“Well, actually, Marylebone is quite the ancient district.”
“Marylebone?” She thought the place sounded grim.
“Aye, where the Royal Institute stands moldering. Not many visitors there. Out of the way, off the tourist treks, you see… Has one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, and there's actually an Epicurean statue in a park there of the Madonna and Child. The home of the fictitious Sherlock Holmes isn't too far from the area, either. But it is on the bus routes, I can assure you.”
'Twenty-one Baker Street? Really? How interesting.”
“It was loosely based on twenty-one Baker Street, yes.” He returned to his cooking in the kitchenette, calling back to her over his shoulder, “And so… what do we hope to locate in this ancient mine, should we ever find it?”
“I have as much clue as Alice, but like her, I am curious. Get your breakfast. I'm going to shower and dress. If you don't mind, perhaps you could take me by my hotel for a change of clothes, and then we can bugger off to this RIBA place, is it?”
“Bugger off,” he repeated. “Now you're getting the language!” He'd returned to her, took her by the shoulders, and firmly kissed her where she stood in his robe. He kissed her again, attempting to rekindle the passion they'd shared the night before, but Jessica pulled away, saying, “Bugger off, yourself! We haven't time. It's already near nine. Get your breakfast, now!” she ordered, and he wandered back off into the kitchen, a smile creasing his features.
She went toward the bathroom but found herself stopped before the bed, her eye falling on a book he'd left under the bed. It's flap winked at her where she stood. Crouching and lifting the book, she saw horrid pictures of various visions of hell. Closing it, she read the title: A History of Hades and Crucifixion Motifs in European Art. She rummaged through and found the words Mihi beata mater highlighted on a page he'd marked. It gave her a chill. Apparently, the words appeared on many paintings and depictions of both Hades and the crucifixion of all crucifixions.
Suddenly he stood over her, staring down at the book in her hands. “So, you've found me out,” he said with a sour frown.
“Light reading?” she asked, attempting to mask the shakiness she felt, not wishing to sound at all unnerved by her discovery.
“A prize from the library.”
She noted the spine, seeing that indeed it was a library lender's copy. She opened it, saw the date stamp which placed it at before her discovery of Burton's tongue art.
He lamely explained, “Been doing my homework.”
“How long have you known the meaning of the inscription?” She wanted to hear him admit to it.“From the moment I heard you pealing them from Burtie's tongue, I realized I had seen the phrase in my reading. I went back to the book later to confirm it.”
“Why lie about it? Why didn't you tell me outright that you knew?”
“I played dumb on it in order to get Luc Sante involved. His being a linguist would suit my superiors, you see, and we'd have him to consult with. You have no idea the budget constraints we work under.”
“Actually, I do have some idea. We have the same problem in the Bureau.” But a glimmer of disquiet remained with Jessica. Hadn't he called Luc Sante's words slut's wool? “I'm going to get that shower now.”
“And I that breakfast. Certain you don't want some?”
Without answering, she closed the bathroom door and locked it behind her, hoping to sort out her nerves, her suspicions, and the facts under the rain of warm water.
Later Richard showered while Jessica dressed.
After having showered, and after having accepted Richard's explanation for the book and his prior knowledge of the Latin phrase found on the dead victims' tongues, Jessica made haste to dress and start the day. All the while nagging doubt tugged at both her brain and heart. She had slept with this man. Her judgment could not be so impaired, she promised herself. She could not be so blind as to sleep with a serial killer, or someone involved with a cult of serial killers. Impossible, she kept promising herself over and over.
A quick call to Scodand Yard, she felt, was in order. She asked to be put through to Stuart Copperwaite who came on instandy, asking, “My God, Doctor, where have you and Sharpe been?”
“We were missed?” was all Jessica, feeling guilty, could manage.
“We've had another crucifixion death.”
“Dear God, not another.”
“ 'Fraid so, Doctor. Discovered in the wee hours again, with the cadaver disposed of in a body of water, St. James Park, and I can tell you now that if the Royals weren't taking an interest before, they bloody well are now.”
“The House of Windsor, you mean?”
“The Queen Mother herself, along with Parliament, the Prime Minister, you name it. Where's Sharpe?”
“In the shower.”
“I see.” Cozy, she thought she heard him mutter.
“Where is the body? Has Schuller and Raehael done an autopsy yet? Of course not. I spoke with Raehael only fifteen minutes ago, and he said absolutely nothing about it.”
“Most likely Dr. Raehael didn't know at the time, but he does by now. There appears a rift growing between Schuller and Raehael, one you may know something about?”
“No, I don't know anything about any problem between them,” she half-lied.
“In any case, the postmortem is being held up, Doctor, for your attention. We… that is, Scotland Yard, the Crown, are paying well for your expertise.”
Something definitely icy in Copperwaite's tone; perhaps Richard had him pegged right after all. “I'll be right there.”
“And Sharpe is requested in Boulte's office.”
“I'll pass that request along to him. Thank you.” She immediately hung up. Sharpe, stepping from the shower, looking into her wide eyes. Her mouth agape, he momentarily thought she might be gaping at him, until she divulged the facts, saying, “The Rat Boys, as you call them, will be released today.”
“Then there has been another killing!”
“While we ate and drank, while we made love, while we slept.”
“At least you know I'm as innocent of the crimes as the Rat Boys.”
“I never suspected you, Richard!”
“Don't lie to a detective, Jessica.”
“All right, I felt a strange sensation come over me when I saw that book, but I never truly entertained the notion you might be the Crucifier.”
“Not even one of them? Forget it. I'd be disappointed in you if you hadn't a healthy suspicion after seeing that book below my bed. So, tell me, has the Yard been beating the bushes for us?”
“Indeed they have. Boulte wants you to report directly to his office this morning. They're holding the body for me to do the postmortem.”
Richard dressed solemnly, and she nibbled at the food Richard had burned on the stove. Soon, together, they were pressing for Scotland Yard, Jessica without time for a change of clothes.
The latest victim, thought by some in the Yard to be a copycat killing-and hoped to be one by P. P. Ellen Sturgeon and Chief Inspector Boulte-had all the markings of the real Crucifier at work, down to the coal in the nails and the branded tongue.
At half-past three in the afternoon, Jessica declared the body, that of a slim, pathetic, silver-haired old woman, to be the fifth victim of the Crucifier. Without an identity, Jessica had to tag her toe as A.N. Other. Boulte had come down to the autopsy room, hoping against hope that Jessica would find cause to declare the latest victim a random copycat crime in which someone, wanting to kill another, masked his crime by mimicking the ongoing series of murders. Jessica's findings proved otherwise, proved that this was indeed the work of the Crucifier.
This meant that Periwinkle and Hawkins had to be set free. The press would report the foolishness of the Yard in making the grandiose statements of the day before, which had declared an end to the crucifixion murders in London. The Rat Boys were returned to the streets, likely to do mischief to someone somewhere for which they might legitimately find the sort of twisted fame they sought.