minute, before she realised who he meant. ‘Oh, Jack the Ripper?’

‘Well, yes and no – in this case more
Jackie
the Ripper.’

Her heart sank. ‘Ah. That’s an interesting concept.’ What had she let herself in for?

‘The serial killer known by the soubriquet Jack the Ripper, was in fact a woman,’ he declared – and cast her a pitying glance, as though she really should have known as much.

‘But surely,’ she reasoned, ‘a woman could never have carried out those killings? She wouldn’t have the physical strength, for one thing.’

‘This one did – the Ripper was actually a strapping woman in her late fifties, called Miss Ernestine Smegglethwaite-Dixon.’

She was incredulous. ‘Surely not?’

‘Why?’ he asked defensively. ‘How do you think she was able to evade capture so effectively? The police were running round like headless chickens, looking for barmy artists, delusional doctors, and members of the Royal Family with a few screws loose – while old Ernestine just went about her butchery business completely unhindered.’

‘So tell me, what happened to turn Ernestine into a murderer?’

‘She didn’t have anything against those women in particular, just prostitutes in general. Ernestine was born into a well-to-do family and had an idyllic early childhood. The rot set in when her father discovered the seedier side of life and developed an obsession for ladies of the night, actresses and houses of ill repute, that sort of thing. He frittered away a small fortune and picked up a nasty dose of syphilis along the way – and naturally he was sacked from his job as head of a merchant bank, when he started to demonstrate signs of losing the plot and dipped into clients’ accounts. He sank into a deep depression and shot himself. Ernestine and her mother were left penniless and struggled to survive – the mater couldn’t cope and took poison to end her life a couple of years later.’

St John appeared to be nodding off. As Elizabeth poured her another cup of coffee, Callie felt she had to respond, ‘Yes, I suppose that is a tale of woe, but why did she leave it all those years before wreaking havoc? I know revenge is a dish best served cold, but …?’

‘Ernestine was taken in by well-meaning relatives and in due course, joined Florence Nightingale nursing in the Crimea – that, of course, is where she learned how to carve up bodies, watching the young army surgeons out there operate. It was all downhill from then on – she took jobs as companion or governess with quite a few families, but never could settle. She retreated into her own mad little world, laying the blame for her misfortune squarely on the shoulders of the loose women who had led her dear father astray. I suppose one day, she just flipped – and the rest, as they say, is history. Or not, in this case.’

Surely he couldn’t be serious? ‘OK … so why did the killings stop so abruptly?’

‘Ah, a prosaic end to a short but infamous career; Ernestine was wandering down Oxford Street – talking to herself and not looking where she was going. In all probability, she was planning her next bloodbath – whatever the case, she stepped into the road without checking the coast was clear and was flattened by a hansom cab. Killed instantly on November 13th 1888. She was absolutely barking, of course.’

Possibly not the only one, Callie thought.

They spent the rest of the day doing gentle gardening, which gave her ample time to mull over the Jackie the Ripper story and how much Susan resembled Balaclava Man in her wet suit. Callie decided she couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility of Balaclava Woman, until she had absolute proof to the contrary.

Chapter Forty-one

‘Your sister has a delightful family.’

Elizabeth smiled at Callie and nodded in agreement, ‘Hasn’t she? Tamara made a very good marriage financially speaking and as an added bonus, it’s a true love match.’

Their train gathered speed as it pulled out of Brighton; St John had been forced to give up on his attempt to run alongside their carriage, waving like a lunatic.

‘Five children, I don’t know how she copes – I find two enough.’

‘Bollocks, Callie! She has two nannies and other staff. She’s not exactly run off her feet and she finds plenty of time to be a lady who lunches.’

‘Lucky her. How did she meet Marcus?’

‘A mutual love of horses, as is so often the case in our set. His family have been reputable breeders for decades and Tams was always batty about riding and eventing; it was inevitable they would move in the same circles, keep bumping into one another. Now he runs the stud and his parents have retired to Barbados.’

‘Alright for some …’ Callie was envious and it showed.

‘Marcus is an absolute sweetie, and very generous when Pa’s particularly embarrassed in the dosh sense.’

‘It was good of them to invite us all to lunch today, I really enjoyed it. They have a wonderful home – and that swimming pool!’

‘They have the good sense not to try to hang on to a mausoleum; double glazing and thick insulation, that’s the way to go.’

‘But you wouldn’t give up Cassocks, would you?’

‘It won’t be up to me – thanks to good old primogeniture. St John will inherit the title and the manor house when the time comes. And I can’t say I envy him.’

‘Do you think he’ll ever find himself a wife to share the responsibility?’

‘Are you volunteering?’ She snorted. ‘He’s not every mother’s idea of a good catch for their daughter – and he’s getting a bit long in the tooth now, poor ninny.’

‘I thought he was adorable! Even if he did screw £750 out of me for his awful painting.’

‘Ah, I was going to have a word with you about that. I managed to knock him down to £500 – I didn’t have the heart to go any lower – and I can send him a cheque written on the Executor’s account for Ginny’s estate. If you’re agreeable, that is. When everything is considered, you won’t miss that small amount.’

To be in a position where she wouldn’t miss five hundred quid was a bizarre turnaround of fortune for Callie – normally she’d be hard-pressed if she was missing a fiver. ‘No, no that’s absolutely fine – please, go ahead.’

‘You are sure? I feel terribly guilty about him taking advantage of your good nature. That’s no way to treat a guest in our house – it was blatant opportunism.’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it, Elizabeth, just send him the money. He’ll need it to buy more paint to complete his next masterpiece – which, incidentally, I won’t be buying.’

Elizabeth threw up her hands in horror. ‘Heaven help us all! More of his ghastly daubs!’

They sat quietly for a while, Callie admiring scenery blurred by the train’s speed while Elizabeth flicked distractedly through a fashion magazine, guffawing intermittently at some of the clothes featured on the glossy pages.

‘Will you be seeing David tonight?’ she asked eventually.

Ah, David … she’d tried not to think about him at all over the weekend. If she did, she just felt confused and unsure of her feelings. Well, not unsure exactly – she simply couldn’t translate them into a trusting, loving relationship at the moment.

‘No, I don’t think so. Susan will be back though, so I won’t be on my own – and perhaps Mike. I’m not sure about him. What about you, Elizabeth, are you going to visit Keith this week?’

‘I could do, but I’ve a lot to catch up on at work, as I’ve had so much time off.’

‘You mustn’t let that stop you seeing him. I imagine seeing loved ones takes on a whole new importance when you’re behind bars.’

Elizabeth looked upset and Callie suddenly felt mean; the QC took full responsibility for Keith’s incarceration – never mind the fact that he’d gotten himself charged through entirely his own illegal dealings. ‘Sorry, that was a really dumb, tactless thing to say.’

A magnanimous smile allowed her to wriggle off the hook.

They shared a taxi from the station and Callie was first to be dropped off. Elizabeth refused to let her pay half the fare illuminated on the meter. ‘Bollocks, Callie, I’ll deduct it from St John’s ill-gotten gains. Off you go now – looks like Susan isn’t here yet, so we’ll wait until you’re inside and have some lights on.’

She grabbed her case and trundled across the road, pulling it noisily behind her. Once inside, she switched on several lights, had a quick look around and went to the window to signal all was well and wave goodbye.

The black cab drove off and she went through to the kitchen to fill the kettle and switch it on before carrying her case upstairs. Most clothes went straight into the laundry basket, but when she sniffed the armpits of her nightdress, she figured it would do for another day or so. As she entered the bedroom to lay it on her pillow, she caught a strong whiff of urine – immediately before she saw the note propped there:

‘“Ride ’em Cowboy! Love and kisses from Balaclava Man.”’

She ran from the room and stumbled headlong down the stairs, where she collided with Susan, who was just walking through the front door.

David expelled air through his teeth, making a whistling noise. ‘There’s no sign of forced entry. How many people have keys to this house?’ His eyes were bloodshot and he looked done-in, beyond exhausted.

‘Actually, I don’t really know. I suppose I’d better change the locks?’

‘I’ll arrange for that to be done tomorrow – sorry, I should have thought of it before.’ Waving a plastic evidence bag containing the note, he asked, ‘You’re sure you didn’t touch this?’

‘I’m sure, but he’s never been careless enough to leave prints or DNA before, has he?’

Susan handed her a second cup of very strong coffee; Callie figured that amount of caffeine would keep her awake until a week next Thursday.

David adopted his well-rehearsed ‘trust me’ expression. ‘Sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.’

She wondered if she’d live that long, ‘Right. Will you get anything from my soaked bed sheets, do you think?’

‘We might, but we don’t even know if it’s Balaclava Man’s urine. I expect you could have lived without someone peeing in your bed?’

‘Yes, actually – what a disgusting thing to do. What a pig! The mattress will obviously have to be replaced. Be interesting to know what a hotshot psychological profiler would make of that.’

His face reddened to match his eyes. ‘Dodgy potty training, I expect – the root of all evil. Or perhaps a predominant Id – we’ll never know; they charge far too much, and my boss doesn’t believe they’re worth it.’

‘How very enlightened of him. He’s the one who also doesn’t think I’m worth the price of protection, is he?’

‘The very same. He’s coming up for retirement in a few months.’

‘That’s no good to me! Anything could have happened by then.’

She sat and seethed. Susan slunk away, out of the line of fire, while David made copious notes in his little black book and kept his head down.

‘That’s all the information I need for now.’ He made no move to leave. ‘How was your weekend in the country?’

She couldn’t keep the sharpness from her tone. ‘Lovely, thanks – I not only went riding for the first time, I bought a painting. An original, no less.’

He smirked. ‘My, my, a lady of means. Is it a Van Gogh?’

‘No, a Lyon-Smith – Elizabeth’s brother, St John …’

‘The guy who took you riding?’

‘Yes. He’s trying to make it as an artist, to earn some money to get the house back into good repair. He’ll inherit it one day. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any talent.’

Looking incredulous, Susan – newly returned to the jousting arena – asked, ‘No talent, but you bought a painting from him?’

‘You had to be there.’

She grinned. ‘What are Elizabeth’s family like?’

‘Her father’s writing an outrageous book, also trying to earn money. He’s absolutely bonkers, but a very nice man; a real gent, of the old school.’

Susan held her head to one side, ‘I think you’ll find the aristocracy are referred to as “eccentric”; only we plebs are bonkers.’

That made her chill out a little and giggle. ‘I met one of her sisters, Tamara – she seemed quite normal. Her husband breeds horses and they are absolutely rolling in money and children; five at the last count.’

‘Don’t tell me, they have nannies?’

‘Oh, yes, and an army of helpers.’

‘Ha! How the other half live.’

David stood up. ‘No argument, Callie, grab some things – you’re staying with me tonight. I’ll sleep on the sofa if you want me to.’

‘Who’s arguing? We’ll discuss sofa privileges later. What about you, Susan? Can we give you a lift?’

‘No thanks, I have my car outside. Do you need me to stay here until SOCO have finished?’ she asked David.

‘Not necessary, thanks. They’ll see themselves out and lock up. What was Mike doing tonight, Callie, was he meant to be staying here?’

‘He hadn’t said one way or the other; I got his answer service earlier. I’ll send him a text message telling him where I am, so he can go straight home.’