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  “Good heavens, someone else was murdered on St. Clare? You never mentioned that.”

  “I found his body in his laboratory,” Benedict said. “He had been killed shortly before I arrived.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Alden Cork. He was an eccentric but quite brilliant engineer who was working on a new weapon that certain parties in the government believed would revolutionize battleship armament. According to their sources, the Russians are also very keen to get their hands on the device.”

  “What is so revolutionary about it?”

  “Cork called it a solar cannon. It is designed to be powered by the energy of the sun.”

  “Fascinating. Mr. Cork set up a laboratory on a Caribbean island?”

  “He had a number of reasons for going to the Caribbean,” Benedict said. “The first was that he was trying to conceal his activities from the various interested governments until he could perfect his solar cannon. He had intended to sell it to the highest bidder when it was completed. In addition, for obvious reasons, he needed a sunny climate to carry out his experiments. He also required a destination that was on regular steamship routes so that he could obtain the supplies and equipment that he required.”

  “Yes, of course, a Caribbean island would be an ideal location.”

  “As I said, someone, presumably an agent in the pay of the Russians, got to Cork before I arrived. The laboratory had been ransacked. There was no sign of the plans relating to the development of the weapon. One of the servants who had assisted Cork from time to time told me that an important notebook containing Cork’s drawings and specifications was missing. I think that it was stolen by whoever killed him.”

  “And that same person then tried to murder you?”

  “I assume so.” Benedict paused. “I must have been one step behind him. But before I left Cork’s laboratory I found a letter.”

  “The one you entrusted to me in the event you did not survive.”

  “Yes,” Benedict said. “As soon as I read it I knew that it was far more valuable than Cork’s design for the weapon.”

  “Why?”

  “It was written to Cork by another inventor working in California, Elijah Foxcroft. When I read it, I immediately realized that the two men had been carrying on a correspondence for some time. It was clear that what made Cork’s weapon a potentially devastating battleship gun wasn’t the design of the solar cannon itself—that was fairly conventional—but rather the engine by which it was to be powered.”

  “A solar engine?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “Well, I suppose that does explain why we had so many interesting conversations about the potential of solar energy on board the Northern Star.”

  “The subject was on my mind,” he admitted.

  Alarm spiked through her. “Wait a minute. You said Cork’s plans for the weapon were gone when you arrived. Does that mean that the Russians now possess them?”

  “Presumably, for all the good it will do them.”

  She beetled her brows at him. “Explain, sir.”

  “The letter made it clear that Cork had been unsuccessful in creating a suitable engine for his cannon. Without a practical system capable of converting sunlight into energy in an efficient manner and a means of storing it for use when needed, his weapon was just another engineering fantasy.” Benedict looked out over the sunny garden. “Rather like da Vinci’s flying machines and his fantastical weapons.”

  “But Elijah Foxcroft has designed such a solar engine and storage device?”

  “Right. The letter made it plain that Cork believed that it was capable of powering his weapon. He and Foxcroft planned to work together on the project.”

  She glanced at the leather case again. “You found Foxcroft, I take it?”

  “I did.” Benedict exhaled deeply. “Sadly, he was near death.”

  “Good heavens, someone murdered him, too?”

  “No. He was ill with cancer. He knew he was dying. He was most anxious that his design for the solar engine and battery not be lost to history. He gave me his notebook.”

  “You have it in that case that you are carrying?”

  “Right. I will deliver it to my uncle today and then my small role in the Great Game will be concluded—not a moment too soon, as far as I am concerned.”

  “I see.” She studied him for a beat. “This is all quite interesting, sir. I understand your need for secrecy on the Northern Star.”

  “At the time I assumed the less you knew, the safer you would be. It was possible that the Russian agent was also on the ship.”

  “How did you know that I wasn’t the agent?”

  He looked amused. “You saved my life, if you will recall. It would have been easy enough to let me die there in that alley after I gave you the letter. That was all the proof I required to know that I could trust you.”

  Well, what had she expected him to say? she wondered. That he had looked into her eyes and somehow known that she would never betray him? The man was an engineer, for heaven’s sake. Engineers liked to have proof.

  “Well, it is not as if you had a great deal of choice in the matter.”

  “No,” Benedict agreed. “There was some risk involved in giving you the letter, but it soon became apparent that you were not an agent for the Russians. Nevertheless, I did not tell you anything more about my objectives because—”

  “Because you did not want to take the risk that I might accidentally let something slip out in casual conversation with the other passengers,” she concluded crisply. “I do understand that, sir. You need not belabor the point.”

  “I was afraid that if there was an agent on board and if you did say something about the solar cannon or the letter you might be in danger.”

  She drummed her fingers on the railing. “Is that why you never bothered to contact me after we parted in New York?”

  “I thought it best to keep my intention to visit Foxcroft a secret, as well.” Benedict frowned. “Damn it, Amity, I was attempting to protect you as much as possible.”

  She gave him a thin smile. “I can assure you that ignorance is not necessarily bliss. As it happens, I was attacked because of my connection to you and I doubt very much that the Bridegroom is a Russian agent.”

  “I am sorry.” Benedict’s jaw hardened. “I seem to be apologizing a lot this morning. In attempting to protect you from a Russian spy I put you squarely in the sights of a monster.”

  She relented. “It’s not your fault.”

  “On the contrary. It is obvious that if we had not been seen together on board the Star, the killer would not have singled you out as prey.”

  Amity realized that she was becoming more irritated by the minute. “Mr. Stanbridge, I refuse to let you take responsibility for what happened to me here in London. You were not even in town at the time.”

  He ignored her to look toward the kitchen door. “Your housekeeper is trying to gain your attention.”

  She turned and saw Mrs. Houston waving from the doorway.

  “Mrs. Marsden sent me to tell you that the man from Scotland Yard has arrived,” Mrs. Houston announced.

  Eight

  Penny was in the small drawing room with Inspector Logan. She was perched gracefully on the sofa. The skirts of her black gown fell in perfect folds around the soft leather shoes she wore indoors. She was discussing the weather with the tall, broad-shouldered man standing near the window.

  It was not the topic of conversation that startled Amity. Everyone talked about the weather. It was the surprisingly animated expression on Penny’s face that caught her attention. It would have been going too far to say that Penny looked positively cheerful, but there was a subtle hint of the old, enchanting sparkle that had once characterized her.

  All the evidence indicated that Inspector Logan was responsible fo
r lifting Penny’s spirits, and if that was, indeed, true, Amity thought, she was quite prepared to like the man on sight.

  “Oh, there you are, Amity,” Penny said. “Allow me to introduce you to Inspector Logan of the Yard. Inspector, my sister, and her fiancé, Mr. Stanbridge.”

  Amity winced at the “fiancé” but Benedict did not even flinch. Then again, he’d had more experience in covert work, she told herself.

  Logan turned quickly. He inclined his head toward Amity. “Miss Doncaster. It is a pleasure to see you safe and sound this morning.”

  Logan was in his early thirties. Blond-haired and almost handsome, he had a boyish innocence about him that was utterly belied by the watchful expression in his cool blue eyes. He spoke with the accent of a respectable, educated man. The quality of his coat and trousers was good but not exceptionally fine or in the first stare of fashion. Amity suspected that he was able to supplement an inspector’s pay with a small, independent income. Or maybe, like Penny, Logan had a knack for investments.

  His attitude was both respectful and polite but he did not appear either intimidated or impressed with the expensive furnishings in the drawing room.

  He gave Benedict a swift, assessing look and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “Mr. Stanbridge, I congratulate you on your engagement.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Benedict said. “I am the happiest of men.”

  Amity closed her eyes briefly at that. When she looked at Logan again, it was obvious he saw nothing unusual about Benedict’s statement.

  Logan’s brows rose. “Would that be Stanbridge of Stanbridge & Company, sir?”

  “Yes,” Benedict said. “You’re familiar with the firm?”

  “My father wanted me to study engineering,” Logan said. “If he had lived, he would have been severely disappointed by my decision to apply for a position at the Yard.”

  “It seems to me that your career requires engineering of a somewhat different nature from my own,” Benedict said. He smiled. “But we are both engaged in the business of trying to ensure that the trappings of civilization do not collapse beneath us.”

  Evidently having concluded that Benedict was not going to try to intimidate him, Logan relaxed. He went so far as to smile.

  “Indeed, sir,” he said. “That is a very insightful observation.”

  Amity was not surprised by the ease of manner between the two men. She had spent enough time in Benedict’s company to know that he did not judge others by their social rank. He respected competence and professionalism in whatever guise it appeared and Inspector Logan gave the impression of possessing both qualities.

  Mrs. Houston appeared with a tea tray and set it on the table in front of the sofa. Logan did appear briefly surprised when he was offered a cup but he recovered smoothly.

  Amity sat down in a chair and hid a smile. She was well aware that Penny’s manners were not what the inspector was accustomed to from women of the upper classes. Policemen—even inspectors—were usually treated like tradesmen and servants by those who moved in the circles that Penny and Nigel had once inhabited. The very wealthy rarely had occasion to speak to the men of the Yard. When they did find it necessary to talk to an inspector, they did not receive him in their drawing rooms. Nor did they offer tea and cakes.

  “Thank you for allowing me to call on you today, Miss Doncaster,” Logan said. He set his cup and saucer on a nearby table and took out a small notebook and a pencil. “Please accept my sympathies. I have read my predecessor’s reports and I have the greatest admiration for you. Your quick thinking and bold action no doubt saved your life and may well lead to the capture of the monster.”

  “I was fortunate,” Amity said.

  “Yes.” Logan eyed her with a thoughtful expression. “How, exactly, did you manage to escape? The reports I inherited from my predecessor were rather vague.”

  “That is very likely because your predecessor displayed little interest in the details I tried to supply.” She touched the fan that dangled from her chatelaine. “In my travels abroad I have picked up one or two odd skills. An acquaintance of my father’s gave me this fan and taught me how to use it in self-defense.” She gripped the fan and snapped it open with a sharp, practiced motion to display the elegant painting. “The ribs are made of sharpened steel. The steel leaves can be employed to deflect a blade. The top edges of the leaves are honed. In effect, my fan is a knife.”

  Logan looked first stunned and then intrigued. “Good lord. I’ve never seen anything like that. Every woman should carry one.”

  “It requires some training and considerable practice,” she said. “I do not claim to be an expert. Nevertheless, a sharp object of any kind can be extremely useful in the sort of situation that I was forced to deal with.”

  Logan nodded. “Indeed. But it also requires clearheaded thinking and the will to employ the weapon.”

  “My sister possesses both qualities,” Penny said calmly. “I cannot imagine her panicking under any circumstances. I sincerely doubt that I would be so coolheaded in such a situation.”

  Amity snapped the fan closed. “I must tell you that although I have traveled around the world, the only place I have ever had to employ this fan in self-defense was here in London.”

  “London has never been known as a safe place,” Benedict observed.

  “Certainly not now with that dreadful killer on the loose,” Penny said.

  “I regret to say that the Yard has not distinguished itself in this case,” Logan said. “To be quite honest, we are at a standstill. That is why my superior put me in charge of this investigation. He is hoping that fresh eyes will see clues that have been overlooked.”

  Benedict lounged against a wall and folded his arms. “What do you know of this killer, Inspector?”

  “Over the course of the past year the bodies of four women—all of whom appear to have been murdered by the same individual—have been found dumped in various alleys around the city,” Logan said.

  Penny stared at him. “But I thought the Bridegroom was believed to have committed only three murders, Inspector.”

  “Three bodies have been found in the past three months,” Logan said. “However, a year ago a woman was murdered in an identical manner. We—I—believe that she was the first victim.”

  Benedict frowned. “If that is true, there was a considerable gap in time between the first death and the next three murders.”

  “Approximately eight months,” Logan said. “That time factor is one of the many mysteries involved in this case.” He looked at Amity. “We are in desperate need of information.”

  “I will assist you in any way I can,” Amity said.

  “Can you describe the man who grabbed you off the street?”

  “I did not see his face,” she said. “He wore a mask made of black silk. I can tell you a few more things about him but I fear they may not be terribly helpful.”

  “At this point any details would be better than what I have now,” Logan said.

  “Very well, then, I will give you my impressions. His speech was that of an upper-class gentleman.”

  Logan appeared quite startled. Benedict, however, took the information in stride. Evidently the notion of a well-bred, aristocratic gentleman who was also a vicious killer did not seem at all extraordinary to him.

  “Are you certain of his social rank, Miss Doncaster?” Logan asked.

  “It’s not the sort of thing that is easy to conceal,” she said. “A good actor could affect the speech and mannerisms, I suppose, but I doubt if he could have afforded the expensive interiors of that carriage or the fine clothes that the killer wore.”

  Logan tapped his pencil against the notebook. He looked at Penny with an odd expression and then just as swiftly shifted his attention back to Amity.

  “You are correct,” he said. “It is difficult to imitate great wealth. What
else, Miss Doncaster?”

  She hesitated and then another memory flashed into her head. “He smokes cigarettes scented with some sort of spice. I could smell the stale smoke on him.”

  Benedict looked at Amity. “Did you see a family crest or some other indication of his identity?”

  “No,” she said. “He wore gloves—very good leather gloves, I might add. Everything I saw and touched in that carriage was expensive and in the most elegant taste. Except for the thick wooden shutters.”

  Benedict frowned. “There were shutters on the windows?”

  “Heavy wooden ones,” Amity said. “They were closed so that no one on the street could see what was happening.”

  “And perhaps designed so that you could not get out if the door was locked from the outside,” Benedict said, very grim now.

  Amity shivered. “I think you are correct.”

  There was a moment of silence while they all considered the implications.

  “A private carriage, then,” Logan said. He made a note and looked up. “But you did not identify it as such from the outside?”

  “No. I assure you, the vehicle looked like any other ordinary cab. There was nothing unusual about the driver, either.”

  “Yes, of course,” Logan said. “The coachman.” He made another note. “We must look into that aspect.”

  Benedict nodded in silent approval.

  “Can you tell me anything else about him?” Logan said.

  Amity shook her head. “I’m afraid not. The one time he spoke, he sounded exactly as you would expect a cab driver to sound. Working-class. A bit rough around the edges. But he was certainly skilled with the reins. And he made no move to catch me when I escaped.”

  Logan wrote something down in his notebook and looked up again. “What did the killer say to you?”

  Amity glanced at Benedict and then turned back to Logan. She took a breath. “He informed me that he had chosen me because I had deliberately compromised myself with Mr. Stanbridge. He seemed to believe that I had set a trap for Mr. Stanbridge.”