Page 86 of The Duke
“Noblemen. Soldiers. Predators. Anyone who could prey upon a pretty, innocent woman in desperate circumstances.”
“I’m not a predator, Morley.” Cole’s voice became lethally soft.
“Yes you are.”
“Notthatkind. Not when it comes to her.”
Morley’s eyes narrowed, examining him like the same pin-wielding lepidopterist would the specimen beneath his glass.
“Lady Anstruther is precisely who I came here to discuss.”
Cole blinked, wishing he had a drink in his hand. “I thought you said you were here to discuss the Kittens of St. James’s Street.”
Using the light spilling in from the hall, Morley opened a desk drawer, then another, until he found matches with which to light a gas lamp. That accomplished, he leaned on the desk and folded his arms in a posture of relaxed readiness. “It took me some time to ascertain the link between the murders you and I previously discussed, but I’m relatively certain I’ve found it… or rather, that I’ve foundher.”
Cole affected a similar posture, his brow furrowing with bemused aggravation. “You’re saying these murders are linked to Lady Anstruther?”
“I’m afraid so.” Morley nodded.
Cole’s heart, already accelerated with arousal and anger, now kicked against his chest with the strength of a mule at this new bit of information. “How is that possible?”
“Once I realized that two of the victims had been acquainted with her, the other associations were easy to track down. Lady Broadmore, of course, was found in her garden, as you’re aware. And then there was Molly Crane, the nurse who was employed at St. Margaret’s with her before she became the countess. Following that thread, I investigated into Lady Anstruther’s past as Imogen Pritchard.”
Morley paused, glancing over at Cole as though to ascertain whether he really wanted to receive the information he was about to impart.
“And?” Cole pressed impatiently.
“I’ve uncovered several more victims who fit the profile. Which is to say, they are comparable to Lady Anstruther in looks, age, weight, and coloring. Working chronologically backward, I found a Miss Jane Raleigh, a spinster who lived a block over from both you and the Anstruthers some six months past. Her parents thought she’d run away with a lover, but it is my impression that she’s been killed. She left with no money, none of her belongings, and I found evidence of a struggle in her garden.
“Around the time you were recovering from your ordeal in the hospital, Miss Pritchard and her family were housed for a month in downtown London near the courthouse while the Earl of Anstruther obtained a marriage license. During that month, a young and fair nanny by the name of Ann Keaton was found strangled and assaulted a mere three doors down from their apartments. Prior to that, Imogen Pritchard had worked to keep her family in rather dismal rooms near Wapping High Street. A charwoman in her building, Rose Tarlly, suffered the selfsame fate as Lady Broadmore, Miss Crane, Miss Keaton, and Miss Raleigh. Surely you see the pattern.”
“I do.” Cole nodded, releasing a troubled breath. “What I don’t see, is a connection to the Bare Kitten, or to Ginny.”
“I was getting to that,” Morley muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “I can’t say that the connection is strong, but I’ve already told you of the earliest victim, a Miss Flora Latimer, who was murdered exactly like the others.”
“Yes, you mentioned that in your note.”
“From what I could glean from former neighbors of the Pritchards’, Mr. Pritchard, the pater of the household, was a consistent patron of the Bare Kitten. In fact, he’d run up a significant debt to the former proprietor, Ezio del Toro.”
At this, Cole pushed himself away from the desk, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Did this Pritchard, Lady Anstruther’s father, did he have anything to do with Ginny? Where is he now?”
“Also dead,” Morley stated. “And this is where the connection becomes rather opaque. Pritchard died long before Miss Latimer or the others and, as far as I can tell, the rest of the family had no further dealings with the Bare Kitten.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“The current owner of said establishment, a Mr. Jeremy Carson. He revealed the timeline to me, and it all checks out. Lady Anstruther’s father died even before this Ginny began her employment there. So, like I said, the connection seems to be indistinct, if there even is one.”
Agitated, Cole paced the room, something scratching at that place inside him, at the locked door in his head. A memory. A link. Something big. Something recent…
“Wait.” He froze mid-step and whirled to face Morley. “What did you say was the name of the owner of the Bare Kitten?”
“Mr. Carson,” Morley answered.
“No.” Cole made a wild gesture, advancing on the inspector. “No, no, no,” he said in rapid percussion, in time to the frantic pounding in his chest. “His first name, you said it was Jeremy?”
“Yes,” Morley answered slowly, regarding him with some hesitation. “But you said, yourself, that you’ve spoken to the man.”
“So I have,” Cole confirmed. “But he never gave me his first name.”
