Madeline nodded, though Cecily couldn’t be sure if her friend had really heard the words. She seemed preoccupied, worried. Her obvious distress intensified Cecily’s apprehension as she closed the door and started back down the corridor.
The Danvilles’ suite was on the same floor, and Cecily saw no one in the hallway as she approached the door. Just before she reached it she saw something white lying on the carpet. She bent over to pick it up, and saw it was a woman’s lace-edged handkerchief.
Initials had been embroidered in one corner. An
Frowning, Cecily tucked it into her sleeve and tapped lightly with her knuckles on the door panel. When there was no response, she turned to leave, then paused. Perhaps he was asleep, having grown tired of waiting for his wife to return. She rapped harder. To her surprise, the door inched open.
Worried now, she put her mouth up to the gap. “Mr. Danville? Are you in there?”
Nothing but silence greeted her.
She hesitated, heart beginning to pound. Something was wrong. She could feel it, like an ugly sense of evil, reaching out to her.
Carefully, she pushed the door open. “Mr. Danville?”
Inside the room, light from an oil lamp flickered across the wall opposite. Cecily caught her breath, prickles of ice attacking her spine. Across the rose-patterned wallpaper she could see letters scribbled in red.
She pushed the door open wider and stepped into the room, her gaze pinned on the message scrawled on the wall.
She caught her breath, and turned to leave. As she did so, her glance fell on the bed. Her shocked cry seemed to echo around the silent room.
He was sprawled on his back, his eyes wide open. His neck had been cruelly slashed. She had found Mr. Danville too late to save him. The killer had struck again.
CHAPTER 15
“Well, that settles it, dunnit.” P.C. Northcott removed his helmet with a flourish and dropped it on the nearest chair. “You’ve gone and done it this time, Mrs. B. You’ve got yourself one of them serial killers, that’s what.”
Standing in front of the dying fire in the library, Cecily eyed the constable with frosty disdain. “I hardly think that any of this can be attributed to anything I might have done.”
Northcott looked flustered as he stammered, “Oh, no, no, m’m. I wasn’t blaming you, of course. I was merely pointing out that you have a very large problem on your hands.”
“So I’ve noticed. The point is, what are you going to do about it?”
The constable stuck his stubby fingers into the top pocket of his tunic and pulled out a tattered notebook. He took a great deal of time flipping through it before he found a clean page. Then he fished in his pocket again and pulled out a short pencil. After examining it for a moment or two, he licked the point of it and poised it over the page. “Now, Mrs. B., tell me exactly what you saw in that room.”
Cecily clenched her fingers. Where the devil was Baxter? He was so much better than her at intimidating this irritating man. “Sam, I have already told you what I saw. You were in the Danvilles’ suite. You saw it for yourself.”
“Yes, m’m. You’re quite right. I did. Just in case the evidence had been tampered with, however, I need to know what it was you saw when you first entered the room, so that I can compare it to the scene as I saw it.” He licked the pencil again and began scribbling. “But first, let us begin with the body of Mrs. Danville. You say it was hanging from the rafters over the stage.”
“I’ve already told you
“I am fully aware of that possibility, Mrs. B.” His pencil crawled across the page. “ ’ Owever, it h’is my duty to write down all pertinent information from the witnesses as soon as possible.” He squinted at the notebook and held it a little farther away. “You’d be surprised how much people forget after the shock wears off.”
To Cecily’s immense relief, the door opened and Baxter strode in, his features carved in stone. “What are you still doing in here, man? Why aren’t you out there looking for this beastly brute?”
The constable snapped his notebook shut and tucked it in his pocket. After stowing the pencil, he looked at Baxter as if he were a particularly nasty insect. “Not that it’s any of your business, sir, but my hands are tied at this moment.”
Baxter’s eyes turned icy. “Then I suggest you untie them, unless you want another body on your hands.”
Northcott drew himself up a half inch. “It is my considered opinion,” he said, turning his back on Baxter and addressing Cecily instead, “that as I aforementioned, there is a mass murderer afoot somewhere around here.”
Baxter snorted most unbecomingly. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Sam,” Cecily said, ignoring her husband’s churlish behavior, “we really need to look for this man now. This moment.”
“Yes, well, as I’m trying to establish, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Northcott puffed out his chest and rocked back on his heels. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this murderer is the Mayfair Murderer that Scotland Yard is after. That is a top priority case and calls for a fully fledged investigation by Inspector Cranshaw. He would not thank me for messing about with his case. Oh, no.”
Cecily couldn’t suppress a shiver at the mention of the inspector’s name. “Nonsense. I don’t believe it is a serial killer at all. I’ve been giving this whole situation some thought, and I happen to believe that this all started with Ellie. I believe Charlie saw who killed her and had to be silenced.”
Northcott smiled, in an indulgent manner that had Cecily seething. “It’s obvious, Mrs. B., that you have no h’experience with such matters. This has all the marks of a serial killer. After all, there are four people dead now, and there’s the writing on the wall. That’s the killer’s way of leaving his signature, so to speak.”
“If that is so, then why didn’t he leave his signature with the first three bodies? For that matter, why would he kill both men and women?”
Northcott frowned. “I can’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Baxter, who until now had kept remarkable control of his temper, suddenly uttered a mild curse and strode forward. “How you can be so dense and remain in the constabulary is beyond me,” he snapped. “What my wife is trying to say is that a serial killer’s victims all share a common trait of some kind. The serial killer usually has an image in mind, connected to someone or something that has deeply and adversely affected him in some way. That’s why he kills. He’s ridding himself of that perceived evil over and over again.”
It was obvious to Cecily, judging from the constable’s expression, that he had understood not one word of her husband’s comments. Again he addressed Cecily, with a somewhat desperate look that suggested he was losing his authority and couldn’t wait to get out of there. “In any case,” he announced, “I can’t do h’any more until I have reported to the inspector and received his instructions on how to proceed next.”
“Then I suggest you do that right now.” Baxter strode to the door and flung it open. “You can use the telephone in Mrs. Baxter’s office.”
“I can’t do that.” Northcott picked up his helmet and tucked it under his arm.
Baxter roared again. “In God’s name, why not?”
“Because,” Northcott said, moving warily toward the door, “the inspector is on holiday in France. He won’t be back until after the New Year.”
Cecily relaxed her shoulders in relief.
Baxter, however, was not in the least thrilled. “Well, good heavens, man, there has to be someone taking his place while he’s away?”
Northcott, having reached the door, edged around him. “Yes, sir, there is. But Inspector Cranshaw is most particular about his cases, and he wouldn’t thank me for handing it over to someone else. Oh, no, sir. We shall just
