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  Logan glanced at Benedict, who gave him a cool smile.

  “Evidently the killer was not aware that Miss Doncaster and I are engaged to be married,” Benedict said.

  “I see.” Logan made another note and looked at Amity. “I must ask you if the killer made any reference to photography.”

  “Why, yes,” Amity said. “I was just about to mention that. He said he intended to take my bridal portrait. How did you know?”

  “I asked because there is one significant detail that we have not divulged to the press,” Logan said. He lowered his notebook. “Each victim was found in a different alley. Each one had her throat cut by an extremely sharp blade. The wounds appeared almost surgical in nature.”

  “A scalpel,” Amity said suddenly. “He held a scalpel to my throat.”

  “Did he?” Logan jotted down another note. “That is very interesting. To continue, the victims were all dressed in the clothes in which they had last been seen. And each was wearing a gold wedding ring.”

  “That much has appeared in the press,” Penny said. “The wedding rings are the reason the papers labeled the killer the Bridegroom.”

  “Yes,” Logan said. “But what we have managed to keep out of the papers is the fact that in addition to the rings, the women were all wearing lockets. Inside each locket there was a small bridal portrait of the victim. The photographs are clearly the work of a professional photographer.”

  Amity frowned. “But none of the women had ever been married.”

  “No,” Logan agreed.

  “Dear heaven,” Penny whispered. “The man is quite mad.”

  A chill swept through Amity. “Were the photographs taken before or after the women were murdered?”

  Benedict straightened away from the wall and went to stand at the window. “A number of professional photographers make their livings taking pictures of the deceased.”

  Amity shuddered. “The practice has always struck me as quite macabre.”

  “It strikes me that way, as well,” Penny said.

  “The Bridegroom’s victims were all alive when they were photographed,” Logan said. “Their throats had not yet been cut.”

  “Why have you kept the business of the lockets a secret from the press?” Penny asked.

  “Believe it or not, we at the Yard have discovered that there are some demented souls who will actually come forward to claim responsibility for crimes that have received a great deal of public attention,” Logan explained.

  Benedict turned around. “In other words, you use the detail of the lockets to separate the wheat from the chaff. Only the real killer will know about the photographs.”

  “Yes,” Logan said.

  Penny put down her teacup. “Something has just occurred to me. It probably amounts to nothing—”

  “Go on, Mrs. Marsden,” Logan said.

  “The rumors of what everyone, including the killer, assumed to be an illicit liaison between my sister and Mr. Stanbridge started to circulate following the Channing ball. If the killer does, indeed, move in Polite Society as Amity believes, perhaps he was actually present at the ball. That would certainly explain how he came to hear of the gossip.”

  Logan looked impressed. “That is a very intriguing observation, Mrs. Marsden.”

  Amity turned toward Penny. “It’s positively brilliant.”

  “Thank you,” Penny said. “But I don’t see how the observation can be of much use.”

  “It gives me a starting point,” Logan said. “I told my superior that I suspected that the killer moved in elevated circles because his victims all came from that world. But he was reluctant to accept the notion.”

  “Probably because he knew such a theory would be extremely difficult to investigate,” Benedict said.

  He and Logan exchanged glances. Men and their silent methods of communicating, Amity thought. It could be quite annoying. But she had to admit that women were equally inclined to nonverbal exchanges that were probably incomprehensible to the male of the species.

  It was a great pity that the two sexes could not communicate so well with each other, she thought.

  Logan’s expression was grim. “I see you comprehend my predicament, Mr. Stanbridge.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” Benedict said. “You are looking for a killer who moves in wealthy circles, the one strata of Society where it is virtually impossible for a policeman of any rank to go uninvited.”

  “If I start to ask questions about a well-bred killer who is given to a particularly perverse form of murder, all doors will be closed to me,” Logan said.

  There was a short silence.

  “They will open for me,” Benedict said quietly.

  Logan studied him for a long moment. Amity noticed that the inspector did not hasten to shut down the notion of accepting assistance from Benedict.

  The possibility of doing something—anything—to assist in the capture of the man who had tried to murder her and who had ruthlessly extinguished the lives of four other women elevated her spirits in a remarkable manner.

  “Those doors will open for me, as well,” she said quickly. “I am, after all, Mr. Stanbridge’s fiancée.”

  Benedict’s eyes gleamed with fleeting amusement.

  Penny’s jaw tightened. She picked up her cup. “They will also open for me, Inspector. I have had quite enough of mourning.”

  Logan began to look vaguely horrified. “I am grateful to Mr. Stanbridge for whatever help he can provide, but I do not wish to put either of you ladies in danger.”

  “According to Mr. Stanbridge,” Penny said, “my sister may still be in danger. Do you agree, Inspector?”

  Logan hesitated and then inclined his head. “It’s possible that, having been deprived of his prey, the beast may well make another attempt to seize Miss Doncaster. Assuming that he’s alive. I simply don’t know.”

  “Then I insist on doing whatever I can to help in this inquiry,” Amity said.

  “So do I,” Penny added.

  Benedict looked at Logan. “It appears you have a team of investigators ready to help, Inspector. Will you allow us to do so?”

  Logan studied the three of them for a long moment. Then he made his decision.

  “Four women have died thus far,” he said. “Now a fifth has barely escaped the same fate. I accept your offer of assistance. But the four of us will keep this to ourselves, is that understood? I am afraid that my associates at the Yard would not approve of allowing civilians to become involved in an investigation.”

  “Understood,” Benedict said. “I know my fiancée can keep a secret. I have no doubt but that Mrs. Marsden can keep one, as well.”

  “As it happens,” Penny said coolly, “I have had some experience in that regard.”

  The comment struck Amity as odd. She glanced at Penny, but before she could ask any questions Benedict spoke.

  “I will arrange to keep an eye on Miss Doncaster when she leaves the house,” he said. “But I think it best to have someone watch this residence at night.”

  Amity stared at him, shocked. “Isn’t that going a little too far?”

  “No,” Benedict said. “It’s not.”

  Logan blew out a breath. “Mr. Stanbridge has a point. Given the Yard’s lack of progress to date, and the fact that we have not found the killer’s body, it would be a good idea to have the house watched at night. I will make arrangements for a constable to stand guard.”

  “Thank you,” Penny said. “I would feel better knowing that there was a policeman nearby in the evenings. Now, then, where do we start the investigation?”

  “I believe we must begin with the guest list for the Channing ball,” Logan said. “But I very much doubt that Lady Channing will give it to me.”

  Penny smiled. “Obtaining the Channing guest list is no problem at all, Inspector. I can
tell you exactly how to get it.”

  Nine

  Benedict went down the front steps of Number Five Exton Street filled with an odd mix of exhilaration and dread. Both emotions were directly linked to Amity. For the past few weeks, ever since he had left her in New York, she had been in his head. The sense of anticipation he had experienced on the voyage back to London had been unlike anything he had ever known. Discovering that she had very nearly been murdered and that the killer had become obsessed with her because of her connection to him had shaken him to the center of his being.

  And now he was engaged to her. In a manner of speaking. The thought of having an excuse to spend a great deal of time in her company—the thought of kissing her again—thrilled him. But the reason for the enforced intimacy between them made it impossible to savor the exhilaration. He would not sleep well until the killer was found.

  He hailed a cab and went home to his town house. It had been a month and a half since he had left, but he had telegraphed the news of his impending arrival to his butler. As always, Hodges and his wife, Mrs. Hodges, the housekeeper, had everything ready and in order. It was as if Benedict had just gone out to meet a friend earlier that morning and had returned somewhat later than usual. As far as Benedict could discern, there was no force on earth that could shatter the aplomb of either of the Hodges.

  “I trust your journey was satisfactory,” Hodges said.

  “Yes, in more ways than one.” Benedict handed his hat, coat and gloves to Hodges. “But there were a few unexpected events. In addition to locating the inventor I had hoped to interview, I am happy to announce that I am engaged to be married to Miss Amity Doncaster.”

  It took a lot to make Hodges blink. He blinked twice. Then something that might have been astonishment lit up his long, stern features.

  “Would that be Miss Amity Doncaster, the lady globetrotter who writes travel reports for the Flying Intelligencer, sir?” Hodges asked. “The same Miss Doncaster who was very nearly murdered by the fiend called the Bridegroom?”

  “One and the same. I see you are aware of Miss Doncaster.”

  “I expect everyone who reads the papers is aware of her, sir.” Hodges cleared his throat. “And also that your name has been linked with hers in a romantic fashion.”

  No wonder Amity and Penny were so concerned about the rumors that had been circulating, Benedict thought. He was inclined to ignore gossip for the most part, so he sometimes forgot how quickly it could spread and how deep and wide it could reach. Amity was right to worry that her publisher might cancel the publication of A Lady’s Guide to Globetrotting.

  “Of course our names have been linked in a romantic fashion,” Benedict said. “As I told you, we are engaged. We were waiting to make a formal announcement until I returned to London.”

  “She sounds like a very interesting lady,” Hodges said. “Mrs. Hodges is a great fan of her travel pieces. I do hope Miss Doncaster is recovering well from her recent ordeal.”

  “I went to see her before I came here. I found her eating a hearty breakfast and reading the morning papers.”

  “That is quite impressive, sir. A hearty breakfast, you say? I expect that most ladies would be subsisting on tea and toast after such an experience.”

  “Miss Doncaster is unique, Hodges.”

  Hodges did not actually smile but approval flickered in his eyes.

  “Obviously, sir,” he said. “I would not have expected you to become engaged to a lady who was anything less than unique.”

  “You know me better than I know myself, Hodges.”

  “Will you be wanting breakfast, sir?”

  “No, thank you. I ate it at the home of my fiancée and her sister, Mrs. Marsden.”

  Hodges elevated his brows a fraction of an inch. “Would that be the Mrs. Marsden who is the widow of Mr. Nigel Marsden, the gentleman who broke his neck going over a fence in the hunt several months ago?”

  “I believe so, why?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Damn it, Hodges, what are you not telling me?”

  Mrs. Hodges spoke from the doorway. “What Mr. Hodges is trying to say is that Mrs. Marsden is no doubt grieving very deeply. She inherited a tidy fortune from her late husband, yet according to the rumors, the first thing she did after the funeral was let all of the staff go. They say she has retreated from the world.”

  Benedict studied Mrs. Hodges, who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Hodges, except for her housedress and apron.

  “You are well informed, Mrs. Hodges,” he said. “Anything else I ought to know about my future sister-in-law?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  Benedict started up the stairs. “In that case I am going to bathe and change my clothes, after which I must call on my brother and then visit my uncle.” He paused midway up the staircase. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that there has not been any recent word from Australia?”

  Hodges picked up the silver salver on the console. There was a single envelope on the tray. “As a matter of fact, a telegram arrived this morning.”

  “Damn and blast. I suppose that is no surprise.” Resigned, Benedict changed course and went back down the stairs. “If the gossip about my association with Miss Doncaster is all over London, then naturally it has reached my parents.”

  “The invention of the telegraph was an amazing thing, sir,” Hodges said. “I believe the undersea cable that linked Australia to the rest of the world was laid more than a decade ago.”

  “I’m aware of that, Hodges.” Benedict picked up the envelope, opened it quickly and read the short message.

  RUMORS LINKING YOUR NAME TO THAT OF MISS AMITY DONCASTER HAVE REACHED US STOP YOUR MOTHER WISHES TO KNOW THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER STOP SHE REMINDS YOU THAT IT IS TIME YOU GOT MARRIED STOP

  Benedict dropped the message on the tray. “It’s from my father. I’ll draft a reply before I leave the house.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hodges said.

  He exchanged a look with Mrs. Hodges, who smiled what Benedict thought was a distinctly smug smile.

  An hour later Benedict went up the steps of an elegant little house situated in a quiet, attractive neighborhood. He was shown immediately into the study, where he found Richard seated at the desk.

  Richard looked up from the architectural drawings he had been examining.

  “It’s about time you got here,” he said. “I assume you are aware that you are the subject of some very interesting gossip linking your name with that of Miss Amity Doncaster?”

  Richard was two years younger and somewhat taller. His red-brown hair and sea-green eyes had come from their mother. Richard had also inherited Elizabeth Stanbridge’s warm, outgoing, optimistic personality.

  More than one person had remarked that the Stanbridge brothers were as different as night and day. Benedict was well aware that he was the one cast in the role of dour, gloomy night: always ready to point out the drawbacks and the risks of a venture; always assessing the worst case and planning for that eventuality.

  Richard, by contrast, was a bright, sunny morning. Although he was a truly gifted architect, his most valuable contribution to the firm of Stanbridge & Company was his ability to charm potential clients. He also had a very good head for business. The combination made him invaluable.

  If the task of dealing with the clients were left to him, Benedict thought, Stanbridge & Company would no doubt be bankrupt within six months. He was the first to admit that he had little patience with clients who did not comprehend the importance of sound engineering principles and the need to resist the temptation to cut corners when it came to the quality of materials and craftsmanship. Most clients wanted to be dazzled by spectacular architectural details. They just assumed the bridge or the building or the glass conservatory would not collapse.

  “I have just this morning been made aware of the chatter about
my relationship with Miss Doncaster,” he said. He set the black leather case on the desk and went to stand at the window. “One would think that people would have more important matters to discuss.”

  “You can hardly expect people to ignore gossip that involves both a hint of scandal and attempted murder,” Richard said. He looked amused.

  “Huh.”

  Richard paused and then cleared his throat. “I’m aware that the bit about attempted murder is true. The news in the press has been remarkably consistent, if very likely exaggerated. I don’t doubt but that Miss Doncaster barely escaped the clutches of a killer.”

  “Thanks to her bravery and self-defense skills,” Benedict said.

  “They do say that travel is educational. What of the romantic aspect of the stories? Ben, tell me the truth. Are you involved in a liaison with Miss Doncaster?”

  “Not a liaison.” Benedict turned away from the window and met his brother’s eyes. “I am engaged to her.”

  He realized he liked announcing that he was engaged to Amity. It was as if the more frequently he made the statement, the more real it became.

  Richard’s brows shot skyward. He lounged back in his chair and put his fingertips together. “Well, well, well. Wait until Mother finds out.”

  “There was a telegram from Australia waiting for me when I walked through my front door today.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Richard chuckled. “I got one yesterday. Mother sends her love, by the way. Evidently her painting has been inspired by the atmosphere of that artists’ colony where she and Father are staying.”

  “And Father is no doubt enjoying his observations of the Australian flora and fauna. Nevertheless, they both apparently have time to keep up with the London gossip.”

  “You can’t be all that astonished. You know as well as I do that after the disaster of your last engagement they have been desperate to see you married.”

  Benedict started to respond but paused when he saw his sister-in-law in the doorway. Marissa’s light brown hair was caught back in a simple knot at the nape of her neck. The style emphasized her warm, gray eyes and pretty features. Benedict had not seen her for a month and a half. He was taken aback at the change in her appearance. The flowing lines of a loose-fitting housedress could not disguise the advanced state of her pregnancy. A quick calculation told him that she was now very nearly due to give birth to her firstborn. It was all he could do not to stare at her. There was a peculiar glow about her, he concluded. The dramatic changes that pregnancy wrought upon a woman were nothing less than terrifying to a mere male.