Millie’s troubled groan echoed off the cream-tiled walls of the bathhouse as she tried to reconcile the event and her strange emotions toward it.
She loved this place with its gold embellishments and Turkish ambiance. It very much could have been plucked out of a Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres painting. Greek pillars. Roman tiles. Turkish draperies. Moroccan lanterns. A taste of the exotic Mediterranean in downtown London. A place where anyone respectable could never be seen and anyone infamous simply must show their face. At night, it became an exclusive playground for wealthy men and expensive courtesans. But as their nights were spent at the theater, Jane and Millie frequented the establishment in the early afternoon when the water was clean and the baths all but empty. Jakub was at school, and they could meet, practice lines, gossip, and lunch at Pierre de Gaulle’s café on the corner and listen to him brag about having been the Countess Northwalk’s landlord once upon a time before heading to the theater for the performance.
Their Wednesday afternoon ritual just wasn’t the same when one had a rather offensive-looking Irishman the size of a small railcar following one around.
Better, though, than risking another encounter with Bentley Drummle.
But then, that wasn’t his name, was it? As Chief Inspector Morley had pointed out, Bentley Drummle was a lesser known Dickensian character, as was the contact name he’d given her at the after party, Richard Swiveller.
She’d felt like such a fool sitting there in Morley’s orderly office, unable to meet his pitying gaze across the giant mahogany desk. She’d been an utter ninny. Really, for a woman who considered herself so worldly, so capable of reading a man’s intentions and twisting him around her little finger, she’d certainly been played by the best.
By a professional.
An assassin, Inspector Morley had suggested.
Millie had a personal acquaintance with Sir Carlton Morley since the tragic death of her dear friend Agnes Miller not five years ago. Though the killer had never been found, he’d kindly kept her updated on any new leads regarding the investigation, and she had wanted to make certain that he never caught on to the most important clue.
Jakub.
“Jane,” Millie said carefully. “I want you to be … more careful, as well. Promise me.”
“Why?” Jane popped a plump grape she’d pilfered from the fruit bowl at the edge of the pool past her lips and dipped her head back to wet her scalp. “This man’s after you, not me.”
“But if what Chief Inspector Morley said is true, then he’s after more than one woman. He’s killed many, it sounds like. In fact…” She trailed off, not really wanting to share the revolting news. Not wanting to make it real by giving it voice. If she said it here, the walls would echo it back to her, and that was almost like tainting one of her favorite places with the horror of it all. “He’s targeting women with children, it seems. Boys. They’ve found the bodies of the women, but they’ve not found the children. Those poor boys have all gone missing.”
The whites of Jane’s eyes glowed at her even through the steam. “That’s beyond dreadful!” she exclaimed. “How many?”
“Half a dozen, they think.”
“They … think?” Jane crossed the pool to sit next to her, and Millie was secretly glad. She’d suddenly begun to feel vulnerable. Chill bumps raised the fine hairs on her body, even in the steamy water, and sweat tickled down the back of her neck. The corners took on more sinister shadows, the walls pressing closer.
“Do they think it was this man in your apartments?” Jane seized Millie’s hand, taking the situation much more seriously now. “But he kissed you. He let you go. What do they think about that? Do they think he’s still after you? What are they doing to protect you?”
Her friend’s concern touched her, and Millie gave her hand a grateful squeeze. “They don’t know what to make of my assault. According to Chief Inspector Morley, he’s only just begun to make the connections. You see, these women didn’t all reside in the same boroughs. They didn’t frequent the same places. Their ages varied. And … they weren’t … murdered in the same manner. Some of the deaths were brutal, others … less so, if there is such a thing. Some were raped, others were spared that. They were strangled, stabbed, or … beaten. One was shot.”
“Good Lord.” Jane crossed herself.
“The only common link between the murdered women was their missing sons.”
Jane was shaking her head, a hand against her mouth. “Do you think those poor boys are … dead? Or worse?”
Millie saw moisture glimmering in the eyes of her softhearted friend similar to what gathered in her own lashes.
“No one knows. They’ve simply vanished.”
“How long have these—has this been happening?”
“Inspector Morley said there have been five in the space of two months.”
“Why haven’t we heard of this?” Jane demanded, her hand splashing the water in anger. “Why isn’t this story in all the papers, warning the mothers of London?”
“Because the deaths haven’t technically been connected until now. Some of them made the papers in their local boroughs. And one, I think, was the daughter of a local wealthy miner, Mr. Randall Augustine. I remember reading something in the Daily Telegraph about his grandson being missing, don’t you?”
Jane nodded, pale and teary. “I think so. I don’t usually pay attention to that sort of news. It’s so very dreary.”