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Chapter Text

Olivier, Marquess of Delafere, stared at his reflection in the mirror, and contemplated the exact point on his carotid artery where a sharp blade would most efficiently sever the flow of blood to his brain, and thus his connection to this miserable existence.

He carried out this contemplation every morning, and every morning he managed to resist the temptation to follow through, though with more or less difficulty, depending on how his night had been. it had been a single bottle of claret night, and Anne’s ghost had not yet appeared, so this morning, the resistance had been relatively easy. On other mornings, he had refrained from shaving at all, lest his hand should slip under influence of his dearest wishes, and leave an unforgivable mess for his household.

And for Sylvie. His ward was the single thing tethering him to this life. Some days, if he didn’t love her so well, he could have hated her for that.

He heard the door knocker being applied, and ignored it. His staff knew he did not receive visitors, and could deal with anyone else without his help.

He commenced the process of shaving and renewing his loathing of the man wearing the skin he so carefully cleaned of stubble.

*******************************

Miss Sylvie Boden, ward to Lord Delafere, sat in the library reading the newly delivered Proceedings of the Royal Society while munching on a piece of toast, absorbed in an article on new hydrocarbons derived from coal tar. She looked up as their footman, Edward, came in. “Ma’am, Inspector Treville of Scotland yard has come to see Lord Delafere. He says the matter is urgent. I didn’t like to send him away like the others.”

“Inspector Treville?” she said, astonished. She was to finally meet this man who figured so largely in Athos’s writing. “Yes, of course.” She rose and dusted her hands. “I’ll speak to him. Show him to the drawing room, please”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Miss Sylvie was conscious that she made an unusual addition to Lord Delafere’s household. Tall, dark-skinned, and without conspicuously noble lineage, she tended to avoid dealing with visitors at the house itself unless it was quite necessary. This was one such occasion. Athos, as she called her guardian, did not see people, not even friends. This had been the way since the death of his fiancée four years before, and was likely to be that way for many years to come. On the other hand, old friends, especially a police inspector, could not be treated as cursorily as those in London society who thought that leaving their cards with the marquess was a social duty.

The black-clad senior of their two callers was clearly Treville. The other, tall and olive-skinned, his constable. They both rose as she entered the room.

She offered her hand and Treville shook it, firm but brief. “Inspector? I am Lord Delafere’s ward, Sylvie Boden. I’m sorry you’ve had the trouble of coming here for naught, but Lord Delafere does not receive visitors now. Is there some assistance I may give you, or a message I may pass on for you?”

Treville nodded. “Thank you, Miss Boden. I was aware of Athos’s—I mean, Lord Delafere’s—retirement from society and the reason. I was with him during the trial of Anne de Breuil.”

“Then you understand—”

“Yes, quite. But I am in desperate need of his assistance in a Belgard matter, so I wonder if you could ask him if he could make an exception in my case.”

“Certainly, inspector. If you and your colleague would give me a few moments to speak to him. Please, do take a seat.”

“Thank you. Be sure to mention ‘Belgard’.”

She smiled. “Yes, of course.”

*******************************

In his bedroom, Athos was navigating the removal of the top from a boiled egg with the same precision as another man might carry out an enucleation, when Sylvie knocked at the door and asked to come in.

He smiled at her. She was, after all, a joyful sight on any morning. “Yes, my dear?”

“It’s your Inspector Treville, Athos. On a Belgard matter.”

His spine stiffened. “Treville?”

“Yes. A handsome older man, very upright bearing. Features prominently in your case notes?”

He raised an eyebrow at her sarcasm. “I know who he is. Please give him my compliments, and tell him no. Not even on a Belgard case.”

She pursed her lips. “He said he was desperate.”

“I’m sure. Please pass on my reply, dear girl.”

“As you wish,” she said, barely suppressing a sigh. She was disappointed in him again. But he had his reasons, so it couldn’t be helped.

*******************************

Sylvie returned to the drawing room. “I bring Lord Delafere’s compliments, inspector, but I regret he is unable to assist you.”

Treville stood with his hands behind his back. “You mentioned Belgard?”

“I did.”

Treville frowned. “Damn it.”

“Inspector, I...have made a little study of Athos’s methods and notes, and am somewhat knowledgeable on medical matters. Perhaps you could tell me more about the case? I might possibly be able to persuade him to change his mind.”

“Do you think you might?”

She smiled. “Is it not worth the attempt, sir?”

“Perhaps. Yes. Let’s try it.”

“Then let’s sit so you can tell me everything.” She walked to the bell pull and tugged it. When Fleur responded, Sylvie said, “Tea for three, please.”

“Yes, mum,” Fleur said with a little curtsey.

“This table, if you please,” Sylvie indicated. “Forgive me, inspector. I haven’t been introduced to your colleague.”

“Ah, no. Miss Boden, this is Constable Charles d’Artagnan.”

The lad made a small bow. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“And you, constable. Now, inspector, tell me about these women.”

“In the last two months, three young women have been pulled dead from the Thames—the most recent, this morning. By calculation of tides and currents, we believe that they were all placed in the river between the Chiswick and Fulham reaches.”

She was pleased he did not waste her time by apologising for the grim details of the case, and spoke to her as if she were male. She had no time for those who pretended the sex who bled each month, bore children, bound wounds, and butchered stock for households, would faint if the mere word ‘blood’ was uttered in their presence.

“And were they dead when placed in the river?” she asked.

“Yes. All had been garrotted by a thin braided rope, though, apart from the manner of their deaths, there is nothing apparently connecting the victims.”

“Other than their age and sex, you mean?”

“Ma’am?” This was the constable.

She smiled at him. “You said they were all young women. So that connects them.”

“Yes, of course,” Treville said with not completely repressed impatience. To tell the truth, he was not best pleased that Athos had rebuffed his request. He had rather thought he had worked with the man for long enough to have earned more consideration than this, and however charming and beautiful his ward was, she was only a slip of a girl, and hardly a replacement for an experienced gentleman such as Athos.

“You don’t consider that significant, inspector?”

“Only in that their murderer is thus most likely a man,” he said. “Miss Boden—”

She held up her hand. “Please, a little more information? Their exact ages? Colouring? Occupation? Did they reside in the Putney to Vauxhall area? How long before they were missed?”

As tea was served, he answered her questions. They were between eighteen and twenty-two, and fair-skinned and fair-haired. One, the latest victim, was an actress, another a baker’s daughter, and the third a woman from the east end of London who worked in an orphanage. None lived in the area where their bodies were probably put into the water. The first two were missed within hours. The third had not been missed until she had turned up dead.

Sylvie considered all this carefully. “So the murderer is apparently fixated upon a particular age and appearance, and prepared to travel to find his victims. Instead of, for example, lurking about Whitechapel or Camden and killing prostitutes, or abducting women on their way to church. They’re all of good character?” she asked. Treville nodded. “He’s hunting for women who fit his ideal. Now, tell me, why is this a Belgard matter? What or who is Belgard?”

Treville hesitated. Miss Boden was sharper than he gave her credit for, but her question touched upon another’s secret. “Before I answer, I need Athos’s permission to do so, and his opinion on whether you are of any genuine use to us. I mean no offence,” he added.

“None taken. Of course you don’t know if I can help. You were Athos’s superior officer for a time while he was in the army, and you and he worked together when he was engaged in his criminal researches. I am nothing to you,” she said with exactly the same enigmatic smile as Athos used to give him. “You probably don’t see the resemblance, but I’m surprised you didn’t recognise my name, inspector. I’m Hubert Boden’s daughter.”

“Oh, heavens,” he said, feeling something of a fool. “Forgive me, Miss Boden. I was sorry to learn the good doctor had died. It’s some time since, is it not?”

“Three years ago. Nearly four,” she said, a pain in her chest blooming at the memory of her beloved father.

Treville bowed his head. “Please accept my deepest sympathies, Miss Boden. I worked with your father a number of times before Athos retired. I knew he had a daughter, but I had never met you before.”

“You never called at our house, that I remember, but Father spoke of you, and we often discussed the cases Athos and he worked on. After Athos retired, my father intended to devote himself entirely to his charitable hospital, but not two months afterwards, he suffered an apoplectic fit and died a week later.”

Athos had founded and funded the hospital at her father’s instigation, though she didn’t mention that. Athos didn’t like his good works advertised.

“A terrible loss for science and medicine,” Treville said, shaking his head. “Were you his assistant?”

“Yes, at the hospital since I turned sixteen, though I was in and out of his clinical rooms all the time as a child. Although women aren’t yet admitted to the study of medicine, I studied with him, and he taught me what he knew. Since he died and I came to live here as Athos’s ward, I have applied myself to Athos’s methods as well, though for curiosity’s sake alone. My father believed knowledge was never wasted.”

Treville couldn’t help but wonder if father and guardian had done the right thing by this young lady. She was too well-educated to go into service, the colour of her skin would disbar her from positions such as governess to which she might otherwise aspire, and young men of fortune or title rarely liked a woman to be cleverer than they were, however beautiful she might be.

“Then, by all means, ask Athos if I may tell you of Belgard, and if he permits it, I would gladly have your assistance.”

“I shall ask him now.” She rose in a rustle of blue silk and left the room.

“Are we really going to have a young woman on this case, sir?” d’Artagnan asked. “The commissioner won’t like it.”

“Constable, if Miss Boden is half as capable as her guardian, we will be much better off with her than without her. Since we have no way forward now, what harm can it do?”

“But, sir, dead bodies. She’s a proper lady.”

“A proper lady with a doctor for a father and a very clever man for a guardian. Let’s see what she can do for us.”

“Sir.” D’Artagnan subsided. That was the disadvantage of having the lad along with him. He was Treville’s brightest recruit, but he did tend to speak his mind a little too freely. How to urge caution on him while not repressing his ability to think, was the very devil sometimes.

*******************************

“You’re back,” Athos said with some asperity. “And yet you have not dismissed Treville and his companion, despite my specific request.”

Sylvie didn’t bother asking how he knew Treville wasn’t alone, nor how he knew they hadn’t left. “I did exactly as you asked, sir. I gave him your refusal. You didn’t forbid me from asking them about the case.”

He glowered. “I didn’t forbid you from painting yourself blue and parading down Regent Street, because I didn’t expect I would ever need to. Are you here to press his request again?”

“No. He merely wants your permission to tell me of Belgard, and he would like your assurance that I’m not wasting his time in offering my own assistance. For which I ask your permission as well.”

He sat back and regarded her. She looked back with determined politeness. “You honestly want to traipse about looking at corpses?”

“If necessary. I’ve seen many bodies before. Even drowned ones.”

“The victims drowned?”

“No, they were garrotted. I thought you weren’t interested in the case.”

Lord, grant me patience. “Hmpf. Very well. Tell him yes on the first question, whatever he pleases on the second, and whatever you please on the third. You are of age, and I will only advise you, not forbid. Only remember your position, my dear, and that you would break my heart if you were to go and get yourself murdered. Apart from that, carry the pistol I gave you, and don’t allow that constable to be impertinent towards you.”

“No, sir,” she said with a grin, before she bent and kissed the top of his head, and rushed away again.

Athos growled for a moment or two, then went to his writing desk and scribbled a note, before using the bell pull and summoning Edwards. “Please have that taken to Porthos Duvallon immediately, and have the messenger wait for his reply.”

Edwards took the note. “Certainly, sir.”

Anne’s ghost stood behind Athos’s footman, weeping. She was always weeping. “Too late for tears now,” he murmured after Edwards left.

*******************************

Porthos Duvallon, unlike his friend, had finished his breakfast hours ago, never having developed the gentleman’s habit of rising late and going to bed even later. He and Samara both woke early, and liked to get on while the day was young. Thus, he was hard at work with his wife on plans for a home for former prostitutes and women left without support—‘fallen women’ as the nobs liked to call them—when his footman came to the library.

“A message, sir, from Lord Delafere?”

Porthos looked at Samara in surprise. “Athos? Here, let me have it.” He broke the seal. Athos’s hand hadn’t improved at all. “Tell his lad that I’ll meet him at St James’s park at the usual place, at noon.”

The footman bowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Does he say what he wants?” Samara asked her husband when they were alone again.

“No, but I can guess. Flea,” he said, grimacing. “And the other women.”

“Does this mean he’s coming out of retirement?”

“I bloody hope so.”

She touched his cheek. “Language, my darling.”

“Sorry. Anyway, I better get ready to go out.” He stood, then bent to kiss her cheek. “Maybe this means we’ll find the ba...bloke who killed her.”

*******************************

Sylvie changed into her most practical walking outfit, her sturdiest shoes, and a respectable hat. She also made sure to conceal the little pistol in her skirt, and that she had an especially strong hatpin securing her hat to her head. One of the things that Athos had insisted upon when she joined his household was her learning to defend herself, because he was jolly well not going to hold her hand while she roamed about outside, he said. “You’re a free woman, and I’m not anyone’s keeper.”

Apart from the weapons, he had taught her to defend herself with judicious punches, jabs, and lunges. Constance, their housekeeper, had been scandalised when, not long after Sylvie had come to stay, she had found Athos in his athletic clothes and Sylvie in her nightdress, struggling together in the drawing room. Athos had apologised for the surprise, of course, but then suggested that Constance should also have lessons.

Constance turned out to be a crack shot and a dirty fighter. So had Sylvie. Athos was delighted.

When Sylvie returned to the drawing room, she found Constance talking animatedly to Treville, while his young constable stared at Constance in frank admiration.

Constance turned. “Forgive me, Sylvie, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to talk to an old friend. The inspector has been much missed these last few years.”

“As I have missed you all,” Treville answered. “But for now, I must excuse myself, Constance. Miss Sylvie and I have work to do.”

“Work?” Constance said with a little squeak of surprise. “What sort of work?”

“Athos sort of work,” Sylvie replied. “If we can’t entice the bear out with honey, perhaps the cub might be able to evoke some interest or concern. I’m not without skills.”

“No, of course not. You could not be in safer hands, dear.” The young constable turned red under her approving gaze. “And the officers will find you very capable, I’m sure.”

“Thank you. Inspector? Shall we?”

*******************************

Constance watched from the front window, and only waited for Sylvie to be safely seated in Treville’s hansom, before she rushed up the stairs and into Athos’s room without knocking. “What on earth are you doing, Athos? Letting Sylvie go off with John Treville like that?”

Athos laid down his book. “I’m giving the dear girl her head. One can’t keep a racehorse and never let it exercise.”

“She’s not a horse. She’s a young woman out on the streets with police officers, investigating murder!”

Athos looked at her calmly. “Yes?”

“And it’s dangerous!”

“Yes. She knows that. She wanted to. And since I don’t want to, she may as well do what she can. I can’t keep her caged. I promised her dear father I would not.”

Constance put her hands on her hips. “But you should be with her.”

“I should not. But,” he raised a hand as she drew breath to argue, “I am just about to leave to speak to Porthos. It seems this sorry case involves him in some manner, so I want to ask him to keep an eye on Sylvie. I have no need to ask him to cooperate with Treville, of course.”

“Pity you didn’t answer the call.”

“You know why.”

She leaned on his desk. “When will you accept Anne’s death was not your fault?”

“Fault or not, it was damnable hubris of me to involve myself, and she died as a result. I will not show such prideful behaviour again.”

“But you’ll allow Sylvie to.”

“She isn’t me, Constance. I have to change my clothing, so please excuse me. And please ask Paul to ready the carriage.”

She stalked out. Athos had not heard the last of it, he well knew. Constance was a treasured friend because she cared, thus he couldn’t complain when her concern for all of them was expressed more vehemently than suited him.

*******************************

The Westminster public morgue was not dissimilar to the one in the hospital her father had served, but Sylvie could not suppress a shiver as she descended the stairs to the basement. Someone who had died of an accident could be bloody and mangled beyond the imagination of most genteel folk, but at least there had been no deliberate evil at work. She had never seen a murder victim. Today would be the first time.

Sylvie removed her gloves, and signalled to the attendant, who drew back the sheet from the body of Adele Bessett. Her blonde hair had been lightened artificially from its natural red, Sylvie observed. There was incipient bruising on her face and lesser marks on her hands—blows received and possibly weak defensive strikes delivered. The most noticeable feature, apart from the swollen face resulting from strangulation, was the deep red ligature mark on her neck. Sylvie examined it carefully, and made a sketch.

The woman’s hair drew Sylvie’s attention again. A curling iron had been used repeatedly, so the ends were frayed and many hairs were broken. A speck of glitter caught her eye. She used forceps to pick up the shiny grit, and a loupe to examine it. “Paint flecks?” she wondered, showing Treville.

“Gilt? Cheap gilt?”

“From her work in the theatre, perhaps,” the constable said. “She has painted lips,” he added disapprovingly. Paint, to him, clearly meant a prostitute.

“Perhaps,” Sylvie said. There were more particles, which she collected into a little envelope and sealed.

She examined the woman’s hands carefully, scraping under the nails. Her rings had not been removed, though they appeared valuable. “No robbery,” she murmured. “Did she have a purse on her?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the constable said. He had the report from the attendant who had accepted the body for storage. “Though only with a few coins.”

“A thief would have taken it,” Treville said.

“Has anyone examined her genital region?” Sylvie asked, making the young constable blush again.

“The police surgeon has not yet examined the body,” Treville said.

“Then may I look? I shall be careful.”

“Better you than me,” Treville said. “Turn away, d’Artagnan. Give the lady privacy.”

Sylvie protested. “I don’t—”

“I meant the victim,” Treville said, nodding down at the body.

She smiled in embarrassment. “Yes, of course.”

While the men turned their backs on her, Sylvie examined the woman’s vulva and vagina. There were no bruises or abrasions, but several post-mortem curved cuts on the inner thighs, possibly from fingernails, suggested someone had forced her legs apart after death. There was semen in the vaginal region. “Were the others violated, inspector?”

“Yes, they were.”

She continued her examination. No sign of venereal disease or malnutrition. Her teeth were in decent condition. “Where are her clothes?”

“Here,” the constable said, bringing a sack over for Sylvie to examine. They were of very good quality, as fine as anything Sylvie would wear, although rather more decorative. So, a successful actress, or one with a generous patron.

“Was she found wearing gloves? Or with them?”

The constable consulted his notes. “No, miss.”

“How odd.”

Her ruminations were disturbed by another constable entering the room. She quickly pulled the sheet over the body as Treville and d’Artagnan turned. “Sorry to bother you, sir, ma’am, but there’s a Doctor Herblay outside. Says he was a friend of Adele Bessett’s and wants to speak to whoever’s investigating her murder.”

“Friend or ‘friend’?” Treville asked.

“He only said friend. I don’t know what else,” the constable said.

“Very well, I’ll come. D’Artagnan, you and Miss Boden stay here.”

“Ah, inspector,” Sylvie said. “I’d like to talk to the gentleman too, if you’ll permit it.”

He hesitated. “Very well. Are you finished here?”

“I believe so.”

“Then we’ll all talk to this Dr Herblay. This way, miss.”

Chapter Text

“We could have met closer to your house,” Athos said, taking a seat beside his smartly dressed friend, facing the lake. Several wildfowl swam over in hope of largesse.

“I like it here,” Porthos said. “I wondered if the next time I heard a word from you would be to invite me to your funeral. Three years, mate. More like four. Anything could have happened.”

“I’m sure I would have heard. Is Samara well?”

“Yeah. Expecting our first born in a couple of months.”

“Congratulations.”

“Stuff it,” Porthos said in a low growl. “Why now? Is it these women in the Thames?”

“Yes, in a way. How are you connected to them? Treville came around and said it was a Belgard matter.”

“You didn’t ask him?”

“I didn’t see him. I let Sylvie deal with him. She’s gone off with him to play investigator.”

Porthos let out a quiet whistle. “I knew you could be a callous bastard, Athos, but that’s despicable.”

“I have my reasons, if you care to hear them,” Athos said stiffly, stung by his friend’s words. “Tell me how the case pertains to you.”

“One of the women was a friend of mine. Flea—Amelia Parsons. From the old days in Whitechapel. She was working in that orphanage I set up in Stoke Newington. She was Charon’s woman, and when he was killed, I set her up in that job. She was good at it. Now she’s dead.”

“Please accept my condolences. Have you spoken to Treville yet?”

“Only briefly when they found her. None of my business officially, since I’m hands off, and at the time they didn’t realise the killer would strike more than once. Now why are you sending your young lady out on a man’s job?”

Porthos’s voice had turned hard, his big hands fisting on his thighs. Though now quite a gentleman, Porthos had grown up in the harshest conditions, and had had to fight for his life many a time. Somehow, he had always managed to avoid arrest, and had done what he could to support himself without resorting to criminality. With his new wealth he had done a great deal to help those still mired in poverty in the district in which he had grown up.

He and Athos had been co-conspirators several times on cases, and an invaluable source of information on the lower classes when necessary. He had come up in the world, but his accent and his responses were still from the slums.

Therefore, Athos had not only to placate a normal gentlemanly reaction to a woman in danger, but also Porthos’s normal reaction, which was far more vigorous in defence of the weak. “Sylvie is an extraordinary woman. Far cleverer and braver than me, far more inquisitive. She has continued her chemistry and medical studies despite the prohibitions on women working in medicine, and has studied my case notes so well, she knows them better than I do. In a just world, were she not of your colour, she would make an excellent governess, a clever man’s wife, a teacher, or perhaps an independent investigator such as I once imagined myself.”

“You were an investigator, Athos. A good one. Just because—”

Athos held up his hand. “No. We will not speak of it, nor of my decision, which is final.”

“Have it your way,” Porthos said, rankled. “But if she ain’t an investigator, what’s she doing with Treville?”

“Learning. I can scarcely forbid her to work with him, and I believe she may be of assistance, at the very least. I trust him to protect her. She won’t come to harm, and more than that, I can’t say. Hubert Boden wanted me to protect and cultivate his pearl of great price. I have to let her go.”

Porthos could see the wisdom of this, but Athos was a bloody coward for not taking her out himself. Just because a woman was hanged based on information he handed over in good faith, didn’t mean he was wrong to have done it. It was his bastard of a brother at the root of it all. “Why did you need to see me? Could have asked me about it in a note.”

Athos sighed heavily. “Treville clearly intends to talk to you soon, and therefore, so will she. Treville was so kind as to allude to your history, and I’ve given him permission to tell her about them. I only wanted to warn you, and to ask you to help Sylvie as much as you can. For her sake, not mine.”

“I’d do it for yours, and Doc Boden’s too. Damn it, Athos. Do you think your friends all abandoned you? You wouldn’t see us!”

Athos winced. “I walked away. I wanted to spare you the sight of a man too feeble to live with his decisions.”

“But here you are. Out in the sunlight.” The sky was overcast, but that wasn’t the point.

“I do leave the house. I simply do not receive visitors, or take on clients.”

“You’re sulking like a naughty child.”

Another man would have been challenged to a duel for such words. At least, in days gone by. “I am not sulking. I am...atoning.”

“Bollocks.”

Athos winced again. “Your language remains quite appalling, Porthos.”

Porthos gave him a toothy grin with not a grain of humour in it. “If you want to atone, you could find the man what’s killing these young girls. Flea didn’t have any harm in her. She was doing good work and the children loved her. My manager told me they’re heartbroken over her dying like that.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help. I know I can’t. Don’t you understand? My incompetency led to an innocent woman being hanged!”

His emotions became too much to bear. He rose and stalked to the edge of the lake. Leaning heavily on his sword cane, he saw not the water or the birds, not even the ghost of the woman he had loved so very dearly. No, he saw the scene of that dreadful morning in his brother’s house. Thomas, lying dead at Anne’s feet, her knife in his stomach, and her hands covered with his blood. If he lived to be a hundred, Athos would never see anything more horrible.

“Athos?”

He turned. “I must take my leave. I’ve said all I wanted to say. Please give Samara my regards.”

Porthos stood and went to approach him. Athos took a small step back and his friend stopped. “Come to us for dinner?” Porthos pleaded, spreading his hands.

“No. I regret that I can’t. I hope they find Flea’s murderer. Good day, Porthos.”

He limped away quickly before Porthos could force him to stay. He should have confined himself to writing.

*******************************

Doctor Aramis Herblay did not like the Westminster Public Mortuary, though in fairness, very few people did. He would not have come anywhere near the place, except for the awful news which greeted him when he called at Adele’s house that morning. Her maid, overcome with grief, had told him that her mistress was dead, murdered by persons unknown. and what was to become of her household?

Aramis couldn’t answer that question, but he could at least find out how Adele had died, and perhaps even who had killed her. Then he intended to find that man and strike him dead, because Aramis loved Adele, and anyone who could snuff out such a bright and beautiful creation of the Almighty had no business walking freely upon the earth.

To his surprise, and no small irritation, a young woman was present when Inspector Treville and his colleague came to speak to him. After introductions, the inspector said, “Miss Boden is here to assist us, doctor. She would like to talk to you when we are done.”

“Assist you? In what manner? How is this fit for the ears of a young lady?”

“Doctor Herblay,” Miss Boden said, giving him a lovely smile, “I am not unused to the grim realities of life and death, and since this murderer appears to be killing other young ladies, it is to my own self-interest, if nothing else, to see him brought to justice.”

She was beautiful, and she was clever, and Aramis had a weakness for both in a woman. “Very well.”

“Now, doctor, please describe the exact nature of your relationship with Miss Bessett.”

“We were lovers,” he said, and was glad to see no simpering or false shock on Miss Boden's face. “For two years, in fact.”

“When did you see her last? And when were you last intimate with her?”

“On Saturday evening. I wanted to see her on Sunday, but she was otherwise engaged. We agreed that I should call on her this morning, which I did. That’s when I learned the news.”

Sylvie listened to Dr Herblay while examining him closely. There was something in his accent and colouring, not to mention his unusual name, which suggested he was not originally from England. He was a handsome man who noticed women even when he was—by his own claim—sorrowing for his lost lover. Did that mean he was lying? Or was he simply irrepressible?

“When you last saw her, how did she seem? Did you quarrel at all?”

“Quarrel? With Adele? One might as well try to quarrel with the breeze, inspector. Adele was sunshine and light and I loved her.” He covered his face with his hand. Sylvie could not believe his grief was play acting, but her experience of this kind of man was admittedly deficient.

“Doctor,” she said as the conversation paused. “May I ask why you did not marry this young woman?”

He looked up, eyes red and damp. “I asked her many times. I wanted to. But like the breeze, she would not be trapped by anything or anyone.”

“Did she have other lovers?” Treville asked.

“Oh yes,” he said quite readily. “She was too lovely not to.”

Treville glanced at Sylvie, surprised how calmly she heard this declaration. “Do you know their names?”

“I know only one,” he said. “Viscount Richelieu.”

Treville hissed in a breath. Lord Richelieu was a powerful man. “Do you know by any chance if she was engaged to see him since Saturday?”

“Very likely. I didn’t ask, you understand. It was none of my business.”

“She was your lover,” d’Artagnan blurted out. “How could you not mind?” Sylvie rather wanted to know that too.

“Ah,” Aramis said, smiling widely. You’re young and you believe love is only between two people. Adele believed love should be freely given and received, no matter from what quarter. Jealousy was an anathema to her, and she would not bear it in a suitor.”

“That doesn’t mean one or other of her lovers was not jealous,” Treville said.

“No, it doesn’t. I was not, but you only have my word for it.”

“Doctor, was Adele in a play on Saturday?”

“No, no, she was resting.” At Sylvie’s confusion, he explained. “Not employed, I should say. No matter, since I and doubtless her other friends were happy to support her.”

Treville was disturbed by this man’s morals, though he had seen far worse. “Very well. Unless you have any questions, doctor, we need to get on with our investigation.”

“I do have questions, though. How did she die?”

“Someone garrotted her.” Treville spoke bluntly to see his reaction. The man went white, his hands at his throat.

“Madre de dios,” he said, making the sign of the cross. “My poor Adele. Do you have any suspects?”

“We are making enquiries, doctor,” Treville said. “There have been other women murdered in the same manner. We think it might be the same man.”

“A man? You know the killer is a male?”

“It seems most likely,” Sylvie said.

“But you are not certain.”

“No.”

“Another question—may I see her? To say farewell?”

Treville opened his mouth to refuse such an unorthodox request, but Sylvie frowned a little. “Miss Boden?”

“I only thought that perhaps the good doctor might be able to offer some observations, since your own surgeon has not yet had the time. But of course, to see the body of one’s lover would be most distressing.”

Treville turned to Herblay. “Doctor?”

“I only wanted to pray, inspector. But if I can be of assistance in catching the killer, I am, of course, at your service.”

This was almost certainly against regulations, but Treville could not think of which one it might contravene. “Very well. But an external examination only.”

“Certainly.”

The four of them went back into to the morgue where Adele Bessett’s body was still on the slab. “Perhaps, you would allow me, inspector,” Sylvie said. Treville nodded.

She drew back the sheet from the dead woman’s face. Dr Herblay wrapped his arms around himself, then reached for the woman before pulling his hand back. “Querida,” he whispered. He put his hands together and murmured what sounded like prayers. The rest of them waited, if with some impatience on the part of the inspector.

But the doctor did not abuse their patience for long. “Now, you wish my observations?”

“Whatever you can tell,” Sylvie said.

He peered closely at the bruising on her face, then gently manipulated her jaw. “This bruise occurred close to death, and the blow causing it was hard enough to fracture her mandible. So, the killer was strong, to do this with one blow. Also, his hands would be bruised, I think.”

The garrotte mark caused him distress, but he observed, “A wire, I suspect. Not a rope. I can’t see the abrasions—” Sylvie handed him her loupe, and with a surprised expression, he took it. “Thank you, madam. No, if you look, a rope would leave tiny tears on the skin. There are none.” Sylvie looked at the injury, and had to agree. “A wire. Or a silken cord. But I think, a wire rope.”

“What kind of wire?” Treville asked.

“Hmmm, one about an eighth of an inch thick. Braided. The aim is to strangle, not to decapitate.” Constable d’Artagnan swallowed, but didn’t say anything. “Are you familiar with the practice, inspector? The instrument is a wire cord about this long.” He held his hands about two feet apart. “With handles, to increase the grip.”

“How do you know so much about it, doctor?” Treville asked, suspicion clear in his tone.

“Well, I am Spanish. It is how we execute criminals in Spain.”

“How cruel,” Sylvie said.

“I agree, though I think capital punishment itself is obscene.”

Treville, the former soldier, shifted a little. “May we move on, doctor?”

“I noted injuries to her hands,” Sylvie said.

The doctor moved to examine them. “Hmmm.” He put his hands on the body’s jaw again, but Treville stopped him.

“What are you doing?”

“I was going to smell her mouth.”

“She was pulled from the river. What can you smell after all that?”

He smiled politely. “I don’t know until I use my nose. Please?”

“Very well.”

Doctor Herblay forced the woman’s mouth open without difficulty, and bent to sniff. He sniffed twice. “Miss Boden, would you like to give me your opinion?”

Sylvie did like, so she did as he had, sniffing carefully. “Sickly. Sweet? Is it chloroform?”

“Yes, I believe so. Inspector, I think someone used chloroform on her. It’s a distinctive smell, one with which I am familiar, of course.”

Treville nodded. “You suspected as much?”

“Yes, from her hands. Adele was quite strong for a woman. Being an actress requires a surprisingly high level of physical fitness, and she sang as well, so she was careful to preserve her upper body musculature. Yet these bruises are faint. She could scratch, but there was little power in her blows. I suspect because she was drugged.”

“Would you suspect she died not long after waking from her stupor?” Sylvie asked. “To still smell of the stuff?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Hard to say. Was she in rigor when she was found?”

Constable d’Artagnan picked up the file he had used before to check. “It wasn’t noted.”

“Then assume not. She had been in the river, which delays things.” He put his hand on his chin as he thought. “I left her around ten on Saturday night, and she was found on this morning at what time?”

“Quarter to eight in the morning,” the constable answered.

“Since she is fully out of rigor mortis, she died at least thirty-six hours ago, but the cold water will have delayed the passing of rigor somewhat, so I think we can easily allow a full forty-eight hours since the time of death. She was not in the water for very long. No more than a day, I think, and probably less. She will have died no later than midnight on Monday, more likely in the early hours of Monday morning, but possibly as early as Sunday afternoon.”

“Just like—” D’Artagnan stopped as Treville gave him a hard nudge. He didn’t want the lad to give too much away to someone who was a suspect. However, the doctor’s calculations fit what Treville knew from Miss Bessett’s maid. The maid had given her mistress breakfast at ten on Sunday morning, and removed the tray an hour later. After that, Miss Bessett dressed to go out, whereupon the maid was free to take the rest of Sunday off at her leisure. That was the last time anyone in the household saw Adele Bessett.

“Doctor, was Adele in the habit of wearing gold ornaments in her hair?” Sylvie asked.

“Why, of course. Many women do.”

“Made of real gold, or gilded or painted?”

“Real gold, at least, so far as I know. Unless it was for a play.”

“But you said she wasn’t working.”

“No, she was not.” Aramis looked at the young woman, wondering where this was going. But she gave no hint.

Instead she moved to Adele’s feet. “There is something I observed earlier on her genitalia. I can hold the sheet.”

“You examined...excuse me, but are you some kind of physician?” He had heard of female doctors in America, but not here.

“No, but I have some medical training. Please?”

Frowning, he moved the sheet and Adele’s skirts away. The two police officers kept back, perhaps out of respect for her modesty, though Miss Boden held the sheet so they could not see.

With a pang, he remembered parting Adele’s thighs in happier times, but he forced himself to concentrate on the unpleasant task at hand. At once he noted what had caught Mss Boden’s attention. He still had her loupe, so he bent and looked at the crescent shaped marks, and felt the ligaments. Lastly, he checked the vaginal channel.

He signalled to Miss Boden to lower the sheet again, then walked away, feeling the urge to vomit.

“Doctor?” Treville asked

“She was violated after death.”

Sylvie’s eyes opened wide in shock. “How can you tell?”

“The lack of bruising and antemortem injuries around her vagina indicates no resistance to his efforts. She was either unconscious or dead. But his rape was not immediately after death. At least, not only immediately after death. These fingernail marks, their position, were made post mortem by forcing her legs apart. He was not simply holding her legs.” He took a deep breath. “She was in rigor when he...violated her. At least once.”

The constable made a noise. “Use the bucket,” Treville said, as if this was not a new event.

“I’m all right,” the lad mumbled, though he was a peculiar colour. Aramis sympathised.

“This means he retained her body anywhere from three to eight hours after death. Longer if he didn’t care if she was cold. Was this noted in any of the other victims?” Aramis’s voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

“I don’t know,” Treville said, though whether he was telling the truth, Aramis couldn’t tell.

He went to the sink to wash his hands. “I...can’t look at any more.”

Miss Boden came over to lay a hand on his arm. “You did very well, doctor. Come outside again.”

She accompanied him while he gulped in great lungfuls of air. “Why are you here, Miss Boden?”

“Please, call me Sylvie,” she said. She had lost her smile. “The inspector used to work with my late father and my guardian to solve difficult crimes. Since my guardian is...unable to help, and I have studied his methods, I offered to assist Treville.”

“How can you look so calmly at a woman of your age, treated in that manner?”

She didn’t react as he expected to his anger. “I’m not calm, doctor. I’m revolted, and angry, and pity her suffering. But I worked with my father in his hospital for several years, and I learned, as you must have done, that showing my true feelings did not help the patient. There, I saw women beaten and raped, women dying from pregnancies forced on them or abortions they tried to obtain. I have seen the worst of humanity. Or so I thought until today.”

“She was so full of life, Sylvie. Full of laughter and joy. She carried herself like a queen and we were all her grateful subjects.” He stopped his sob with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, so am I.” He straightened up. “We should go inside and see if the inspector has any more questions for his principal suspect.”

“You are not—”

“You must be very new at this if you believe that.”

He walked back into the building. The inspector and his constable were waiting for him. “Doctor, you’ve been very helpful. Now we must take our enquiries elsewhere. Constable d’Artagnan will nip along to Miss Bessett’s house and see if there is anything to tell us where she was on Sunday afternoon and evening, and I’m going to see Porthos Duvallon.”

“Porthos?” Sylvie and Aramis both said together, then looked at each other.

“You know him?” Treville asked Aramis.

“Yes. I am his physician and a medical adviser on certain of his projects.” Aramis remembered that Porthos didn’t like his name associated with his charity, so he refrained from giving further details. “And I am also caring for his wife during her pregnancy. Perhaps I could come with you.”

“That might be helpful. Miss Boden?”

“I’m coming too, if I may.”

Treville nodded to his constable, who went off on his errand. “This way, please.”

*******************************

Sylvie returned home, fatigued and more disturbed than she had imagined she could be by what she had seen and learned today. The kindly Porthos—who was every bit the larger than life individual she’d imagined him to be from Athos’s notes—had invited Doctor Herblay to stay for the night, for the poor man was quite undone by the death of his lover. She and Treville had returned to Scotland Yard, where the inspector insisted she go back to Athos’s house immediately.

“I don’t wish to answer to him for any harm that might come to you from overdoing it,” he said.

“What about Viscount Richelieu?”

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Forgive me, Miss Boden, but that is not an interview I believe you should attend.”

She understood, and allowed him to put her back in his hansom and have her conveyed back to Belgravia.

Now in the house, she removed her hat and gloves, and went in search of tea. Constance was in the kitchen, making a pie. “Oh, you’re back! Sit down, darling. You look tired.”

“I am tired. It was quite awful.”

Constance fussed, feeding her tea and cake, and not letting her lift a finger. She joined Sylvie while she had her refreshment. “He’s been fretting all day,” Constance said. “Worried, though he refused to admit it.”

“He didn’t seem worried this morning.”

“Huh. That’s him pretending. Do you think you know who’s done this?”

“Not yet. But we have to stop him, Constance. He’s dangerous and deranged. Any of us could be his next victim. Actually, not me, since I’m not blonde and fair. And not you, I suppose,” she added, contemplating her friend’s beautiful auburn locks.

“But Fleur could be.”

“Yes,” Sylvie said thoughtfully. “I think he’s choosing victims on a Sunday. He’s waiting until all the women in service or who work, go for their weekly outings.”

Constance clutched at her throat. “I shall keep her inside until he’s caught!”

“You can’t do that, dear Constance. There are thousands of women who could fit his requirements. We have no idea where he’s picking them up either. All we know is roughly where he’s putting them into the Thames.”

“I’d gut him if I caught him. Shooting’s too good for him.”

Sylvie didn’t comment. There had been entirely too much gruesome death in her thoughts today. She might almost agree with Constance about Fleur, if it would not be so unfair to their young maid.

Her tea and cake consumed, she sighed. “I should go and speak to him. By the way, Porthos sends his regards, and wishes you to know that Samara is expecting their first child.”

“Oh! That’s wonderful. He’s lovely, Sylvie. Do you not think so?”

“I do. And when I learned of the ‘Belgard’ story, I loved him for what he’s doing now. Do you think Athos would be terribly angry if I invited them over to the house for dinner? And Treville? They all miss him so. I could ask that handsome young constable too,” she added with a sly smile.

Constance coloured. “A constable? I’m sure I didn’t notice any handsome constable.” She spoiled her denial with a giggle. “He was rather good-looking.”

“Very. Too young for me though.”

“Sylvie Boden, you’re not even four and twenty.”

“And he’s barely a day over nineteen. No, give me a grown man like Treville, or the lovely doctor I met today. Though he’s so very sad at the moment. The latest victim was his lover, and he is quite distraught.”

“That poor man,” Constance said, her mouth turning down. “I shall pray for them both. And the others.”

“As shall I. But now, Athos.”

She found her guardian in the library. She was about to tease him for lazing about while she worked, but when he looked up and smiled, his eyes were so tired, all she could do was kiss his head and murmur, “I am quite safe.”

He patted her arm. “That is good news.”

She sat across the table from him. He had the latest BMJ, she noted. “Porthos and Samara send their love, and so does the inspector. Samara expects her first child in July.”

He acknowledged that with a little bow of his head. “That is also good news.”

“So, do you wish to know what I have learned?”

He sat back. “Please, enlighten me.”

“The latest victim was an actress of twenty-two years, with two, possibly more lovers and no current work. She was found just before eight at the Battersea reach of the Thames. On examination, I found perimortem bruising to her face, and a ligature mark on her neck. There were some faint marks on her hands, and skin under her nails. Her gloves were not recovered. Gold coloured particles were retrieved from her hair. Damage to the genital region was post-mortem and there was semen in the vaginal channel.”

Athos winced. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yes. One of her lovers is a doctor, and Treville invited him to examine Miss Bessett’s body—”

Athos sat up. “He did what? Surely the man had to be a suspect.”

“Yes, but Treville thought he could look all the same, since the police surgeon was engaged elsewhere.” She thought mentioning it had been her idea would not be wise. “The doctor, who is Spanish and also a friend of Porthos—”

“His name?”

“Aramis Herblay, from Madrid. He has lived in London these past twelve years, and trained as a doctor here.” She folded her hands.

“Carry on. I don’t know what’s got into Treville,” he added in a mutter.

“He demonstrated that the ligature mark was caused by a garrotte, as was previously suspected, and the cord was made of wire, not rope. I examined the injury and found no rope tears, just as he had not.” Athos nodded. “He agreed the genital injuries were post-mortem, but he also demonstrated that the corpse had been violated while it had been in rigor.”

“Dear God,” Athos said. “How vile.”

“Very. He also demonstrated the victim’s jaw had been broken by a blow, and with such force as required a strong assailant, who would now have a bruised hand. And scratch marks, very likely on his face, of course. He estimated time of death before the body was found, which was not in rigor when found, was no later than after noon on Sunday, but no earlier than late Monday night. He thought after midnight sometime on Monday morning was most likely.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. All the women were apparently out enjoying their leisure on a Sunday when they were abducted. All were fair skinned and blonde, all of good character. All quite pretty. And two were said to be regal in their bearing. I haven’t spoken to the friends or family of the third.”

“Abducted from where?”

“We don’t know. One lived in Stoke Newington, another in Chelsea, the third in Soho. But no one knows where they had been before they were taken.”

“So, all out on their own, would you say?”

“That would be my surmise. Also, the third victim had been chloroformed. The doctor and I both smelled it in her mouth.”

“So, she hadn’t been long in the river.”

“No.” She held out her hand to him. “Athos, Treville needs you. The women of London need you.”

He took her hand and patted it. “Safer for the women of London that I keep out of it. What of these gold particles?”

Frowning at his refusal, she removed the envelope from her pocket and shook them out onto her palm. “Not real gold,” he said. “Do you know what it is?”

“No, but I shall test one or two fragments. Unfortunately, because they were not found or not looked for on the other victims, I don’t know if it’s from an ornament Miss Bessett wore, or from the killer.”

“And this doctor? Does he have an alibi?”

“He was on locum duty at St Thomas’s from six on Sunday night, until eight the following morning, and at his lodgings with his landlord in residence the rest of the day.”

“But he’s the only source of a time of death at the moment.”

“Yes. Treville will verify what he said with the police surgeon. However, I believe he is innocent. His reactions appeared genuine.” He raised his hand so she continued. “I am aware how often a murderer can play act convincingly. They can’t change skin colour, however, and he went quite pale when he realised she had been violated after death.”

He nodded. “Excellent work, my dear. You see? I’m quite superfluous.”

She threw her hands up. “But I have no idea what I’m doing, Athos! Can’t you at least offer some suggestions? Some interpretation of what we have found?”

“None beyond what you have made, Sylvie. The other lovers of Miss Bessett will be interviewed? And Treville will doubtless do what he can to find out exactly from where these young women were abducted?”

“Yes?”

“Then I have nothing to add.” He smiled painfully. “You remind me of your father.”

“But I’m not a doctor.”

“You don’t need to be. If you cultivate this Spanish gentleman, he can become your assistant, if you wish it. No, you don’t need me. Did, er, Porthos have anything to offer?”

“Yes, but I can’t repeat it. Father forbade me from using that kind of language.”

Athos coughed. “Oh. Did you receive your answer regarding Belgard?”

“I did,” she said. “It’s not fair for him to give up his title because of prejudice.”

“No, it ‘s not, but Porthos is utterly uninterested in living as a lord or entering Westminster. Belgard’s grandchild will carry the title, Belgard and his wretched son-in-law paid the price for their crimes, and Porthos carries on doing good work for the people he cares about. He lives well, he and Samara are splendidly happy together, and he doesn’t have to endure the abuse from the papers that he would if he took up his rightful inheritance. Porthos is the wisest man I know, and the happiest.”

“Then you would have no objection to my inviting the Duvallons and Inspector Treville to supper one evening.”

He rose from his seat and walked away. “Sylvie, no. I can’t.”

“But, Athos, if I am to marry and manage a household, I need to know how to host guests. And they all miss you and worry about you.”

Athos looked at her helplessly. She was quite right, of course. But the burden of his guilt was so great....

Anne’s ghost stood in front of him, wringing her hands. She seemed to be pleading for something. Vindication, no doubt. He had done his best to clear her name, much good that it had done, and the coroner had agreed to amend his verdict. But Anne had still been hanged, and that could never be put right. And the two men Sylvie wished to invite would, by their presence, slice across his soul like broken glass.

“You know how I hate to deny you anything, my darling girl, and if you insist, I will give in, of course. But it would pain me greatly.”

Solemn-faced, she rose and came to him, taking his hand. “I would never hurt you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I am. Give me...a little time to become used to the idea, at least. Will you do that?”

“Of course. They do love you, you know. They only want to see you are well.”

“I am not well, not in my soul, so seeing me would only pain them too. Now, why don’t you test your glitter and tell me what you find?”

“Yes, Athos.” She kissed his cheek. “I wish you would forgive yourself.”

“I cannot, because she cannot.”

“You don’t know she wouldn’t.”

Oh, yes, I do. “Off you go,” he said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Chapter Text

Calling on a senior member of the government, and a lord to boot, held no terrors for a man who had faced the Russian army without flinching, but Treville was aware how delicately the interview with Viscount Richelieu needed to be handled. Thus he left the enthusiastic but more than occasionally too blunt Constable d’Artagnan at Scotland Yard, before walking down Whitehall to the Palace of Westminster to meet his lordship.

He’d never met the man in person, but knew people who had, and had seen engravings of his stern features in the newspapers. The real man was even colder and more condescending than Treville had expected.

“Ah, Inspector Treville,” Richelieu said, waving him to a chair on the other side of his desk. “You wished to speak to me on a private matter.”

“Yes, my lord. Regarding your friend, Adele Bessett.”

“Adele? I haven’t seen her in a sennight. What has she to do with you?”

“I regret to tell you that she’s dead, my lord. Murdered.”

Richelieu’s shock seemed genuine to Treville. “Murdered? How? When?”

“We believe at some point on Sunday. She was abducted, garrotted, violated and thrown into the river. We pulled her from the Thames on yesterday morning. Sadly, she is the third woman to have been murdered in this very manner in the last two months.”

“My God. That is truly most foul.” The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead with it, and poured himself some water from a carafe on his desk. “So, what can I do for you concerning this?”

“We are trying to tracing her movements from Sunday morning. You had not seen het since before then, you say?”

“No, not since Wednesday last. We were not frequently together, you understand. She was amusing company for dinner, the occasional concert, but I saw her perhaps every two or three weeks.”

“Ah. So, you would have no idea who she might have met or where she might have gone on a Sunday when she was at liberty?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, my man. None at all. Her family have been told?”

“Yes. We released the body this morning, after the autopsy. Did you know the names of her other intimate friends?”

“Good God, no. I had no interest in what she did when she wasn’t with me. I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance, inspector. But if I recall anything that might be of use, I’ll have a message sent to Scotland Yard.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

An utter waste of time, Treville fumed as he left. At least d’Artagnan had had good hunting at Adele Bessett’s house, retrieving a diary and two boxes full of calling cards from dozens of people. Now all Treville needed was the manpower and money to pursue all these connections. Why not wish for a fully funded and staffed criminal investigation department while he was at it?

He hailed a hackney carriage, having decided to call upon Sylvie Boden to find out what she had discovered about the gold coloured fragments from Bessett’s hair, and also to learn if she had any response from Athos. It was depressing to think of a mind like Athos’s turning to compost, when there was so much he could do with it. At least he seemed to be unwilling to allow Miss Boden’s mind to be wasted in the same way.

Treville would need to exploit Doctor Herblay, who was quick and clever in the same way Hubert Boden had been, and with Porthos’s help, it was possible they could muddle along nearly as well as they had before Athos’s retirement.

‘Retirement’. What rot. The man was barely five and thirty. He had survived eight years in the Army and fighting the Indian Revolt before being stabbed in the hip by a bayonet which had permanently lamed him, though he didn’t leave the army for another five years. After the death of his father, and Athos’s accession to the titles and its responsibilities in 1862, he had resigned his commission with a determination to improve the society he rejoined. Treville, having joined the Metropolitan police once he had retired from the military after twenty-seven years as an officer, had eagerly snapped him up to supplement the Yard’s threadbare Detective Branch, and together they had caught murderers, blackmailers, kidnappers, and even burglars.

All until Athos’s fiancée had apparently killed Athos’s brother, and been tried for the murder. Only after the unfortunate woman had been sent to her Maker, had Athos discovered his brother’s secret diary which verified the woman’s claims of the brother’s sexual obsession with her, and proved her innocence. But it was, of course, too late.

In vain had Treville and Porthos told Athos that he had done nothing to force a conviction. He had merely handed over to the police the papers in his brother’s room detailing Anne de Breuil’s undisclosed background as a thief and prostitute. The science was verified by other experts, and Athos had not given any evidence other than to describe the discovery of his brother and his fiancée, one dead, the other bloodied.

Athos would not have it. The woman died because he had not searched thoroughly enough, had not exercised the same care he would have done with a stranger, because of his grief and rage. And so Lord Delafere had withdrawn his considerable skills from Treville, leaving an enormous hole in his front line against the criminal class.

The carriage was approaching the marquess’s mansion, and Treville had to retrieve his temper and stop thinking about this. The important thing was finding this killer. Athos’s old griefs didn’t matter. Not now.

He knocked at the front door of the house, and the young footman he’d met the previous day, opened it. “Good morning. Is Miss Boden at home?”

“She is, inspector. She left instructions you were to be admitted whenever you called.”

Treville went inside, and was bid to wait in the pretty drawing room where he’d spoken to Sylvie the day before. It was little changed since four years ago, nor even since eight years when he had first entered this house. Neither Athos nor his ward had much interest in the feminine arts, it appeared.

He looked up as he heard the door to the room open, but instead of Miss Boden, the person was none other than Lord Delafere himself.

“John,” Athos said, clearly startled. “I wasn’t...I just came in to find the book I....”

“How are you, Athos?” Treville came to him and extended his hand.

Athos shook it but his expression was as wary as a cat’s before a large dog. “I persist, as you see. You, er, are here to see Sylvie?”

“Yes. Just to learn what she found regarding those gold fragments. Has she told you what we know?”

“Yes. She was most thorough. But you let a suspect examine the victim’s body? My God, man. What were you thinking?”

“I only permitted an external examination,” Treville said. Miss Boden hadn’t explained, then. “He was quite helpful. He’s not a suspect now.”

“But, still.”

“Are you taking an interest then? That’s welcome news.”

“No, I—”

“Good morning, inspector,” Miss Boden said, coming towards them, smiling brightly. “I’ve asked for tea. Athos, you’ll stay and take a cup with us, won’t you?”

Treville suppressed a smile as his old friend was caught in the pincers of his unfailing good manners and his fondness for his ward. “Yes,” he said after some hesitation. “I suppose I will.”

The young maid brought a tray in not long after they had sat down, and disappeared silently to fetch a third setting. “Now, Miss Boden—”

“Please, inspector. Please call me Sylvie, at least here. I’m of no rank, regardless of who my guardian is.”

“Miss Boden, you are a lady,” Treville said. “I offer you the respect due your sex, not his title.”

“There you are, Sylvie,” Athos said with a small smile. “But, John, we are all friends here.”

“I thought we were,” Treville could not forbear from muttering. “But, yes, Sylvie, in your home, with your permission. What did you discover?”

“The flakes are painted wood. Varnish over tin powder, heated until the varnish yellows. It is a Russian trick, though I have no reason to assume it’s exclusive to that country. It gives the glow and lustre of gold, but much more cheaply. It is not, I believe, from a personal ornament Miss Bessett would have worn, since Doctor Herblay confirmed that she preferred real gold, not from a costume, given she was not in a play at the time she was abducted. Whether it was from something the murderer put on her head, I can’t tell.”

“Not picked up from the river?”

“The fragments were caught in her hair in a roughly circular pattern, so I don’t think the river cast them there.”

The maid reappeared with the third cup, and upon setting it down, said, “Excuse me, my lord, but Constance would like to know if the inspector will be staying for lunch?”

“Not today, lass,” Treville said. “But thank you.” She bobbed a curtsey and left.

“Perhaps another day?” Sylvie said. “We could have that young constable here as well. He seemed keen to understand the subject.”

“And what does his lordship say to that?” Treville turned to his friend.

Athos scowled. “His lordship says that his ward—ward no longer, in truth—may have anyone to visit and dine at any time of mutual convenience.” He gave Sylvie a slight shake of his head, but no greater reprimand than that.

“Did you call on Lord Richelieu?” Sylvie asked.

Athos sat up in surprise. “Richelieu? What does that devil have to do with this case?”

Treville was surprised at the violence of his reaction. “He was one of Adele Bessett’s lovers. Why, do you know him?”

“Unfortunately. Friend of my father’s. When I say friend, I mean ‘someone whose company he tolerated for the sake of good manners’. He’s rapacious, manipulative, conniving and cruel. Those are his more attractive qualities.”

Sylvie hid a giggle behind her hand, but Treville didn’t find it funny. “Would you suspect him of Miss Bessett’s murder, then?”

“John, in all honesty, there is nothing of which I would consider him incapable on general principles, but if he wanted a troublesome lover dead, she would simply disappear. This kind of crime is too...gaudy.”

Treville nodded. “I have nothing to indicate he was involved. Constable d’Artagnan retrieved diaries and cartes de visite from Miss Bessett’s house, so now I will have to order interviews with everyone known to have spent time with her recently.”

“Only the wealthier men,” Sylvie said. Her companions looked at her. “The villain must have a carriage to move his victims, alive and dead, about. Also, Miss Bessett would hardly have gone off with a shabby looking man, and the other victims would have been reassured by a gentleman more than a labourer.”

“And the weapon, the chloroform, speaks to someone of at least some small education and experience,” Treville said.

“Garrottes are not unknown among the poorer classes, even now,” Athos said.

“Yes, but this one was made from braided wire cord. Possibly even of the type used for executions by the Spanish,” Treville said. “It’s not indisputable, and of course chloroform is easily obtained, but I’ve not seen the two in common murders.”

Athos acknowledged his words with a small bow of his head. “Your instincts are always sound.”

“Do you have any insights you would like to share? They would be welcome.”

“I regret that I do not,” Athos said, rising. “And I believe I have things to attend to, so I must take my leave of you.” He bowed in a stiff and formal fashion. “Good day.”

Treville sighed as his friend left the room. “Thank you for your research, Sylvie.”

“I’m sorry he isn’t ready to help. What next?”

“Interviews. If you...you could assist in winnowing the names, if you would like to.”

“I certainly would. At the Yard? I’ll just change, then we can take the carriage.”

*******************************

In the library, Athos sat with his hands fisted into his eyes. He would not. He could not. He had made a vow on Anne’s memory not to interfere ever again.

To prove his point, when he opened his eyes, her ghost glided past him, though this time she didn’t stand accusingly in front of him. Instead, she came to rest by the window, dimmed a little by the diffuse sunlight, as if she was watching the street outside.

“What can I do for you now, Anne? Do you want me dead too?”

The ghost turned. She shook her head at him, her eyes sorrowful.

“So you prefer me to live and suffer.”

Again, she shook her head. She pointed at the window.

“I don’t know what you want.” She continued to point and look sad. “I can’t help you. Please, Anne. Go to your eternal rest.”

She didn’t move, so he left the library in search of brandy. It was going to be one of his bad days.

*******************************

Unaware of the turmoil in her beloved guardian’s mind, Sylvie applied herself to the task set by Treville. Alongside d’Artagnan in Treville’s office at Great Scotland Yard, they sorted the names into three lists—unlikely on account of social class or gender, possible on the same basis, and unknown. Excepting the two men already known to them, the possible list of twenty-two names went to Treville for further winnowing, while she and d’Artagnan spent the rest of the morning looking up the rest of the individuals. That exercise earned them only another three names.

“Well done,” Treville said. “Constable, you, and Sergeant Broughton will call on these men, exercising as much tact as you possess. We want to know when they last saw Miss Bessett, what they knew of her habits, and any other lovers or suitors they can name. If the gentleman becomes hostile, apologise and withdraw immediately, then return here to report.”

“Yes, sir. Good day, Miss Sylvie.”

D’Artagnan left, and Treville snapped at the young man hovering at the open door. “What is it, Clairmont?”

“A note from Mr Duvallon, sir.” He handed it over.

Treville broke the seal and read. “That will be all, Clairmont.” When they were alone, Treville closed the door. “I don’t want details from our investigations being too widely discussed,” he said to Sylvie. “At the moment, the newspapers haven’t realised that we might be dealing with connected murders. I want to keep it that way.”

She nodded. “Of course. What’s in the note?”

“Porthos advises he has had reports of a well-dressed man visiting prostitutes in Hampstead and Sloane Square, making the girls wear a silk dress and tiara that he brings with him, before he had his way with them. He was rather rough with them too.”

“A tiara? John, that’s—”

“Yes, I know. He says to call on him at our convenience for more information if we want it. I’m going there now. Would you like to come?”

She grinned. “Did you have to ask?”

The journey to Stoke Newington took very little time, and Sylvie and Treville were greeted warmly once again by Porthos and his beautiful wife, Samara, today resplendent in yellow.

“I hope you’ve come for lunch as well this time,” Porthos said, making it clear in his tone and posture that a second refusal would cause enormous offence.

“I certainly have,” Sylvie said. “But the inspector might be too—”

Treville held up a hand, smiling broadly—at least, broadly for him. “Porthos’s table is famous for its liberality. I would never refuse twice.”

On her previous visit, Sylvie had noted that Porthos’s household comprised many more servants than Athos’s, but like Athos’s, the servants were all young and in several cases, of the same dark hue as their employers and herself. She guessed that Athos and Porthos both employed those who might otherwise sink into poverty and crime, and approved. She also approved of the kindly way their hosts treated their employees. Though the same regimen applied at Athos’s house, she was well aware this was not de rigeur for many well-to-do homes.

Over a generous cold collation, with champagne and beer both served, Porthos told them more of what he’d been told by his informants. “This bloke turns up every couple of weeks or so. He’s fair-haired, well-spoken, but...what’s that word, love?”

“Imperious,” Samara said.

“That’s the word. Treats them like dirt. Shit beneath his heel, one girl said.”

“Language, my darling,” Samara murmured, touching her husband’s hand while looking at him with affection.

“Sorry, Sylvie, love. It’s what she said though. Anyway, he only wants blondes, he said. Young girls, blonde, ones that are a bit posh looking, or who can put it on. He always brings a blue silk dress and makes them put it on, and a tiara.”

“A real tiara?” Sylvie asked. When Porthos frowned. “I mean, one made of gold or silver and real gems.”

“No, they said it was like something in a play. Painted. Sort of a crown more than a tiara. Went all the way around.” He ran his finger in a circle over the top of his head. “Made of wood. And he weren’t real kind how he put it on them. He jammed it on, then held it down along with their hair while he...you know. Fornicated,” he added in a whisper. “Could he be your bloke?”

Sylvie turned to Treville. “Why would he visit prostitutes and kill women?”

“Perhaps he seeks something from the working girls,” Samara said, “that he can’t find with them. He becomes frustrated and turns to women of better status, but since they won’t be with him freely, he does what he’s done to these three.”

“He’s obviously not married, then,” Sylvie said, but the men were shaking their heads before she’d finished speaking. “No?”

“Sadly, a man may marry for reasons other than desire,” Treville said, “and will seek sexual satisfaction elsewhere. A wife is no barrier to someone of that ilk.”

“Some of us are lucky to love whom we desire, and like whom we love,” Samara said, taking her husband’s hand.

“Definitely,” Porthos agreed, smiling down at her. “Did you do any good with that viscount, Treville?”

“None at all. We’re following other leads.”

“I reckon it’s someone none of them knew,” Porthos said. “I mean, someone who was friendly with all those women from all those different backgrounds?”

“And a man with a carriage,” Sylvie said. “Adele would only leave with someone who appeared wealthy, I suspect. A woman that beautiful could have her pick of men.”

Porthos nodded. “Yeah, I was thinking that meself. He’s got to be agreeable enough for them girls to trust him, go with him, then he’s got to get them home or wherever he’s doing the business, then cart their bodies to the river. Aramis said his lady was clever, canny. She won’t be going along with someone shady.”

“If only we knew where they had all been before they were taken,” Treville said. “There are so many choices.”

“What was the weather like when they disappeared?” Sylvie asked. “If it was fair and mild, it was probably a garden. Somewhere like Kew, or Hyde Park, or Regent’s Park. If foul, the National Gallery?”

“Or the Embankment, or the British Museum, or a dozen other places,” Treville said gloomily.

“Somewhere gentlemen and the working classes could mingle without suspicion,” Samara said.

“Not the Zoological Society then. Not on Sunday. But that still leaves half of London, pet,” Porthos said. There was a moment or two of despondency around the table. “More beer, Treville?”

“Not for me. I need to keep a clear head. You’ve been most kind and gracious, as always,” he said, tipping his head at Samara who smiled beatifically.

Sylvie thought of what a lovely portrait she would make, and had an inspiration. “Inspector, I draw perfectly adequately. I could—”

“No,” Porthos snapped, glaring at Treville.

“Quite. Sylvie, my dear, Athos would have my...ankles if I allowed you to go to brothels to draw a murder suspect.” Porthos raised his eyebrows, and mouthed ‘Ankles?’ at him. Treville shook his head with a frown.

“But, sir—”

He held up his hand. “D’Artagnan is a fair hand at this kind of thing, and could do with the education.” Porthos’s face split with a grin. “Porthos, if you have any more information, please do send it along. Anything at all.”

“I will. But you and Sylvie must promise to come to lunch again.”

“I will, gladly,” she said. “Perhaps you could invite Dr Herblay too?”

“Aramis? Of course. Samara likes him. She trusts him, not like them other doctors.”

“He washes his hands before he examines me,” Samara said. “And he has a lovely manner. So reassuring.”

“We ain’t taking her to no hospital when her time comes. Doctors and their bloody forceps, excuse my language.”

“Forgiven,” Sylvie said. She wouldn’t want to be the doctor who killed Porthos’s child or wife through negligence.

“Then we shall take our leave. Madam,” Treville said, kissing Samara’s hand. “Please don’t get up.”

“Thank you, John.” She put her hand on her rounded stomach, stroking it a little. “My precious burden becomes heavier every day. Dear girl.” She held out her arms to embrace Sylvie. “Please give my love again to Athos?”

“Each and every time, I promise.”

*******************************

Another tiring day, but a useful one, Sylvie considered. Constance came out to meet her as Sylvie was removing her hat and gloves, and took them from her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Sylvie asked.

“Athos.” Constance bit her lip. “He’s...drinking.”

“In the daytime?” Sylvie knew her guardian assuaged his misery a little too often in drink, but that was his private business, since he never let it affect his dealings with others. She’d never known him to be affected in front of anyone else. “This is my fault. I made him sit with John Treville.”

“Could you speak to him, dear? I tried twice, but he sent me away. He’s so unhappy,” Constance said forlornly.

“I will. Where is he?”

“The study.”

Sylvie went there directly, knocking before entering. Athos was in an armchair, a half-empty bottle of brandy on the table next to him, with an empty glass. He looked up as she came in. “My darling girl, you’re home safe. Come sit by me.”

He was not discernibly affected by drink, but his smile was sorrowful. She sat on the chair next to him and he reached for her hand. He patted it. “Did you have a fruitful day, my dear?”

“Yes. Are you well, Athos?”

“Never well, but alive, Sylvie.” He continued to look at her with his sad smile, holding her hand.

“I should apologise,” she said. “It was unkind of me to make you sit and talk to Treville.”

He blinked slowly. “Treville? Oh, that. No, it wasn’t unkind. It was good manners.”

“But you had said you weren’t ready.”

He patted her hand. “Never mind that, darling. I am a man grown. I can leave a room if I need to.”

“Then why...? Constance is worried about you.”

“Constance is always worried about me. It’s why I love her. Sylvie?”

When he didn’t continue, she said, “Yes, Athos?”

“You said this morning you were of no rank. That’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not. I am the daughter of an ordinary, good man. There is no shame in that.”

“You don’t understand.” He pulled himself up, keeping the grip on her hand. “I broke a promise to your father. I’m sorry.”

“What promise? You took me in, you have been the soul of kindness, no woman could want a more generous protector. I am perfectly happy with how you have treated me.”

He shook his head. “But I could have done more. I promised Hubert I would consider adopting you. But I lied. I gave it no consideration at all.”

“Adopt me? But you aren’t old enough—”

“Nonsense, my dear. How does it look, a beautiful young woman unwed and unspoken for, in the house of a middle-aged bachelor? I should have done it, and you would now have the rank that befits you.”

“But I—”

He carried on as if he hadn’t heard her speak. “I couldn’t do it. Nothing in my breast holds the smallest fatherly feelings towards you. I couldn’t pretend that I did.”

She withdrew her hand, feeling suddenly chilled. “You don’t feel fatherly?”

“No. I’ve tried to. God knows I’ve tried. But no. My feelings are very much not fatherly.”

“I see. Then it is as well that you did not adopt me.”

“But it would have been the correct thing to do!”

“Not if you did not— I had a father. A good, honest, loving man I was proud to call a parent. I don’t want to be adopted by anyone else. I don’t feel like a daughter toward you either.”

He was not offended. “That’s only natural. But it grieves me that I cannot give you a rank. It would please me so much to do so.”

Hurt and puzzled, Sylvie looked at the man she was so very fond of, and wondered why he had chosen to reveal this. Was it simply the brandy loosening his tongue.? “Do not trouble yourself, my lord. Doubtless I will one day meet a gentleman of suitably low degree who will take me away and establish me at my proper level in society.”

She went to stand, but he caught at her hand and made her stay. “My dear, dear girl. Don’t be angry, I beg you. You are, always, my delight. I would never force you to leave. I would never want you to.”

“But....” The drink, she decided. He was rambling because of the drink. She took a deep breath. “Porthos has had it reported to him that a well-dressed man is going to prostitutes who are young and fair-haired, and dressing them in a silk dress and a painted wooden crown.”

Athos’s slack, sadly smiling face suddenly became alert. He sat up. “You have a description?”

“Fair-haired, well spoken. A gentleman. Treville’s constable is going with Dr Herblay to obtain a sketch from the women.”

“Excellent. A Spanish weapon, a Russian crown. What does this signify?” he murmured as if to himself.

“We don’t know the crown is Russian.”

He looked at her. “No, no, of course not. Very likely there’s no connection. But Treville’s right. This is someone with education, a position, but at the same time, something about this speaks of a man who is not part of the society to which he belongs. An outcast, perhaps. Why would he sate such apparently simple sexual needs in such an unacceptable manner?”

She encouraged his speculation. “Why would he, do you think?”

Her tone had been too eager. His expression froze and he let her hand go. “Forgive me. This is none of my business, of course.”

“But your insight would be so helpful.”

He shook his head and rose unsteadily. “You’re doing perfectly well without me. Forgive me, but I’m going to retire early. Please tell Constance I will not want supper.”

“You should eat. At least have some tea.”

“Perhaps later.” He bent and kissed her hair. “Your father would be so very proud of you, Sylvie. Just as I am.”

He left her sitting in the study utterly confused by the contradictions between his manner and his words. Some of his words. But much of what he’d said had been so affectionate.

After sitting and thinking, she resolved not to mention it to him or anyone else. Such an uncharacteristic outburst should not be held against him, since he was so clearly out of sorts. She had never had anything to complain of in the smallest manner, whether his kindness came from fatherly feelings or not, so it would be childish to protest his honesty to her.

Sighing, she rose, and went in search of Constance. Tea and friendship would do her much good right now.

Chapter Text

Aramis wasn’t quite sure whether Inspector Treville had asked if he could accompany Constable d’Artagnan to the three brothels frequented by Adele’s possibly murderer out of an idea that Aramis’s scientific training might be useful, or whether it was simply to keep the young constable from too great an embarrassment. In either event, d’Artagnan proved to be an amiable, and unintentionally amusing, addition to the task.

The madams were expecting them, as Porthos had sent notes to all, explaining that Aramis and d’Artagnan were about the business of solving the murder of three young women. On the one hand, the madams granted the two of them all due hospitality and cooperation, but on the other hand, could not resist twitting their handsome male visitors out of mischief. Discovering that d’Artagnan blushed quite prettily, and was inexperienced in the ways of female companionship, the women of the bawdy houses were drawn to him like bees to honey, and the poor lad was soon attempting to draw a face of the suspect, while trying not to stare at exposed legs and bosoms and more besides.

It was left to Aramis to speak to the madams themselves. Fortunately, he was practiced in the art of flirting with women, and being free of the notorious English disapproval of sexual matters, was entirely without shame or embarrassment as he did so. He drank tea, complimented the ladies on their fine dresses, and admired their tightly corseted embonpoints, while questioning them about what they remembered of the man with the crown fixation.

“He was vulgar,” one lady said, fanning himself. “Like my girls were cattle.”

“He could barely bring himself to speak to me,” said another. “Had a sneer on his face you could see from Charing Cross.”

“My girl cried after he left,” said the third. “Said she hadn’t been treated that nastily since she started here. And we see all sorts, mind.”

None of the ladies wanted him back, though they were worried that he might cause trouble with the police since he was obviously someone important. “Had a lovely chaise,” one said. “Very posh.”

“No crests or insignias?”

“Oh lawd,” she said, “don’t ask me. I didn’t see nothing on the carriage, but he was wearing a gold ring with an engraving. Here, Bella.” She called to the maid who’d brought the tea. “You remember that nob what was all in black and so mean to Thora? What did he have on that big ring of his? Dragons? There were three of them, whatever they were.”

“I thought they was snakes, mum. But then I don’t know about dragons.”

“Snakes’d be right,” the madam said darkly. “Should we turn him away if he comes again, do you think?”

Aramis was torn. On the one hand, if he was the murderer, who knew what he might do to the working women? On the other hand, the worst he had yet done was insult them. “I’m sure you are best placed to judge, madam, but if he does return, the more information you can gather—particularly a name—the easier it will be for the police to find him and question him.”

“I’m sure we don’t want to do the police any favours, but in this case, we’ll make an exception. More tea, doctor?”

When Aramis finished his interview and retrieved Constable d’Artagnan from the third brothel, he wondered if he should revise the medical literature which assured him that no one had yet ever died from blushing.

“Did you enjoy yourself, constable?” he asked as they stepped into the hansom to ride back to Scotland Yard.

“Those women are devils,” the lad muttered, still scarlet.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He received a baleful look. “What about the sketch?”

Despite the distractions, d’Artagnan had made a good fist of the task, and produced a recognisable face. One which was familiar to Aramis, though he could not think where from or who it was.

When he said this to Treville back at the Yard, Treville leapt on it. “A friend of Adele’s? One of the men we have been interviewing?”

“I can’t say that, inspector. I’ll give it some thought. Sometimes things come to me when I’m thinking of something else.”

“Yes, I’ve had that. Good work, d’Artagnan. Now we’ll print it up and distribute it to our stations, see if any of them can identify him.”

“Don’t forget Porthos and Miss Boden,” Aramis said.

“No, indeed, doctor. Perhaps you and the constable might like to take copies when they’re ready to those good people, and you can brief them on what you’ve told me. I don’t suppose anyone gave you a better description of that ring?”

“No, unfortunately. But a three-headed snake or dragon should not be hard to identify. Something else to ask Porthos about.”

“And Miss Boden. Or rather, her guardian, Lord Delafere. Yes, take the constable.”

D’Artagnan’s effect on Athos’s housekeeper had not gone unnoticed by Treville, and Sylvie seemed to be taken by him. If sending him along to Athos’s house won favours with his female residents, that might cause Athos to unbend further. Damn it, Athos had been so close to involving himself yesterday. He was sorely needed.

If only Athos would give up this useless grieving over a mistake that could not be helped. Not any more, at least.

*******************************

Athos shaved with care, though his hands were shaking and he had a ferocious headache. Entirely his own fault, of course. He had a recollection of a most unseemly conversation with Sylvie, for which he would apologise if he did not fear it would spark another conversation he could never allow himself to have. No, if she raised it, he would blame it on the drink, and beg her to forget the entire thing.

But amends of some kind needed to be made, so he would force himself to be sociable today. If she was not otherwise engaged, she might enjoy a walk, perhaps at Kew. It had been weeks since they had last done that.

He dressed and went downstairs. He would eat breakfast in the kitchen, talk to Constance, to whom he also needed to make amends. The poor woman had been a faithful servant and loyal friend for six years, and was one of the few people who had seen him at his very worst without judging or abandoning him.

As he approached the kitchen, he heard Constance’s voice and a male stranger’s. Curious, he entered and found his housekeeper chatting to a blushing constable. Treville’s man. “Good morning,” he said. “Is there tea, Constance?”

She hastily climbed to her feet. “Yes, of course. My lord, this is Constable d’Artagnan. He’s come with Doctor Herblay to speak to Sylvie. I was just—”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Athos said. “I’ll fetch my own tea. Or did you take some to Sylvie?”

“Yes, Fleur took in a tray.”

“Then I’ll go begging. A pleasure to meet you, constable,” he said. The lad had also stood, holding his hat in front of him like a shield.

“Yes, my lord. I meant no—”

“No offence at all taken. Enjoy your chat.”

He picked up a saucer and up, and walked out quickly so that the two of them could resume whatever it was they were talking about to make the young constable turn that particular shade of red.

In the drawing room, Sylvie sat at the table across from a very handsome dark-haired man. The man stood and bowed as soon as Athos entered. “Good morning, my lord.”

Sylvie rose unhurriedly. “Good morning, Athos.” There was concern behind her smile. “Are you well?”

“Quite well, dear. Only in search of tea. This is Dr Herblay, I understand?”

“Yes. Lord Delafere, please allow me to present Dr Aramis Herblay, Porthos’s physician, who is assisting Inspector Treville in this enquiry.”

Athos shook the man’s hand. “Don’t let me interrupt. I only want to steal some tea.”

“Let me,” Sylvie said, taking the cup and saucer. “Are you staying? Aramis has news.”

“Then I would like to,” Athos said, winning a quick smile from her. He took a seat across from the doctor. “What have I missed?”

“Show him, Aramis, please?”

The doctor pushed a piece of paper over to him, printed with a man’s face. “This is the sketch from the descriptions garnered from the working girls who entertained the man with the crown and dress.”

Athos examined it carefully. “He seems familiar.”

“I feel the same, but I cannot place him at all.”

“How do you know Porthos?”

The man wasn’t taken aback at all. He smiled widely. “He was one of my first patients after I qualified. I had to stitch his shoulder after a nasty fracas. A serious wound—he could have lost his arm. I impressed him so much he insisted on my attending him and, later, his wife, and I have advised him on a number of matters since.”

“I remember that fight,” Athos said. “Seems we both have the habit of making pets of our doctors. Sylvie’s dear father was my own physician. I have this old leg injury, you see. Made me quite lame. He taught me exercises to strengthen it, and it’s been better ever since.”

“He sounds a most wise and careful doctor.”

“A great loss to us both,” he said, nodding to Sylvie as she put the tea in front of him. “And what else did you learn of this man?”

“I was just telling Sylvie. We know a great deal now. What he looks like, how he acts. He is haughty and cruel, and insults the girls in Spanish as well as English.”

“Spanish. Hmmm. That ties him to the murder weapon.”

“Yes, although you could equally say it ties the weapon to me.”

“Did you kill Adele Bessett, doctor?”

Sylvie inhaled sharply, but Dr Herblay’s expression didn’t change as he answered. “No, my lord, I did not. But I intend to kill the man who did.”

Athos regarded him, and nodded. “Good for you. Carry on? What else did you learn?”

“He runs a chaise without devices, dresses in black clothes of very good quality, and wears a gold ring with a three-headed snake or dragon.”

Athos frowned. “Which was it? Snake or dragon?”

“Forgive me, but the lady was not sure.”

“Would you both excuse me for a moment? Sylvie, pray continue your conversation. I will be back shortly.”

He went to the library and found the book he wanted and brought it back to the drawing room. He laid it before the doctor and opened it. “Something like that?”

“I only have the description, my lord. What is it?”

“Please, call me Athos. That is Zmey Gorynych, a three-headed dragon of Russian folklore. This crown he uses—did the girls described it?”

“Yes. He brought it in a linen bag, and handled it as if it was precious—until it was on their heads, and then he became quite brutal. It was red, black, and gold, painted with flowers and so on.”

“Khokhloma,” Athos breathed.

“Pardon?”

“Khokhloma ware. Folk art, made widely in Russia, most famously from Khokhloma. Decorated in red, black and gold, using the tin powder and varnish technique Sylvie’s tests determined.”

“Russia and Spain,” Sylvie said. “How do they link together?”

“Any thoughts, doctor?”

“Sadly, no. One thing of importance is the pattern of his visits as it pertains to the murders. The first murder we are aware of—”

Athos narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any reason to believe there were others?”

Aramis was not at all put out by his tone. “Treville mentioned that we can’t be sure all the bodies were dumped in the same part of the river, or in the river at all. And if a body was found once decomposition had taken a strong hold, the cause of death may not be determined. He has officers looking through all the reports of bodies found and young women missing, and has contacted other forces in the country.”

“Excellent.” Athos coughed. “I do apologise, my dear. I’m running roughshod over your work. Please, take over.”

“I don’t mind—”

He smiled reassuringly. “I insist.”

“Very well. Aramis, please continue? The pattern?”

“Yes. As I was saying, the first murder was just two months ago. He visited a brothel five days before that, and then three days before the second murder. His last visit was four days before...Adele.” He closed his eyes, his mouth gone thin lipped with strong emotion.

Sylvie glanced at Athos before saying to the doctor, “I’m so sorry. More tea?”

He opened his eyes. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Sylvie rose to pour. “So we have a brothel visit with a murder shortly thereafter every month or so.”

“Yes. Though the pattern depends on us knowing of all the murders, and all the brothel visits.”

“And that the murderer and the brothel visitor being the same man,” Athos couldn’t forebear from saying. “Sorry, dear, I’ll be quiet.”

“Athos, no,” Sylvie said, turning to face him. “Please do speak up, I beg you. I have no experience of such matters.”

“Nor I,” the doctor said. “Though, I have seen all too many murder victims.”

“My father, too,” Sylvie said.

“Does that make me the resident expert on brothels?” Athos said.

Sylvie put her hand on her chest. “My lord!”

He smiled. “I am not, as it happens. But I have had cause to visit them while working with Treville, of course.”

“I think it wisest not to offer my credentials in that areas,” Dr Herblay said, grinning at both of them and taking a clear delight in Sylvie’s shock. Athos liked him enormously.

It had not escaped Aramis's attention that Lord Delafere was somewhat drawn and tired, and that he and Sylvie were a little awkward with each other. He should not linger, he thought, however much he enjoyed their company. He stood. “Now I have told you all I know, I’m sure you have matters to attend to. So, if I may fetch d’Artagnan—?”

“Wait a moment, doctor,” Lord Delafere said. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Plans? Nothing in particular. Once the constable drops me off at my rooms, I thought I might take the air. It’s a fine day for walking.”

“So it is. Let me make a suggestion. Sylvie, dear, you and I have not been to the Zoological Gardens in an age. Why don’t you and the doctor take the carriage there, perhaps go for a drive in the park? The horses need the exercise and so do you, no doubt.”

“But, Athos—”

“My damn leg hurts,” he said, rubbing his thigh. “Or I’d offer to go with you. Still, no need to deprive yourself of a good walk, and I fancy the doctor would enjoy some company after his recent sad loss.”

Sylvie was clearly nonplussed by the suggestion. “Is it proper, do you think?”

Athos tsked. “Good heavens, would I suggest it if it were not? Dr Herblay is a professional and a gentleman, vouched for by one of the best men I know, and trusted by Treville. So go on, my dear girl. I mean, if the doctor has no objection.”

“None at all,” Aramis said, still surprised. “It would be an honour,” he said, bowing to her.

“Then run along and change your clothes, dear,” his lordship said, “and I’ll have Paul prepare the carriage. Your man is in the kitchen with my housekeeper, doctor. You should pass what message you like to him, and he can take himself off when it suits. Please excuse me while I speak to my groom.”

The marquess left the room. “What’s come over him?” Sylvie asked.

“If his suggestion offends, I’m happy to decline,” Aramis said.

“No, not at all. It would be...delightful,” she said, smiling. “If you don’t mind.”

“I do not. He’s right. It would be good to have something pleasant to do after...Adele.”

“Then I’ll get changed. I won’t be long. The kitchen is this way.”

She pointed him in the right direction, and then went towards the stairs. Aramis shook his head at the strange goings on, then headed to the kitchen. He found d’Artagnan drinking tea and eating fruitcake, while the housekeeper, Constance, sat on the other wide of the table, apparently preparing a list of goods to purchase. The lad scrambled to his feet.

“Doctor? Is everything all right?” Constance asked.

“Yes, it is. Er, Miss Boden and I are going on an outing to the Zoological Gardens, at his lordship’s suggestion. D’Artagnan, he said you should continue doing what you need to, then you can take the hansom back to Scotland Yard.”

“I’m all done, doctor,” he said, flushing again—the lad did have the most winningly naive manner about him. “I was waiting for you to finish. Miss...I mean, Mistress Bonacieux...was keeping me entertained.”

She shook her head with a smile. “He was entertaining me, more like it. Stay or go, it’s up to you, but I suppose John Treville will scold me if I keep you much longer.”

“Yes, he’ll want me back. Thank you for the tea and cake, ma’am.”

“Constance, I told you.” The red in the lad’s cheeks deepened. “I hope you might call again. It’s very dull sometimes, with Athos not receiving visitors. We’ve had more people at the house this week than in the last three years.”

“Truly?” Aramis said.

“Yes, indeed. It’s the easiest house in London to look after, but I would not begrudge more work if it meant he saw more people. You are most welcome on that score, doctor.”

“Call me Aramis, please.”

“Then I’m Constance to you too. And please tell John...Treville, that is...that he should call again. I think Athos misses him, though he’ll never admit it.”

“I’ll give him that message, gladly,” he said with a little bow. “I’m only waiting for Sylvie. Er, is Lord Delafere quite well? He is somewhat pale and tired-looking.”

She made a face and shook her head. “You ask Sylvie about it. He has no physician now, not after Dr Boden died four years ago. He could do with one. Perhaps Sylvie could be your patient, and recommend you to Athos in turn.”

“Do you spend much of your day plotting to help your employer, Constance?”

“All of it, Aramis,” she said with a lovely smile. D’Artagnan couldn’t take his eyes off her. Was something starting between these two? If there was, Aramis would do his best to encourage it.

D’Artagnan left then, making his excuses, and that left Aramis in the kitchen alone. “He’s a clever lad, that one,” he said as Constance bustled about the room.

“Seems to be. I would have given a pound to have seen his face while he was in those brothels, though.”

“It was quite amusing, I admit. It’s not how I would like a son or brother of mine to find out the way to treat women, but the experience has done him no harm.”

“If a man won’t treat a prostitute kindly, they won’t treat a wife well. I know that personally.”

“You’re married?”

“Was,” she said, standing at the sink with her back to him. “He died, fortunately. Sorry if that shocks you, but he was a brute. I would rather die than marry again, at least to a man like him.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said. “A good woman is a gift to any man, to be treated well and appreciated.”

“He treated our horse better than he treated me. Fortunately, the devil came for his own, and I was free of him.”

“What happened?”

She turned to look at him, wiping her hands on her apron. “He got into a fight with a man more sober and larger than himself, who knocked him down. Jack never woke up again. Dr Boden, that’s Sylvie’s father, treated him at his clinic. Old Hubert knew Athos needed a new housekeeper, and asked him about me. Athos asked if I would like to work for him and I did. I had no money, only debts, and I needed somewhere to live. Fortunately, I ended up with the kindest employer in the loveliest house in London. With the sweetest young lady joining us when her dear father died. Isn’t that true, Sylvie?”

Aramis turned. Sylvie stood in the doorway, now dressed in a walking outfit. “I’m not sweet, Constance.”

“You are. Sweet as honey, and sharp as cider vinegar. Now, do you want me to make you a picnic or will you take your chances at the pub?”

“Take our chances, I should say,” Sylvie said. “Shall we, doctor?”

“Be careful,” Constance said. “There’s a madman loose.”

“I have my pistol and hatpin, don’t worry. Aramis, let me show you the way to the stables.”

*******************************

“I assure you he doesn’t usually do this kind of thing,” Sylvie said as they settled into the carriage.

“I make no assumptions other than Athos wishing to be kind to both of us.”

“He is very kind,” she agreed. “Generous, kind, and unfailingly polite.”

When she went silent, Aramis prompted her. “And yet, something is troubling him. And you.”

“I promised myself I would never speak of it, at least not to him, but...may I unburden myself to you? Would that be too much to bear?”

“Not at all, my dear lady. I would happily let you distract me from my own woes.”

Her mouth turned town briefly in sympathy. “At least we should have some time before another woman is taken. We might even catch the murderer before then.”

“I pray we do,” he said. “But now to your difficulty. What bothers you?”

She stared out of the window. “You understand that Athos was a very good friend to my father, and has been the most excellent guardian and protector to me. Without him, I would be poor, unwelcome in many quarters because of my colour, and forced to work in an unsavoury or ill-paid occupation to earn my keep. I have never felt Athos took me in out of pity, but out of sincere love for my father, and affection for me.”

“That much is obvious. He clearly is very fond of you.”

“But yesterday, I came back to the house and found him worse for drink.” She hesitated. “Please do not judge him, sir.”

“I do not,” Aramis said, bowing his head. “Porthos told me of his history. To lose one’s love and to blame oneself, is a heavy blow.”

“He should not blame himself,” she said. “Though he does. Yesterday, he was quite melancholy, though not incapable from drink. Just sad. He told me that he had broken a promise to my father to consider adopting me—which idea I find ridiculous, please understand—and that he had done so because he entirely lacked any fatherly feelings towards me. I was shocked, I confess. He has ever been fatherly in his manner, never once inappropriate, and giving me every gift of kindness and affection that my own dear father would have done. Now I am to understand that this was all done out of a pretence of fatherly love.”

She dabbed the corner of her eye, and would not meet his gaze. “I don’t know what to think. He continues to be friendly, generous, and benevolent, but now I know that this might all be playacting. I don’t know what to do, Aramis.”

To Aramis, with his wider experience of life, it was all too clear what the unhappy marquess had been trying to tell her. It was also clear why he had not been blunter with his learned but inexperienced young ward. “My dear, do you not recall that according to the Greeks, there are many kinds of love? There are as many different kinds of affection. One feels differently for a pet than towards a spouse, and one may love a friend, or a brother, which is philia, without it being fatherly, which is storge. The age difference between you is only a matter of years, is it not?”

“Eleven,” she said, sniffing.

“Well, there you have it. He is not old enough to be your father, and instead feels perhaps brotherly towards you. A brother would not want to adopt his sister, however fond of her he was. You would not want Constance to adopt you either, for all you clearly love each other.”

She gave a little laugh. “Oh no. Constance is the sister I never had. Though I have never thought of Athos as my brother.”

“You don’t need to,” Aramis said, not wanting to utterly ruin Athos’s chance at happiness. “You only have to accept that Athos does love you most sincerely, and it is his own sense of honour which forbids him from creating a tie between you that he cannot match with storge. His philia is a precious thing, do not mistake me. I would rather have philia than eros though the joys of sexual union are indeed sweet. Forgive me if I offend you.”

“You do not, dear Aramis. You’ve lightened my heart immeasurably. You’re right, of course you’re right. What a fool I have been.”

He patted her hand. “Not at all. It must have been a difficult admission, and one not best made under the influence of strong drink. Athos is to be pitied, that he has tormented himself all this time for fear of hurting you.”

“But he hasn’t. Never once. He is my lodestone, my guide, my hero. I only felt confusion and alarm that he didn’t love me at all. Now I see he always has.” Her face was now wreathed in smiles. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

“Not at all. Now, tell me what your favourite animal is. I have a special fondness for the kangaroos, myself.”

*******************************

Athos took himself out for a walk while Sylvie and Dr Herblay were getting to know each other better, or so he hoped, and felt healthier for it. His hip and leg pained him, of course, but that couldn’t be helped, and his headache had at last disappeared. He took his lunch in the kitchen with Constance and the other servants, who were long used to his peculiar ways, and after lunch did his strengthening exercises, before retiring to the library to read the latest BMJ and other journal instalments.

Engrossed in a report on laudanum poisoning, he was startled when Sylvie flew into the room, and wrapped her arms around him. “I do love you, dear Athos,” she declared, before kissing the top of his head.

He gently detached her. “I’m glad to hear it, my darling girl. Did you visit Jumbo?”

Still beaming, she said, “Yes, we did. And the kangaroos and the monkeys and the snakes. Thank you for suggesting it. I’d forgotten how much I liked Regent’s Park.”

“Then you must go again soon. How is our Dr Herblay?”

“Better,” she said with turned down mouth. “But he grieves so hard. I hope I never fall in love if this is what it’s like when you lose the one you adore.”

“It’s a pain I would never wish you on you, dear. Are you having tea?”

“Yes, I hope to. Join me?”

“Of course. Have Fleur bring the tray in here. I have some thoughts about the case.”

She grinned and kissed him again, before flying out to give the request for tea. Athos sighed. However much it would hurt, he had to find Sylvie a suitable husband soon, or he would lose his mind. There was no need for both of them to live in embittered solitude, and Dr Herblay was a fine man. If Porthos trusted him with Samara, that was all Athos needed to know about him.

Sylvie returned a few minutes later, followed by Fleur and the tea. His ward poured for them, then sat back, munching a biscuit. “So, what are your thoughts?”

“First, I’m going to assume the murderer and this fair-haired Spanish speaker are one and the same.” She nodded. “As Aramis said, if they are not, any pattern we discern regarding the murders and brother visits is spurious. But on that assumption, it occurs to me that this man may not live in London, given the large gaps between events.”

“I agree. But on the other hand, he has to have somewhere to murder the women, either in London, or from which he can ferry the bodies under the cover of darkness. The latter would offer him greater concealment of his real address.”

“Quite so,” Athos said, pleased that she had made the leap in deduction. “However, a parsimonious interpretation might be that he has places both in and outside London. We believe him to be wealthy and educated, and in addition, having travelled a little. Might he be a noble, I wonder?”

“A noble? Heavens, Athos! What a scandal that would be.”

“Not for the first time, I assure you. But if I, for instance, were our killer, I could live most of the time in Hampshire, and only come to the capital to commit my nefarious deeds. He could of course be transporting the bodies some distance, but he risks discovery if the carriage were to break down, or a horse did. My instincts tell me that it’s more likely he transports them for as small a distance as possible.”

“That seems reasonable. So ,do we turn our investigation upon the landed gentry who maintain a home in the west of London?”

“That would be my thoughts, yes. I thought you could convey this to Treville, though I suspect he will be less than amused at having to follow up on it.”

“He was disturbed enough at having to interview Viscount Richelieu,” she said, making a face, before stealing another piece of shortbread. “But if it saves a life....”

“Quite.”

“Perhaps we should have a note sent to him?”

“No, leave it until tomorrow, unless you don’t plan to call on Scotland Yard then?”

“I can, certainly. I want to know what fruits the enquiries with d’Artagnan’s sketch have borne.”

“Then do it then. Even if the pattern does not hold, we may assume that we have two or three weeks at least before he strikes again.”

Unfortunately, Athos was quite wrong.

Chapter Text

Treville’s note was delivered the following Wednesday, while Athos ate his breakfast in his bedroom, as usual. Edward brought it in, and once Athos had read it, he rose hurriedly. “Have the boy tell the inspector we will be there shortly, and please ask Paul to ready the carriage for me.”

“Very good, my lord,” Edward said, and withdrew.

Athos dressed quickly, then rapped at Sylvie’s door. No answer, so she was already up. He went downstairs, and to the kitchen, where he found Sylvie talking to Constance. “There has been another murder,” he said. Sylvie stood up, eyes wide. “I’m going to Scotland Yard and then to Westminster Mortuary, so if you want to come with me, you’d better change.”

“Who is it?”

“Lady Ninon Larroque.”

Sylvie put her hands over her mouth, but Constance scowled. “So this is what it takes to get you off your backside, my lord? Three good women die and you wash your hands of it, but your noble friend is murdered, and you rush off to save the day?”

“Constance,” Athos murmured. “It’s not like that.”

“It is,” she said, lips thin and her colour high. “You let this young girl go off to see bodies and talk of brothels and rape, while you have sat here for years and sulked over something that cannot be helped, but now it’s urgent? I thought better of you, Athos.”

Sylvie held her breath, staring at the two of them in shock, while Fleur and Teresa scurried out of the room. Athos was the one to give in. “Yes, you’re quite correct. I’ll make amends, I swear. But right now, I must do what I can, with Sylvie’s help if she wants to give it—”

“I do. I’ll be back shortly.”

Constance glared at him. “Promise me you will catch this man, Athos. No more women will die at his hand.”

“I can’t do that, my dear,” he said, taking her hands. “But I’ll do my very best.”

“Poor Ninon,” she said, breaking down. Athos held her while she cried. Ninon had been a friend to all of them, a promoter of women’s education, and a firm supporter of Porthos and Athos’s charitable causes. He could not believe she was dead.

When Constance was calmer, he made her sit and drink some tea. “Her work will continue,” he said, stroking her hair. “And when we catch this man, he will pay. Oh, how he will pay.”

“Why do men have to hurt us so, Athos? All we ever want to do is help them and love them, but they rape us, and beat us, and murder us.”

“Not all,” he said quietly. “Now, be calm. Sylvie and I will be out most of the day, so you all should take it easy. I’ll tell you everything I know when we return.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry for my hard words.”

“Not at all. You only said what is true. I have ignored my duty for too long. No more, I promise. I need to pack a few things to take to the Yard.”

She clasped his hand. “Make him pay.”

“I will.”

From his study, he took his dissecting kit, his lenses, the little collection of envelopes and bottles that were useful for storing samples, and the chemical set he needed to perform basic tests upon such material. By the time he was done, Sylvie was ready and standing at the door. “Will Treville have told Porthos?”

“I hope so, and your doctor as well. But we will learn more at the mortuary. Come along.”

Sylvie bit her lip as she stared out the carriage window, unseeing. “It’s horrible to feel worse because I know the victim, but I do.”

“Human nature,” Athos said. “Ninon won’t have made it easy for him. I’m still aghast that anyone dared to lay a hand on her. She always seemed above the earthly realm. I’ve known her half my life, and now she’s gone.”

“I can imagine she’s now arguing the finer points of law with the Almighty,” Sylvie said, which made Athos smile.

“She would argue with Satan himself if it meant standing up for the weak.”

“Father adored her, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Oh, Ninon, how could this have happened?

At Great Scotland Yard, there were too many reporters around for Athos’s liking, which was to say, there were reporters when he wanted none. He strode into Treville’s office and his friend looked up and said, “Thank God. The commissioner has already chewed me to bits over this.”

Athos took a seat without waiting to be asked, and Sylvie sat at his side. “What do we know, and have you told Porthos?”

“Yes, and Dr Herblay is on his way, though our surgeon is ready to do the autopsy. I’ve asked him to hold off until you and Sylvie had had a chance to look at the body.”

“And Aramis too,” Sylvie said.

“Yes. Last night, Lady Larroque dined with Viscount Richelieu—”

“Richelieu again?” Athos exclaimed.

“Unfortunately. He’s been raining hellfire down on the commissioner over this, and the commissioner has been passing it on most thoroughly.” Treville made a face. “They dined at eight, and she went home in her own carriage at half past ten. Her body was pulled from the Thames this morning around seven, at Greenwich. She’d been garrotted just as the others had been.”

“Greenwich? That doesn’t fit,” Athos said. “What of her driver, and her carriage?”

“Gone. They never arrived at her house, and neither man nor carriage has been seen since. He has to be our main suspect. At least I can stop asking the nobility awkward questions.”

“I suppose. Does he look like the sketch?”

“Not at all. He’s dark-haired and olive-skinned. Of previous good character, that we know of.”

Constable d’Artagnan knocked at the door and came in. “Dr Herblay is here, sir.”

“Then we should go to the mortuary. Constable, you come too. Sylvie, are you...?”

“Of course. Unless I’m not needed, since Athos is here now?”

“No, my dear,” Athos said. “Your brains are sharper than mine, as are your eyes. If anyone is surplus, it’s me. John, what do the papers know?”

“Not much. We’ll have to make a statement this time. We were trying to keep these cases quiet, but there’s no hope of that now. At least they might help us find this carriage driver.”

They emerged from the office and found Dr Herblay waiting for them. “So the pattern does not fit,” the doctor said.

“It would seem not,” Athos said.

“Come along, Miss Sylvie, my lord,” Treville said, chivvying them towards Athos’s carriage.

Athos touched his ward’s arm. “My darling, you might not want to see this. It’s harder when you know the victim.”

“And yet you will. Athos,” she said reprovingly.

“My apologies.”

*******************************

Aramis sardonically noted how much this victim had rattled the great and the good, demonstrated by how many people crowded into the autopsy room to examine her body. That Lord Delafere himself had overcome his melancholia to race to Scotland Yard proved how important Lady Larroque was compared to sweet Adele.

But he said nothing of his thoughts. “My lord, Miss Boden, perhaps you should make your observations before I begin.”

“As you wish, doctor,” Athos said, nodding. “My dear?”

They worked carefully, murmuring to each other while d’Artagnan made notes. The marquess was superior in some ways to Sylvie, but she was sharp too, and Aramis doubted they missed anything.

“I believe the garrotte was made of rope this time,” Athos said, raising his head and glancing at Aramis.

Aramis came over and looked through the magnifying glass the marquess was using. “Agreed.” He tried to open the victim’s mouth to smell her breath, but could not because of the rigor mortis. He didn’t like to force it unless he had to. “These bruises are ante-mortem. She was attacked but not killed immediately.” He looked at the bruising on her hands. “She fought hard. I don’t think she was chloroformed.”

“If she was attacked in her carriage, perhaps the murderer felt no need to,” Treville said.

“Perhaps.”

When it came to the intimate examination, Athos deferred to Aramis. “She was a good friend,” he said, as he apologised. “I simply cannot.”

“I quite understand.”

“You are a better man than me,” Athos said.

“I will observe,” Sylvie said, tilting her chin up. “She had to bear the attack, I can bear the aftermath.”

Athos gave his ward a small bow of his head, then turned his back.

The police surgeon, McLeod, stood back and observed too, as Aramis carefully removed the sheet and examined what he could externally. Sylvie noted something caught in her pubic hair, and carefully removed it with forceps. “Plant matter,” she said, putting it into a small stoppered bottle.

It took some time for Aramis and the surgeon to part the victim’s legs to examine her genitals, and to confirm she had been raped with considerable violence. When, with the surgeon’s help, Aramis turned the body over, he noted bruising on her arms and legs, along with abrasions on her buttocks. “Was she found dressed?”

“Yes, including her gloves, but with her drawers removed,” Treville reported, still with his back to the slab. “We haven’t found them.”

“She was violated outdoors, which explains the plant material. Given the abrasions and defensive wounds, the bruising to the genital region, the general brutish treatment, I believe she was violated while alive, and garrotted while struggling.”

Sylvie made a small distressed sound. “Poor Ninon,” she said, staring at Aramis.

“Indeed.”

“Is there anything in the abrasions? Under her nails?”

The river had washed the abrasions and there was nothing under her nails. “Do you have the gloves?” Athos asked Treville. “And was she wearing them at the time you found her?”

“Yes, she was.”

The gloves were produced, and found to have signs of blood. “What about the other clothes?” Aramis asked. Blood was found on her skirt, and the sleeve of her blouse, though none of her injuries could have produced them. “I believe she injured her attacker,” Aramis said. “Perhaps with a hatpin, or even a knife. The man will have deep scratches or lacerations on his head and neck, I suspect.”

 “She would have fought hard,” Athos said. “If any woman would have carried a knife, she would have.”

“She was very brave,” Sylvie said. “I have admired her as long as I have known her.”

The body was covered again, then Athos examined the clothes which showed grass stains, mud, and other marks. “What of her purse?”

“Empty,” Treville said. “But closed, so the contents were stolen, possibly while the body lay on the riverbank.”

“But in that case, why not take the whole purse?” Athos stood up and frowned at Aramis. “Your thoughts?”

“It doesn’t fit.”

“No, it doesn’t. A different weapon, a different method of attack.”

“On the other hand,” Sylvie said, “she perfectly fits the apparent ideal—blonde, regal, of good character.”

“Perhaps,” d’Artagnan said, “Lady Larroque was such a perfect victim that the murderer could not restrain himself? Or he was disturbed in some way?”

“The constable makes an excellent point,” Athos said. “Sylvie, do you have more you wish to examine?”

“Not unless Aramis does,” Sylvie said.

“You haven’t mentioned where she was found,” Treville said. “On the other end of London.”

“Which may or may not be significant,” Athos said. “Given we have no idea from where the other victims were abducted.”

“Wrong day of the week,” Aramis murmured. “The murderer had to have followed her. It can’t be chance.”

“No. Treville, how many people knew Ninon was meeting the viscount?”

“I don’t know,” Treville said, rubbing his chin. “The viscount’s household, her household, one assumes. Perhaps it was in his parliamentary diary as well.”

“Dozens of people then,” Athos said gloomily. “I agree the driver is the most likely suspect. I’m not convinced the driver and the murderer of the other women are one and the same.”

“We need to take him alive, then, to question him,” Treville said. “Are we done, my lord, Miss Boden, doctor?”

“I believe we are,” Athos said after looking at the others. “I would like to see where she was found. Can you spare the constable?”

“D’Artagnan, go with his lordship, do whatever he needs doing. Dr McLeod, please carry out the autopsy and let me have the results as soon as possible.”

“Yes, inspector.”

“And now I must speak to those blasted reporters.”

Out in the open air, Aramis inhaled deeply. “Distressing, isn’t it?” Athos said.

“The violent death of any person is distressing, but when it is a woman, it’s much worse,” Aramis admitted. “Miss Sylvie, again I admire your calm demeanour.”

“Anything else would be disrespectful of the person Ninon was. Are you at liberty today?”

“I am.”

“Then perhaps you could accompany us?”

“Gladly.”

But before their barouche could pull away from the Mortuary, a constable came running up to Treville, who listened, then shouted at their carriage to halt. Athos leaned out of the window to learn what had been said.

“We’ve found Ninon’s driver,” Treville said.

*******************************

“Hanged?” Athos said when Treville told them the details.

“Suicide, it looks like. On Blackheath. I’ll have to go up there immediately.”

“Then come with us. It’ll be a bit tight, but we’ll manage, if the constable rides up top.”

As the carriage moved quickly through Westminster and Camberwell towards Blackheath, Treville told them what he knew. “A horse was found running loose on the heath, and then the brougham was discovered. The driver, one Michael Hobbs, was found swinging from an oak tree nearby.”

“None of this fits, Treville. Your message said Ninon was pulled from the river, but she was actually found on the riverbank. Who’s to say she was ever in the river?”

“Her clothes were wet.”

“But she could have been dumped at close to high tide, and the water only wet her body, without carrying it away. As you said, it’s the wrong end of London. I don’t believe Hobbs can be the murderer of the other three.”

“Should we not at least wait until we see his body before you decide, my lord?” Aramis said.

“Yes, of course. Forgive me, I’m out of practice.”

Treville looked at Athos, and his expression said quite clearly, “And whose fault is that?” Athos nodded, chastened. Perhaps he should have left this to Sylvie. She was the one keeping her head in all this.

On the heath, a small crowd had gathered around the oak tree, while two police constable stood guard. Ninon’s brougham sat a little way off. Athos walked around under the body. “He used the horse to support himself, I think. Look at the hoof prints.”

“Cut him down, d’Artagnan,” Treville ordered.

Hanging deaths were ugly, but Sylvie stared at the engorged features without visible reaction. Aramis knelt. “This is not the man who attacked Ninon. No scratches. No marks at all.” He made the sign of the cross over him, and murmured a prayer.

“Not quite, doctor,” Sylvie said. “There, in his hair. A contusion and blood. He was struck.”

Aramis rolled him over. “And bound. See the abrasions on his wrist?” He tried to raise one arm and could not. “He’s also in rigor mortis. I believe he may have died no more than an hour after Lady Larroque, possibly close to the same time. Inspector, this man is another murder victim, and the lady’s killer is still at liberty.”

“So it seems. You, sergeant,” he called to one of the men standing guard. “Fetch a horse and cart from the village, and have the body conveyed to Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Athos walked towards Ninon’s abandoned carriage, Sylvie behind him. “Do you think she was killed for being a woman, or being Ninon?” she asked as she caught up with him.

“That’s a good question, my dear.”

There was mud and grass inside the carriage, and traces of blood. “A struggle in here, and her body was probably taken to the river. Show me that plant material you found.” She handed him the bottle. “Sticky mouse-ear leaves. That suggests to me she was violated and probably murdered somewhere here on the heath, and taken down to the river.” He spotted something on the carriage floor. “Yes, there’s more of it.” He stepped out and examined the carriage wheels. “Look, Sylvie. Mud, though the ground hereabouts is dry. Riverbank mud, I warrant.”

He turned and looked about, then whistled for Constable d’Artagnan, who came running over. “Lad, could you start a search for Lady Larroque’s drawers? I believe they’ll be on the heath around here, if I’m right about where she was killed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ten minutes later, the constable came running back. “Found them, my lord. Under some gorse just up the hill a bit.”

Athos and Sylvie followed him, and found Treville and Aramis already there. “A dog probably dragged them into the bushes,” Treville said. He used a stick to hold the drawers up for Athos to examine.

“More sticky mouse-ear. She was killed up here, I’m certain of it.” Athos summarised his other evidence. “I believe she and her driver both were killed in this vicinity, then her body was taken down to the river at Greenwich and dumped. The carriage was returned to the heath to make us believe Hobbs killed himself up here after that.”

“But it’s such a clumsy attempt to deceive,” Sylvie said. “Anyone could work out that Hobbs did not kill himself.”

“Not so, Sylvie,” Treville said. “Those abrasions could be excused away as the normal wear and tear of a horseman’s occupation.”

“And the contusion?”

“Obtained while drunk, perhaps. But I agree it was clumsily done. Quickly done.”

“Which also doesn’t fit our first murderer. The question is, are the similarities coincidence?”

“They must be,” Treville said. “We’ve kept the details out of the papers entirely. Garrotting is sadly not uncommon.”

“True,” Athos said. “Nor is rape, and theft. But where were they stopped? Where did she dine with Richelieu?”

“At his house in Kensington.”

“And she lived in Park Lane. The path between is not the most likely place for a woman to be attacked in her own carriage, unless they were hunting her specifically. To answer your question, Sylvie, I believe she was likely killed because she was Ninon, not simply a woman. Who was she annoying now, Treville?”

“Porthos would know,” Aramis said. “The two of them had been working together closely in the last year, and I had been giving them advice. Among many others they had consulted, of course,” he added with a little bow.

“Then Sylvie, you and Dr Herblay should call on Porthos and ask him what he knows.”

“You won’t come?” she said.

“Ah, no. You’re more than competent to do this without me. I’ve done nothing today you couldn’t do just as well or better. Is that not correct, doctor?”

“I would say it was, my lord. And she has the advantage of you in not being a coward.”

“Aramis!” Sylvie protested

“Doctor, that’s uncalled for,” Treville snapped.

Aramis’s dark eyes flashed with anger, taking Athos aback. The man had seemed so polite. “Is it? Lord Delafere is apparently too ashamed to meet the friend he had neglected for years, not even to solve the murder of another friend. Miss Boden is indeed more competent in this respect.”

Treville pursed his lips. “You three sort this out. I have to return to the Yard and speak to the commissioner. I expect someone to tell me what Porthos says.”

He and d’Artagnan left Athos and the doctor glaring at each other. “I was unaware you bore so much resentment towards me,” Athos said finally.

“Why would I not? You wouldn’t bestir yourself for Adele, for Amelia, or Justine. Only the whiff of nobility drags you from your safe little nest, and then, only so far. You fear what Porthos will say to you after all this time, and you should do.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Athos said flatly. “Porthos has already said what he wanted to, last week. I met him on Wednesday. He was quite as blunt as you.”

“Why did you meet him on Wednesday and why did I not know of this?” Sylvie demanded.

“It’s not important now,” Athos said, not wanting to lie to her. “I merely wished Sylvie to deal with this because it was her case to begin with, and I have no reason to believe she won’t complete it exactly as I would.” He gave her a little bow. “Indeed, your eyes are sharper, and your mind younger and cleverer. My intention is to go home and think about what all we have learned this morning means. That is, if the good doctor will allow it.”

Sylvie held her breath as the silence dragged on. “My apologies, my lord,” Aramis said, bowing low. “I should not have spoken thus.” Athos only grunted a little and turned away.

“Wait, am I not allowed an opinion?” she said. Athos turned around again. “Athos, come with us. Porthos has just lost a good friend, as have you. Samara wants to see you. What if something went wrong with her delivery? You must visit before then.”

“Sylvie, I don’t think—” Aramis murmured.

Athos held up his hand. “Yes, of course, you’re right. I’ll come along then, but only as a visitor. You take the reins again. It was quite wrong of me to assume charge of this investigation willy-nilly. Doctor?” He walked off, expecting the others to follow.

Sylvie did so, still alert for more signs of disharmony. They found Treville and d’Artagnan near Athos’s carriage. “If I could beg a lift back to Whitehall?” Treville said.

“Of course.” By the oak tree, Hobbs’s body was being loaded into a cart, while Ninon’s carriage was being hitched to a horse.

“Inspector, do we know what connection there is between Viscount Richelieu and Ninon?” Sylvie asked.

“He was her uncle. Her only surviving next of kin.”

“She was a very wealthy woman.”

“Indeed.”

Athos shot a sharp look at her, but said nothing until they had dropped the two police officers off at Scotland Yard, and begun their journey to Stoke Newington. “You suspect the viscount, my dear?”

“Someone had a motive, Athos. And money is as good a reason as any for murder. You said yourself, he is an unsavoury gentleman.”

“I did, but be cautious, my darling. He is also powerful and vindictive. Don’t utter a breath of suspicion outside the three of us. Not even to Porthos. Not yet, at least.”

“Of course not.”

Aramis sat opposite them, carefully not meeting Athos’s eyes. Sylvie could only hope her new friend and her beloved Athos would become less hostile once they were both at Porthos’s house.

Porthos came into the hall to greet them. “The day of reckoning must be at hand if Lord Delafere has got off his arse to come see me.”

“Language, Porthos,” Athos said, shaking his hand. “You heard about Ninon?”

“I did. A bad business. You’ve come to talk about that?”

“To pick your brains generally, though that’s Sylvie’s job, not mine. I’m only here to see your lovely wife.”

Porthos grinned. “She’ll be tickled to see you. You’re staying for lunch,” he said, and none of them were brave enough to argue even if they wanted to.

He invited them all to sit in the garden where Samara was enjoying the sunshine. She exclaimed when she saw Athos and embraced him warmly, insisting he sit by her. But the conversation was hardly joyful. After Sylvie told Porthos all they knew, and that the driver was not the murderer as the police were intended to think, she asked him, “Who were her enemies?”

“Who wasn’t?” he said. “I mean, we all loved her, the poor all loved her, but she’d tweaked that many noses in the parish, and a lot of the doctors hated her for shaming them over their bad treatment. Can’t see any of them actually wanting to murder her though,” he added thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

“Does her death affect her charitable institutions, and the work you were doing?” Aramis asked.

“Don’t think so. She always told me her money would go to a trust that her uncle was going to manage.”

“That’s Viscount Richelieu,” Sylvie said.

“Yeah. She trusted him. Can’t say I would.”

Sylvie turned to Athos. “So her wealth can’t be the motive. Her death changes nothing.”

“Apparently not. Keep going, my dear,” he said with a smile.

“She’s as sharp as you used to be,” Porthos said.

“Yes, I know,” Athos said, shaking his head.

They removed to the dining room, the doors flung wide open to let the warm air in. As a meal both generous and tailored to Samara’s lack of appetite, ended, Porthos mused while peeling an orange, that he had lived in London all his life and he had never heard of a woman being attacked while travelling in a carriage in that part of London. “I’m trying to think of anyone being attacked like that there,” he said.

“Someone wanted her dead. Lady Larroque in particular,” Aramis said.

“There’s another possibility,” Athos said, glancing at Sylvie as if for permission. “That Hobbs and another person intended to abduct and rob her, but Hobbs’s confederate turned on him, and killed him as well, hoping to have him take the blame.”

“It’s possible,” Porthos admitted. “But how much money did she have? To give up your job, go on the run, over a handful of coins, even a few pounds, sounds a bit off to me.”

“But perhaps Hobbs was planning to return to her house with some nonsense tale of robbery,” Sylvie said.

“I dunno, Sylvie. I suppose it’s worth looking into,” Porthos said.

“A job for the police,” Samara said, easing her back and looking as if she was in discomfort. Porthos was immediately on his feet and assisting her to stand. “Please excuse me. I need to change position and rest on the settee.”

“Would you like some company?” Sylvie asked, standing.

“That would be lovely, but are you finished talking to Porthos?”

“Yes, for now.”

“You come along, Sylvie. If you got any more questions, you can ask me while I settle this pretty lady.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Athos, Aramis, be polite to each other.”

“Run along, my dear,” Athos said, smiling at her.

“One would think there was reason for hostility,” he said when he and Aramis were alone.

“Not any more, my lord. But I want to tell you one thing.”

“Oh yes?” Athos turned to Aramis, an eyebrow cocked. “You’ve been very free with your opinions today.”

“In the service of womankind only, whom I regard as superior to all men. You can’t push Sylvie towards me. I don’t want it, and she has eyes only for one man. That is you.”

Athos lifted his wine glass and sipped from it, then contemplated it as if it contained the blood of Christ. “You are quite bold in your assumption and your assertion, doctor.”

“Do you think I don’t know what you are doing? Sending us to Regent’s Park? Suggesting we come here alone? She may be too inexperienced to realise, but I am not, so pray, do not pretend otherwise.”

“You find her unattractive?”

“My beloved Adele was found dead a week ago. Do you think me so trivial?” Aramis snapped.

The man put his glass down and shook his head. “No, I do not. And I was not thinking so much of you, as of Sylvie. She needs to meet more people. I have been utterly selfish.”

“And utterly confusing. She was so upset by your drunken maundering, declaring you don’t feel fatherly towards her. I know what you really meant, but I managed to soothe her distress without alluding to it. For the love of God, man. Be honest with her. She adores you, and you would make a good match for her. Why hold her at arms’ length?”

“Because I’m not fit for any woman, not now. But I’ll talk to her. Porthos is returning,” he warned.

Aramis nodded. “Then I’ll say no more.”

“Promise me you won’t withdraw your friendship from Sylvie? She’s not at fault.”

“I swear I will not.” He sat up and smiled at their host. “How is she?”

“The baby’s making life hard for her. Maybe you should have a look at her? Give her some reassurance”

“Gladly.”

Porthos sat down and stared at Athos with a gaze as sharp as Toledo steel. “Is this you back now? No more hiding?”

“No more. Though Sylvie scarcely needs my help.”

“If she don’t, I do. With Ninon gone, I could do with another noble name to push things along with them what don’t care for the ‘lower orders’,” he said with a sneer at such people.

“I am at your disposal. I’m sorry for my long retreat.”

“Never mind about that. Just make up for it now.”

“I will, I promise.”

“You’d better. It’s good to have you back.”

“I’d say it’s good to be back, but the circumstances are too miserable. And I’m sorely out of practice. Fortunately, Sylvie and Dr Herblay have sharp eyes and brains.”

“She’s a clever one, your young miss. And Aramis is a good man and an excellent doctor. I’m going to offer him a salary so I have him on hand full time.”

“Splendid idea. Though if Sylvie and I are to continue working with Treville, I hope I may borrow him from time to time.”

Porthos grinned. “I think that can be arranged.”

Sylvie and the doctor returned after a little while. “It’s not labour,” Dr Herblay reported. “Which is fortunate. But a slightly early delivery is as likely as a delayed one with a first-time mother, so you should be prepared.”

“We will be. Come work for me on a salary, Aramis,” Porthos said. “You can live here, work from this house. I have plenty of room, and then you can be on hand.”

“All right,” the doctor said after considering it. “Provided you can keep me busy. I am not one to sit about.”

“I have more work for a doctor than one man can handle. I’ll start with you though, because I want you for Samara. With Ninon gone, Athos has agreed to help me push my ideas along, and you can be my professional adviser on medical matters.”

“You do me a great honour,” the doctor said, bowing.

“None of that. You can bow and scrape to the bloody viscount, excuse my language, Sylvie, but I don’t want none of that in my house. Right, Athos?”

“Nor in mine,” Athos agreed. “We should really return to Scotland Yard though, tell Treville the little more we have learned, and suggest that Hobbs’s background be investigated. Sylvie and Aramis may like to examine his body too, if you think it will be helpful.”

“It may be,” Dr Herblay said. “It would be more useful to start a search for a man—or men—in Lady Larroque’s household suddenly sporting deep scratches on their face.”

“Or in Viscount Richelieu’s household,” Sylvie said. Athos was worried about her fixation on the man, but he couldn’t think of a reason not to pursue that line of thinking.

They lingered a little longer to spend more time with Samara, but were on the road back to Whitehall by four o’clock. Sylvie and the doctor seemed as fresh as when they first set out, but Athos was mentally fatigued. It had been too long since he’d stretched himself. He had been too self-indulgent, he chided himself.

It was something of a surprised to see another fine carriage at Scotland Yard, and when they walked into the building, the reason became clear. Viscount Richelieu was laying down the law to a group of terrified constables and sergeants, as well as a very irritated Treville. “And what do you want?” he snarled at Athos.

“The Marquess of Delafere, at your service, sir,” he drawled, emphasising his much more senior rank. “And who might you be?”

Richelieu bowed. “Viscount Richelieu, my lord. I recall your name being spoken by my poor, departed niece, Lady Ninon Larroque. I am here because these fools are making a botch of the investigation into her death.”

“Are they now? I’m assisting that investigation, so am I botching it too, my lord Viscount?”

That took the man by surprise, as Athos intended. “I had no idea, my lord. However, Treville tells me that Lady Larroque’s driver, a man who hanged himself out of shame after killing my niece, has been exonerated. This is arrant nonsense. I insist that the matter be closed to spare my niece’s reputation and privacy, and that they waste no more time trying to find another murderer who does not exist!”

The man’s grey eyes flashed with indignation, but Athos was unmoved. “Indeed, my lord? It was I and my ward, Miss Boden here, who determined that Michael Hobbs was innocent of the crime, and a victim himself. We examined your niece’s body this morning—”

“You did what?”

The viscount looked about to explode. Athos stayed calm. “We examined it in the presence of Dr Herblay, and Dr McLeod, the police surgeon, then went to Blackheath. The state of Hobbs’s body, the lack of defensive wounds to match the blood found on Lady Larroque’s clothing, was proof that he was not her attacker, and moreover had been hanged by persons unknown.”

“This is outrageous! You may outrank me, my lord, but I am a government minister, and the Prime Minister will hear of this! A civilian—three civilians—of no official position whatsoever, violating my poor niece’s body, and interfering with police work? No, I will not stand for this. I will order the commissioner to forbid any such further amateur tampering, and you, my lord, and your, your ‘ward’,” he said with a sneer as he looked Sylvie up and down, “will not enter Scotland yard again!”

Athos stepped forward. He kept his voice low, but with intense menace “Have a care, Viscount, how you speak of those near and dear to me, let alone of a lady of perfect character under my protection.”

He continued staring until Richelieu backed down, and bowed. “I meant no offence to the lady. My apologies. But the rest of it remains. You are not to take part in investigations again. We will not have bumbling fools—”

“Viscount, your mouth will be the death of you,” Athos said in a cool, biting tone. “Your objection is noted. Now note this—I did nothing, nor did my companions, without the explicit request and authorisation of the Metropolitan Police, who asked me to lend expertise they sorely lack. If you want to know who really killed your niece—who was a dear friend to me and others of my circle—you will not prevent me from continuing.”

“We know who killed her, Lord Delafere. Now, please leave. Your authority and permission is revoked by order of Her Majesty’s government.”

Athos tilted his chin. “If you say so, my lord. I shall return home.” He fixed Treville with a pointed look. “Good day, inspector.” He turned on his heel and Sylvie and Aramis followed.

“Don’t say a word,” he murmured as they walked back to the carriage.  Once safely inside, he said to Aramis, “Are you at liberty to come to our house for supper?”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring with anger.

“Then let’s do that. Sylvie, I’m sorry you had to hear such drivel.”

“If you hadn’t been there, I’d have shot him for that,” she said, and clearly meant it.

“And to a man, no one would have seen you do it, even in a room full of police officers,” Athos said. “However, now we must decide how to proceed. We have a good friend’s death and those of three young women remaining unsolved. This is intolerable.”

“How can we do that without the police?” Aramis asked.

“Oh, don’t think for a minute that Lord Richelieu will stop us. And if I know Inspector Treville—and I do—he will be along in an hour or so to join our discussion.”

Constance greeted them at the house. “Tea for all of us, my dear,” Athos said, “and if you have time, please do join us. I think the garden today, since it’s so fair.”

“Certainly, Athos. Will the doctor be dining with you?”

“Yes, he will, and I expect John Treville will be too.”

After she went to the kitchen, Athos turned to their guest. “Make yourself comfortable, Aramis. It may be a long evening. Sylvie, my dear, would you be kind enough to fetch your notes on the first case? Thank you.”

Constance did have time to join them, which was good since she was essential to the plans Athos was beginning to make in his head. He encouraged his companions to relax, drink tea and eat dainties, after what had been a distressing and tiring day, topped off by the loud and deplorable behaviour of a Minister of the Crown. He told Constance what had happened during the day, and then finally at Scotland Yard.

“That man deserves a slapping,” she said. “No wonder he’s unmarried.”

“If he talks to other women the way he spoke about Sylvie and in her presence, I’m not surprised either. Constance, my dear, are you at all friendly with any of Ninon’s household? Or Richelieu’s?”

“Not directly, Athos. But I’m friendly with those who are. I see them at church.”

“Then might you be able to ask in the most general way if any of the men at either house have turned up with new injuries, especially to their face or neck?”

“I will. And I’ll ask Fleur and Clara to ask their friends too. I don’t like the chances of success.”

“It doesn’t matter. Porthos will ask around his contacts too. This was not a random attack.”

“And they wanted her dead quickly,” Sylvie said, looking up from her notes. “Else it would not have been so clumsily done.”

“Quite. So, what was so urgent?”

“It seems a pity Viscount Richelieu is so hostile. He would be the obvious person to ask,” Aramis said.

“A pity or deliberate ploy?” Athos asked. “He stands to benefit from her death.”

“But her fortune is to go into a charitable trust,” Sylvie said.

“Is it? Or had it not been set up that way as yet? Her solicitors are also mine. I’ll have to ask some discreet questions.”

Edward came into the garden. “Inspector Treville, my lord.”

“John, come and take a seat,” Athos said. “Edward, another tea cup, if you would. And more hot water.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Treville came over and took a seat on a vacant chair. “I’m surprised you can sit, inspector,” Aramis said.

Athos’s friend looked thoroughly put out. “I don’t understand, doctor.”

“I mean, after the viscount finished chewing your tail.”

Treville managed a brief smile. “Indeed. And then the commissioner. He privately agrees with me that this case is not closed, but he can’t go against a ministerial edict.”

“No, but as we are not the police, we are free to talk to and enquire into anything we choose,” Athos said. “So long as we don’t step into the Yard.”

“And he doesn’t find out.”

“Tell me, John. If one of your junior officers was up on a charge and made such bluster about it, what would you think?”

Treville regarded Athos steadily. “That he was guilty as sin and trying to cover it up.”

“Exactly so. Earlier today, dear Sylvie pointed out that Lord Richelieu might make a very good suspect. I was reluctant to encourage that line of thought because, well, he’s a minister and noble, and ordinarily one doesn’t like to think of such men being capable of murder. But his performance this afternoon convinced me he has something to hide. Sylvie? Aramis?”

“I agree,” Sylvie said.

“I too,” said Aramis.

“But is he simply concealing a possible motive for murder, or murder itself?” Athos asked. “John, the will is likely the key to this. Porthos tells me Ninon’s wealth was to go to Richelieu so he could continue her charitable work. That’s a motive.”

“The man is wealthy in his own right,” Treville said. “Why would he need hers?”

“Why indeed? The question is how we find out without distressing your commissioner and endangering the seat of your trousers in the process.”

Chapter Text

As Porthos had urged him to do, Aramis gave notice at his lodgings the next day, and took his small collection of belongings out to his new patron’s elegant home. He knew he ought to be cheered by the generous sinecure and better residence, but his thoughts were still on Adele, and the other three women killed so foully.

True, Athos and Treville did not plan to abandon either investigation, but finding out who killed Lady Larroque looked to be the easier task, not to mention more urgent given Viscount Richelieu’s ability to muddy the waters now he was in sole charge of the lady’s estate. Aramis had picked up a copy of the Daily Telegraph that morning, and the headlines proclaiming that the killer of all four women was a foul fiend who had met his maker were in no small part due, he was sure, to Richelieu enthusiastically seeding the field.

Sylvie, Athos, and Treville all reluctantly agreed that it might be necessary to wait until Adele’s murderer showed his face at another brothel, or worse, killed another woman, before much progress could be made, since the commissioner had halted the Detective Branch’s investigation into those murders. Richelieu had forced him to declare Michael Hobbs the killer of all four, and thus no further funds needed to be expended on solving the crime.

Aramis could not accuse them of ignoring the problem, however. Athos planned to offer a reward of a hundred pounds to the first person offering information leading to a confirmed identification of their brothel visitor, and his staff and Porthos’s would be spreading the word that his lordship would be very generous to anyone providing information about this gentleman or the man—or men—who’d murdered Lady Larroque. It was also to be hoped that the publicity might halt the killer, at least for some time.

Porthos greeted Aramis warmly at his house, and after allowing Aramis to settle in, and providing refreshment, handed over a list of projects on which he wanted Aramis to consult. “Something to keep your mind off things,” he said kindly. “And I’ll have you know my boys and girls will be spreading the word about this.”

“Thank you. We owe it to the memory of the victims to warn other women about this man.”

“Yeah, we do. Not that he’s the only one out there preying on women, or the weak.”

Two days after he moved to Stoke Newington, he attended Adele’s funeral at the ‘actor’s church’, St Paul’s in Covent Garden. The church was packed, and Aramis was not the only unaccompanied man with wet eyes in the congregation. Viscount Richelieu was not there, much to Aramis’s disgust. The man had seen fit to make love to the beautiful Adele while she lived, but she wasn’t good enough in his eyes to pay his respects after her death.

Lord Delafere and Sylvie were there, however, and Sylvie took Aramis’s hands and expressed again how sorry she was for his loss. “It’s very good of you to come,” he said.

“Not at all,” Athos said. “The very least we could do. Inspector Treville sends his apologies, and his condolences.”

Aramis bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Any progress in your researches?”

A wicked light came into both their eyes. “Oh yes,” Athos said. “Expect exciting headlines any day now regarding the Greenwich matter. We have also had responses to my advertisement. Nothing useful as yet, but it’s caught the eye of many people who are well placed to provide information.” Athos placed his hand on Aramis’s arm. “We will find who did this.”

“I believe you. The viscount only made me more determined to unmask this murderer.”

“Same for me. I will not allow him to kick the matter of three dead women under the carpet along with his own misdeeds. But no more of this in public.”

“Of course.”

They were kind enough to take him back to Porthos’s house in Athos’s carriage, and remained for tea. There, Athos revealed that a man from Richelieu’s household had been arrested that very morning, had confessed to rape and murder and had implicated a second man, though not his lordship—yet. “I think he believes that he might have a chance of mercy from a judge, but none at all from the viscount, who has quite a reach. But the case does not rest solely upon his confession.”

“When will Lord Richelieu be arrested?” Samara asked.

“Ah, yes, that. It’s a delicate matter, as you can imagine. I spoke to the commissioner this morning, and he was meeting the Prime Minister this afternoon. I expect a warrant to be issued tomorrow morning.”

“That soon?” Samara laid her hand on her breast.

“We must move quickly to prevent him interfering with witnesses. Treville made sure he had affidavits in hand before he arrested this Gaudet. Richelieu’s only hope now would be to flee the country.”

“He wasn’t at the funeral,” Aramis said. “Do you think he might have run?”

“Nothing would surprise me concerning that man,” Athos said firmly. Though he had thought Richelieu would baulk at actually violating a woman of high rank. Apparently not.

As Athos promised, the house’s copy of The Times carried the headline “Warrant Issued for Arrest of Minister”, with the subheading, “Viscount Richelieu flees before arrest for conspiracy to murder.” Porthos summarised the information to Aramis and Samara over their breakfast table as he read. “Staff heard them quarrelling over her will the day before, and she had been to her solicitors the day she was killed to have a new one drafted up, keeping him right out of it. Richelieu was heavily in debt, so he needed the money.” He looked over the paper at them. “Treville told him about the other women’s deaths when he interviewed him about Adele, and that’s why they tried to make it look like the other killer did it. But he didn’t have enough details.”

“I hope they catch him,” Samara said.

“If they don’t, his life is still ruined,” Porthos said, patting her hand.

“Not good enough.” Aramis scowled. “For what he did to that lovely woman? For trying to stop the investigation into the other deaths? Hanging’s too good for him. Imprisoning him for life would be much better.”

“Send him to Australia,” Porthos said. “Let him live with the other convicts and work in chains.”

“I like that idea,” Samara said. “Simple exile isn’t harsh enough.”

Porthos grinned. “What a bloodthirsty lot we are. Not that all of this is any consolation to Ninon’s friends, including me. She will be missed.”

“Then we must make sure her work with poor women is continued.” Samara set down her tea cup. “We should set up a bank. Run by women, for women, lending to women at low interest, supporting women-run businesses. And call it the Larroque Memorial Bank. It’s all very well educating women, which is desperately needed, but there has to be a way for them not just to support themselves, but to earn good money, become middle-class. While women can earn more money as prostitutes than as seamstresses, they will always turn to prostitution. Money brings power.”

“Right, then you’re in charge of setting it up,” Porthos said. “And bring young Sylvie on board too. Athos will stake you for whatever you ask him.”

“You remember I’m about to have a child, my love?”

He smiled at her rotund belly, before reaching over to pet it. “Hard to forget, pet. You’re always telling me about women who worked until they were in labour. All you have to do is sit on a sofa and tell other people what to do. You’re good at that. Ouch.” He rubbed his ankle in an exaggerated fashion. “She’s beautiful but deadly.”

“All the best of God’s creations are,” Aramis said, smirking at her. She smiled graciously and lifted her cup again.

*******************************

The suggestion of a bank honouring Ninon and her causes soothed Athos’s sorrow at her death more than the destruction of Richelieu’s reputation and position, but he still ached over it. Not least because he had wasted four years of his friendship with her and others he valued in hiding.

Ironically, Anne’s ghost barely troubled him now. The harder he worked on setting up the bank, or on Porthos’s hospitals and refuges, or with Sylvie over the garrotting murders, the less he saw of his dead fiancée. Strange, he thought. He’d supposed Anne would resent him taking up his investigations again.

Thanks to Treville and Sylvie, they now had a potential name for the brothel visitor—François de Rochefort. No one had come forward to identify him, nor had the man been seen at another brothel—at least no report had come to Athos of this happening—but during the investigations in Richelieu, de Rochefort’s name and unusual background had come up. Sylvie had done the digging using official records, and discovered the man’s family were originally Russian, with the surname Rozovsky. They had settled in France before the Revolution, changing their name to Rochefort, and then to de Rochefort under Napoleon. One branch had settled in England, changing their name to Rockingham, but the others had remained in France. François de Rochefort had spent fifteen years in England, and spoke English with very little accent, so Sylvie had learned.

De Rochefort had been appointed the French ambassador to the Spanish court three years ago, but had been dismissed from the court October last for taking liberties with one of the Spanish princesses. He had returned to France in disgrace, and disappeared. No one had heard a word of him since.

“At one point he began to train as a doctor,” Treville said, when he had told them all this over dinner at Porthos’s house. “But abandoned it after a year.”

“That’s where I know him from!” Aramis exclaimed. “I saw him—or a man very like that—when I was in my third year at St Thomas’s. But he was not there very long, and I never worked alongside him. I didn’t know him very well. I didn’t even know his name.”

“Treville,” Athos said, “there was an adjutant called Rockingham in Crimea, do you recall? Blond chap. Same family?”

“Very likely. I can’t say he made an impression on me.”

“Died at Balaclava. Poor fellow. He was even greener than me. But this de Rochefort must bear a strong resemblance to his cousin, I suspect.”

“So, we think this man who goes to the brothers with the crown and dress is de Rochefort, perhaps acting out a fantasy he has with this Spanish princess,” Sylvie said. “But we have nothing to connect him with the murders.”

“No. But if we find de Rochefort,” Treville said, “we can question him. So we have to keep looking for him, or someone else who makes a better suspect.”

Another scrap of information had come as a result, not of the advertisement, but from the publicity over the murders Richelieu had stirred up as a smokescreen. A friend of the second victim, Justine Cookson, had come forward to say she and Justine had hoped to meet at Hampstead Heath, the weekend she died, but in the event, the friend had been taken ill with a cold and had remained home. When she’d heard Justine had been murdered, she had said nothing because she didn’t think it could be important.

“I took Adele twice to Hampstead Heath,” Aramis said. “To the Easter Fair.”

“Might she have gone when there wasn’t a fair?” Athos had asked.

“Possibly. She loved company, but she did love the clean air up on the hill.”

Two weeks later, another woman was found in the Thames—Marguerite Norman, a governess to a noble family, and related to nobility herself. Though there had not been a report of a prior brothel visit, this killing was in every respect exactly the same as the others. She had been violated and murdered just as the others, and gold flakes found in her hair. The only good that came from her murder was that her destination on the Sunday she’d been abducted was known—Hampstead Heath.

“That doesn’t help us much,” Treville opined to Athos and Sylvie. “The heath is far too big to patrol.”

“We don’t patrol randomly. We lure him to us.”

“Athos, are you thinking of using young women to act as bait?” Sylvie asked. To Treville’s horror, Athos nodded.

“We can’t!”

“Wait, John,” he said. “This will need careful planning, but I don’t propose to put a single hair on any woman’s head at the smallest risk.”

“The commissioner will have my head if you do. And yours.”

Porthos would be key to Athos’s nascent plan. However, Samara’s baby made her entrance to the world a little earlier than forecast, just five days after the latest murder. This joyful event might have possibly come at the price of another murder occurring unhindered, but the new mother would not have it. With her daughter, Marie, in her arms, Samara scolded husband and friends alike as they visited a week after the birth.

“I do not need a doctor or you in attendance every moment of the day,” she said. “I have maids, I have a wet nurse, I have footmen, and nothing will strike so suddenly that Aramis will have to be on the spot to attend to it. So you do what is needed, my darling. For as long as you need to.”

Porthos shrugged. “That’s us told, then.”

“It certainly is,” Sylvie said. Samara beckoned her over so she could hold the baby. Sylvie took her and cooed at her scrunched up little face, while Aramis helped Samara become more comfortable. “But please let us have an hour to admire your little girl.”

“One hour,” Samara said.

Athos looked at Sylvie holding the baby, and a part of his heart squeezed in pain. He forced his feelings deep down, where he didn’t have to acknowledge them. It didn’t help when Sylvie looked up and saw him watching her. She gave him such a warm dazzling smile he felt he might have to sit down, his legs went so weak.

As soon as this case was done, he would have to do something. Aramis was quite right that he couldn’t keep lying to the darling girl. Athos would have a word with Porthos too, see what he could come up with.

*******************************

The plan as it came to fruition was at once simple, and as complex as a military campaign. They had recruited ten girls of the correct physical type—Athos’s own employees, Fleur and Clara, were among them—and twenty people including police officers to shadow them as the girls promenaded up and down the most popular parts of the heath, near to roads where an insignia-less chaise might be parked. Each trio started in one sector, from ten drawn up by Athos and Treville, and they would patrol it for one hour, before moving to the next on in turn on the hour. They hoped to thus avoid suspicion for lingering too long any one location, while giving the killer enough time to spot the intended victim. Each trio would also note other women of a likely type, and keep an eye on them as much as they could.

Since they had no clear idea when the killer would strike, even if he chose the heath, which was by no means certain, Treville had agreed this exercise should take place every dry Sunday afternoon for a month. Athos had begged an extra Sunday for a dry run, which the inspector agreed to.

Athos was with Lucy, one of Porthos’s people—a woman of thirty, tough and strong, and carrying a pistol in her purse. Sylvie was with Porthos, Aramis and Treville both with servants from Porthos’s house, Constable d’Artagnan was partnered with Constance, and the rest of the guards were made up of constables and sergeants with their sweethearts, sisters or trusted friends. Athos was paying generous overtime for their trouble, so he hoped that would make up for the loss of their leisure.

The commissioner had not been told. Treville wanted to apologise after the fact, not ask for permission beforehand. The tactic was familiar to Athos, both as the practitioner and the target.

All of them carried weapons, and whistles to summon help. Police carried rattles to raise an alarm, but apart from the impracticality of such things on a supposed stroll on Hampstead Heath, the presence of a rattle would reveal the presence of police, which they were hoping to avoid.

Three weeks after the latest murder, the first Sunday trial was held and went reasonable well. A few delays in switching sectors, some miscommunication, all quite to be expected. Athos worked with his friends to refine the plan, and then presented it to Treville, who approved it. Fortunately, no woman turned up dead as a result of any failure on their part.

The second Sunday went without mishap or alarm. They were now within the period in which the killer was likely to strike, if he followed the same pattern as before, something they were by no means sure of. Athos still had concerns that concentrating on the Heath might easily mean they were looking in the wrong place, but Treville pointed out more than once that there was nothing they could do about that. “Better to do something than nothing. At least we can keep one group of women safe.”

The third Sunday was showery in the morning, but brightened up by the time they were all in position.  They walked their sectors dutifully for two hours, but then the clouds closed in once more, and a light rain began to fall. Athos erected his umbrella to shelter Lucy. “Should we go in?” he asked.

“Don’t bother me, your lordship. May as well stick it out for another hour before we bolt.”

“As you wish.”

Close to an hour later, the rain was heavier, and Athos was just about to call a halt when he heard a whistle being blown furiously. “Over there,” Lucy said, pointing up the hill towards The Spaniards. She ran, leaving him to trudge behind on his lame leg, slipping on the wet grass. By the time he reached her, a little group of his friends had surrounded a black clad gentleman bailed up by Constance with a pistol.

“What happened?” Athos gasped.

“He asked me if I wanted a ride home, your lordship,” Fleur said. “I recognised him at once, and elbowed him in the stomach.”

Athos came closer. “François de Rochefort?”

The man jerked a little in surprise, but then sneered. “Who is that? My name is George Rankin. What is the meaning of this? I demand you allow me to go on my way!”

Treville had arrived. “Where is your carriage, sir?”

“Why do I have to answer you? Who are you?”

“Inspector Treville of the Metropolitan Police. Answer the question.”

But d’Artagnan had run off, not waiting for the answer. “It’s over here!” he called.

Athos and Sylvie broke away from the throng to investigate. “D’Artagnan, how can you tell?” Athos asked when they reached him next to a small black chaise.

“Because there’s a bottle of chloroform and rope behind the seat, my lord.”

“We’ve got him,” Athos said to Sylvie.

“Yes, we have,” she said, throwing her arms around him and laughing, then doing the same to a startled d’Artagnan. Her impropriety was understandable in the circumstances.

Aramis was able to verify that their prisoner was the same man he knew from St Thomas’s, and his ring matched the description given by the madams, so that was that. Rankin—or whatever his name was—was taken into custody, and Athos promised to give Treville funds not only for the overtime, but a generous bonus for all the officers who’d taken part. His and Porthos’s servants could also expect handsome rewards.

The rain meant seeking shelter if they were not to go home immediately, so the friends and police officers who were not needed for the arrest, adjourned to The Spaniards. Athos did what he rarely did and used his title shamelessly to commandeer space, service, and drinks in an already crowded bar for all of them, offering a toast to his companions, and another in memory of the four dead women fallen to the killer they had caught.

Sylvie found Aramis had moved to the very edge of their company, holding a brandy while hugging himself. “Are you cold? You’re quite wet. Come stand by the fire.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said, his tone harsh.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, taking him further away from the throng to offer him some privacy.

“I thought it would feel better. Catching him, I mean. But all I feel is hollow and sad.”

She took the hand wrapped around his ribs, and held it between her own to warm it. “It doesn’t bring her back.”

“Nothing can do that. And now we will have the horrible business of a trial and evidence, the death penalty, the papers, the whole circus. As far away from what my lovely Adele was like as it’s possible to imagine.”

“I’m sure.” Words didn’t seem adequate to the pain he obviously felt, so she stood in silence, holding his hand, until he unwound a little and sipped his brandy. “What would help, right now? Do you want to go home? Stay here? Come to our house for supper?”

“Here, then home.” He made the effort to smile. “You really are a very kind person, my dear.”

“Does it require extraordinary kindness to want to help a friend in pain?”

“It takes kindness to see it, to make the move to help.” He brought her hand to his lips and bowed over it. “Though I will never not regret my darling Adele’s death, at least it brought me your friendship, and that of your Athos.”

“Your friendship is precious to both of us. Do come and stand by the fire a little though, and dry off. Being chilled will only make you more melancholy.”

She chivvied him until he agreed, and once he was by the fire, Porthos made his way over to them. “Thought I was missing someone,” he said, putting his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “A sad celebration, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then we’ll be quiet tonight, so we can think of those we didn’t help in time. Eat some hot soup, drink some wine, and you can tell Samara and me more about your lady so we can all remember what a fine person she was.”

Aramis managed to smile. “That sounds just right to me, my friend.”

Sylvie thought Aramis was in good hands now, so she went back to Athos, who was talking to Constance and Fleur about exactly what had happened. “He had his hand on her and the way he did it, I thought, that’s not someone being helpful. That’s someone taking possession. Just as Fleur elbowed him, I told d’Artagnan to blow the whistle as hard as he could and I ran over with the pistol in my hand. Good thing we weren’t mistaken.” Athos grinned along with her.

“He had such horrible eyes,” Fleur said, rubbing her arms as if cold. “And his voice sent shivers up my spine.”

“He must be able to turn on the charm if he could convince four women to go with him,” Sylvie said as she heard this.

“I suppose because I knew what he was about,” Fleur said. “Even though you and Charles were right there.”

“You were all quite splendid today,” Athos said. “Everyone did their job, and the plan worked without a single person being hurt or another woman killed. Constance, I believe there’s a constable looking for you.”

“Where?” She turned around and saw d’Artagnan nursing a beer with a wistful expression.

Sylvie nudged her. “Go on, for heaven’s sake. He’s quite smitten, you realise.”

“Is he? He should have said.”

“Don’t tease,” Sylvie said. “Go on.”

Constance obeyed, and they watched d’Artagnan’s face light up as she approached. “Finally,” Sylvie said, smiling at Fleur and Athos.

“Are you meddling, my darling?”

“Unashamedly, my dear Athos. Porthos is taking care of Aramis, which he needs, so apart from taking everyone home, we are all done. And done in,” she said, sagging dramatically.

“The exercise is good for you,” Athos said.

“Not for your leg. I saw how you were limping.”

“Even for my leg,” he assured her. “But yes, once the rain lets up, we should send people home or where they need to be. Unfortunately, our carriage is all the way down the hill.”

“Then I shall have to carry you, won’t I? Fleur and I can make a little chair for you with our arms, and you can travel in fine style.”

“You would do it, wouldn’t you? Just to embarrass me to death.”

She kissed his cheek. “Of course,” she said fondly. “You look so handsome when you blush.”

He really did need to talk to her, Athos thought.

Chapter Text

Four days later, Sylvie and Athos were invited to Great Scotland Yard to see the commissioner. Inspector Treville was in attendance too. “My lord, Miss Boden,” the commissioner said as he bowed. “Please do take a seat. I asked you here today to receive my personal thanks for your efforts on behalf of the Metropolitan police. And to apologise for the way you were treated recently in this office, though that was not by my choosing.”

“We quite understand,” Athos said, inflecting his voice with the lazy drawl Sylvie recognised as him using his rank for the purpose of making a point. “I hope future attempts to pervert justice in a similar manner will be recognised for what they are.”

The man gave an embarrassed cough. “Yes, indeed they will.” He glanced at Treville. “The inspector will now give you a summary of what has been discovered about the man apprehended last Sunday.”

“My lord, Miss Boden,” Treville said, with only the smallest twitch of his lips. “The man is indeed François de Rochefort, currently using several aliases, one of which is George Rankin. He came to England in January after his dismissal from the Spanish court. Interestingly he is a long-time agent of the absent Viscount Richelieu, though the viscount is not accused of any part in these murders.”

Athos raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Treville continued. “He has been living with an elderly, distant relative in Hammersmith. Her property backs directly onto the Thames. When we searched his rooms, we found the gloves of all four victims, a wooden crown painted in the Russian manner, the dress described to us by the prostitutes, and a garrotte. His relative goes to visit friends in Kent every month or so, leaving the house and carriage for him while she’s away. He used the house’s basement for his activities, and when he had tired of his perverted activities, he dumped the bodies over the wall into the river.”

“He’s made a confession?”

“Yes,” Treville confirmed. “He’s behaving now in a somewhat deranged manner, but as there was no derangement obvious when he was arrested, we believe this may be a ploy to avoid the death penalty.”

“Most likely,” Athos agreed. “Have you any news of the viscount?”

“Sadly, no. Descriptions have been sent to our colonial officers, of course. His bank will alert us if he attempts to move funds. Also, Lady Larroque’s will cannot be acted upon until he is tried, so he can’t use her money either.”

“Good,” Sylvie murmured.

Athos nodded. “I trust you will not reprimand any of your officers for assisting with our plan, commissioner?” he said.

The man squirmed a little. “No, I won’t. I don’t, er, encourage unauthorised activities but in the circumstances, I understand why it was necessary. I would also like to invite you, whenever you feel moved to do so, to offer any assistance you may wish to the Detective Branch. Our capacity to investigate crime is unfortunately very small, and help from capable civilians should not be refused.”

“Excellent. I can’t speak for my ward, but for my own sake, I am happy to help. I spent too long ignoring my responsibilities,” he added with a look at Treville.

“Through most unhappy circumstances, I believe,” the commissioner said.

“Is that all?” Athos asked.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, both of you, for coming to see me. The force is in your debt.”

Treville walked them out to the carriage. “I hope you don’t mind me saying how thoroughly satisfying it has been to catch this man with your help, Athos, Sylvie.”

Sylvie offered him her hand. “Working with you has been a sincere pleasure, inspector.”

“She speaks for both of us,” Athos said, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Will you continue, Sylvie? You have a great talent.”

“I hope to, yes.”

Athos cleared his throat. “There are many claims on Sylvie’s undoubted talents right now, John. It’s up to her which she accepts.”

Treville gave him the briefest puzzled frown. “Of course. I’ll let you get on your way. Thank you for coming.”

Once settled, Sylvie murmured, “I’m sure I can work with Samara and with Treville, should the need arise, Athos.”

“Let’s talk about this at home, shall we?”

Athos’s smile was tight now. What was on his mind?

Once at home, he called for tea in the garden. “Join me, my dear?” he said to her.

The day was hot, but the shade under the birch tree was delicious, and the roses smelled so wonderful in the warm air. Athos waited until Clara had brought the tea and poured, then asked her to make sure they weren’t disturbed. She curtseyed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Now you have me worried,” Sylvie said.

“For no reason, my darling. It’s simply a conversation long past due, and now you are twenty-four, I can delay no longer, no matter how much I wish to. You are of an age where you can truly do whatever you want—marry, travel, set up a business, live at leisure in your own house—” She started to protest but he raised his hand. “Please let me finish, dear. As I mentioned the other day in a rather clumsy manner, I should have given you status to match your incomparable worth, but I failed to.”

“Aramis explained that,” she said quickly. “It’s all right. I don’t mind, I assure you.”

“Aramis?”

“He explained what you meant about not feeling fatherly towards me. I understand now.” She smiled to reassure him, but he still looked confused. “Athos, you owe me nothing. You have given me a home, all manner of good things, but most of all, you have given me your friendship, which I value above anything else in the world.”

He coughed. “Ah, yes. Thank you. But in a practical sense, you need more than that. Which is why I plan to settle on you a handsome sum of money which will allow you to marry whomever you chose, whatever their income, or remain unwed and independent. Or to travel wherever you might desire.”

“Thank you, but you don’t—”

“I do, darling. I really do. The other question is where you should live. Porthos would be glad—delighted, in fact—to have you at his house. Or I can set you up in a house of your own, under your own name, wherever it suits you.”

She stared at him in dismay. “But I don’t want to live anywhere else. This is my home. With you.”

He shook his head, and a lump of ice settled in her stomach. “No, Sylvie dear. You can’t. It’s not seemly. Not any longer.”

“You...don’t want me to live here?”

He drew in a breath. “I think it would be best if you did not in future.”

She stood, voice stolen by shock, and ran into the house, ignoring his calls. She ran into the kitchen and over to Constance, before bursting into tears. Constance wrapped her arms around her. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

“He wants me to leave! He wants to get rid of me!”

“Athos? Never.” She took them both over to the table and sat her on the bench. “Athos would cut off his hands before he made you leave.”

“But he said it! He says it’s not seemly. Why? Constance? What’s wrong with me living here? I can be a servant if he wishes. I would clean his boots all day if he let stay here with him and with all of you!”

Constance petted the sobbing girl and bit her lip. She had a very strong suspicion as to what was behind this sudden decision by her employer—and behind Sylvie’s distress. “Now, now, darling, calm down. This can all be sorted out, I promise.”

“I won’t leave. I would sleep on the doorstep if I had to.”

“You won’t have to do that.” She stroked her hair, then heard a sound at the door. Athos stood there, his face white and rigid. She cocked her head and mouthed ‘not now’ at him. He nodded and went away.

When Sylvie had calmed, Constance fetched her some water and made her drink it. “Now, what did he say?”

“What I told you. He’ll give me money, a house, whatever I want, but I can’t stay here. Why? What have I done?”

“Nothing at all, except be a beautiful, clever, kind, loving young woman.”

Sylvie’s eyes filled again. “If I had to leave him, I would die.”

“If I’ve guessed right, it’ll hurt him just as much to let you go.”

“But then, why must I?”

“A good question.” She kissed Sylvie’s temple. “I’m going to make you some tea, and while you drink it, I’ll go and find Athos. I’m sure this can be sorted out.”

Sylvie clutched at her. “Don’t make him angry!”

“Athos, angry at you? I doubt it.” Constance released himself. “Please be calm, darling. All will be well.”

She made the tea and left the sniffling girl to drink it, though she would rather have stayed. However, Athos needed to be spoken to more urgently, so she went in search. She found him in the garden again, staring at nothing. “That was handled most ill, my lord.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at her. “But she can’t stay. Constance, she breaks my heart every day, and I fear I will do or say something to alarm her if she doesn’t. Porthos would have her in a trice, as a guest, as a governess, anything. Or I can find her a house. You could keep house for her if you like? Yes, that would make her happy. Let her have her friends around her.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Or you could tell her how you feel.”

“I can’t. She sees me as a friend only. She said that again just now. I’m too old for her, you know that well.”

“I do no such thing. Sylvie adores you. She follows you with her eyes wherever you go.”

“I know she does. But only as a friend. I can’t possibly tell her I love her in another way without it being the worst betrayal of her trust.”

“You’re a damn fool, Athos. And a coward.”

“No, he’s not.”

They both turned towards the back door. “Don’t call him those things, Constance. He’s neither a fool nor a coward.”

“I have my reasons for saying it,” Constance said darkly.

“Then tell me why you abuse the best man I know? I didn’t realise you were looking for him to heap insults on his head.”

Athos held up his hand. “Sylvie...Constance is right. Don’t ask her to break a confidence.”

“Why? Because I might be hurt? How could I hurt more than I do now, Athos?” She ran to him and knelt at his feet. “Please let me stay? I love you so much.”

“And I love you more than life, my dear, sweet Sylvie. But since I can’t marry you, I must send you away.”

Sylvie sat back on her heels. Constance pursed her lips. Do not botch this, Athos.

“Why can’t you marry me? Are you secretly wed to another?”

Athos let out a humourless laugh. “Not at all. But, sweet girl, I would only marry another who loved me in the way a wife loves a husband. Not as a friend loves another friend.”

She gazed up at him with tear-filled eyes, and put his hand on his knee. “Do you love me as a husband loves a wife?”

He covered her hand with his own. “Sadly, I do. Don’t think I would ever—”

Sylvie frowned. “She’s right. You are a fool. Because I love you that way too. As a friend, and as a wife would, if you allowed it. But I thought you would never—”

“You’re both fools,” Constance said, smiling and shaking her head. She came over to stroke Sylvie’s hair, and kiss Athos’s head. “Talk. Do not come inside until you have agreed on a wedding date.”

“Constance!” Sylvie exclaimed with a laugh.

“What? Do you need yet more time pining and yearning and learning the best and worst of each other? You’ll be the death of me, the pair of you. Athos? Do your duty.”

His lips twitched in amusement. “Yes, Mistress Bonacieux.”

“Good.” She stomped back into the house unable to stop herself grinning madly.

*******************************

Sylvie rose and Athos stood to hold her in his arms. “Do you mean it?” he whispered.

“You can be so very stupid, my dear, beloved Athos.” She tilted her face, and if that wasn’t clear enough an invitation, Athos had never seen one. He kissed her carefully, giving her a chance to pull away.

But she did not, instead pressing her mouth more insistently against his, while her arms went around him. “I only allowed myself to dream of you,” she said against his cheek. “But I thought I was being childish. So many better women could have you.”

“Now who’s the stupid one, my darling?” He kissed her again, daring the enjoy the swell of her breasts against him, and the taste of her lovely mouth. “I can hardly believe this. I didn’t even permit myself to dream, let alone hope.”

“We are truly both fools,” she said, smiling.

“There is one thing that still besets me, love. Anne. She haunts me. Her ghost follows me. It’s why I drink. Drank. Some days I get no peace at all, for her watching me and weeping.”

She stared into his eyes. “Does she watch you now?”

“No. Strangely, she hasn’t for some time. Not since I began work on Ninon’s case.”

“Maybe she was crying because you had forbidden yourself to work for justice?”

“You give her more credit than I had, darling.”

“Because I knew, as she must do, that her death was not your fault. And though you could not save her, you can and have saved many other women’s lives. If she loved you as much as I do, she must have wanted you to do what you are best at. I’m sure she did love you,” she added, stroking his cheek.

“Yes, I believe she did. I hope you’re right.” Athos kissed her again. “Now, I will have to disobey our dear housekeeper because I can’t set a date until we speak to the vicar, but will you marry me the very instant we can do?”

“Yes, I will. Don’t you dare make me wait for dresses and rings and nonsense. I would marry you in rags, so long as it’s soon as possible.”

Athos grinned until his face felt like it would break. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Shall we go and annoy Constance together?”

“Yes, let’s. My lord,” she added, curtseying, before he pulled her up to kiss her lovely, cheeky mouth again.