“My dear—” Aldridge began, but he broke off when the door to the stairwell opened, and Munroe stepped into the room. “Ah, Doctor, what have you learned?”
“Lady Rebecca.” Munroe nodded by way of greeting. He looked at the Duke and Alec. “I have finished my examination, and can conclude that the discoloration on Miss Donovan’s dress is indeed potash. I cannot determine whether it is the same substance that contaminated April Duprey’s pelisse, you understand.”
Rebecca frowned. “No, I do not understand. What is this about potash on Miss Donovan’s dress?”
“It would seem Miss Donovan acquired potash on the dress she wore yesterday. The question is, where did she come into contact with the substance?”
Alec straightened suddenly. “We visited the hermit yesterday.”
Aldridge’s gaze shifted automatically to the slate board. “Thomas? But he does not fit Miss Donovan’s profile at all.”
“The maid said Kendra had been wrong,” Alec reminded him, his expression grim.
“Potash . . . The hermit claims to be an artist, does he not?” Rebecca asked.
“’Twas one of the requisites that my sister wanted in an ornamental hermit. Why?”
She looked at the men. “Potash is used by artists. If you mix it with animal oils, it creates Prussian blue. ’Tis often used by those who do not have the coins to buy paint supplies commercially. I have mixed it myself when my supply has run low. Dear heaven.” Rebecca put a hand to her throat, looking stricken. “When potash was mentioned before . . . it simply did not occur to me to mention this use. I had not thought of Thomas.”
“Surely Miss Donovan would not be so unwise as to confront the hermit alone?” Munroe said.
Horror flooded Alec. I hunt serial killers.
“Yes, she would!” He spun on his heel, striding to the door.
“Alec, wait!”
The marquis glanced back at his uncle. “There is no time to wait, Duke. I must go to the hermit!”
“I know. I shall come with you.” Aldridge went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. Face grim, he withdrew a flat, square box. Setting it on the desk, he flipped open the lid to reveal two dueling pistols. “But we ought to go prepared.”
63
Partners.
Kendra closed her eyes, furious with herself. She hadn’t even considered the possibility. Names floated through her mind, nasty bits from history: Leopold and Loeb, who, in the 1920s, committed the murder of a young teen just to prove they could pull off the perfect crime; Angelo Buono and Kenneth Bianchi, cousins who became known in the media as the Hillside Stranglers.
Duos fed off each other’s perverted fantasies and murderous impulses. There was usually a dominant partner and a submissive.
Thomas was clearly the submissive. He’d probably been the one to dispose of the bodies afterward.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to meet Thomas’s burning gaze. “You fucked up, Thomas. You didn’t expect Lydia to be found in the lake, did you?”
He looked puzzled. “I done it before. Threw the whores in the river. None were ever found.”
“Careless,” she insisted. “You kept April Duprey in your hut, didn’t you? Stashed her there until you could dump her on the path. She got potash on her coat, you know. Just like I got on my clothes yesterday. That’s how I knew you were involved. That’s how the Duke will know you’re involved.”
He said nothing, simply stared at her.
“Your master is going to be angry with you, Thomas. You’re the only thing connecting him to the murders. The Duke of Aldridge, Lord Sutcliffe . . . they all know about you now. Do you know what that means? You’re a liability. He’ll know you’re a liability, Thomas. He will have to dispose of you. He’ll kill you.”
“Nay.”
“I can help you, Thomas.” She kept her voice low. Persuasive. “I can save you, if you release me. Unlock the handcuffs, Thomas. Let me help you.”
“The siren’s call that lures men into temptation.”
Kendra nearly jumped out of her skin as the voice spoke from the doorway. She’d been so focused on Thomas that she hadn’t heard anyone approach. Now she turned her head, and met the mocking gaze of Thomas’s master.
“Good God.” Aldridge stared in horror at the piles of hair lying near the broken box on the dirt floor.
Sam crossed the room to the paintings. Images, he thought, as horrifying as the tangle of hair on the floor.
Alec joined the Bow Street Runner, and felt the blood drain out of his face as he stared at the monstrosities depicted in oil. Dark-haired, dark-eyed girls, naked and bleeding.
“Jesus,” he breathed, and felt as though he’d been punched low in the gut. He broke out into a cold sweat. “He’s got Kendra. The bastard’s got Kendra.”
No one argued.
“But where?” Sam was the one to give voice to what was in all their minds. “Where did the fiend take her?”