Page 70

Gideon suspected they were, but it did not strike him as unique front garden decor. “Possibly,” he murmured. “At Kerrigan’s house, there was a statue of Minerva.”

“Yes, I remember. Did you notice that painting of his wife and the way her gown was draped? Was that the Roman style?”

“I suppose it was.”

“She had a bow and arrow, like it was a costume, as if she was posed. And there was a moon painted in the sky. Is Diana not the Roman goddess of the hunt and the moon?”

“Diana Braxton,” Gideon murmured. It felt as if they were reaching, perhaps too ambitiously, to tie Kerrigan’s decor to the disappearance of Iris. And perhaps the murder of Calliope and the others. Surely, he was not the only educated man to have statuary and art that evoked the Roman pantheon, though his direct access to both young women could not be denied.

“Do you think it’s Archibald Kerrigan?” Electra asked, but then she continued before he could answer. “Yet he is the Keeper of Medieval Antiquities. Not Greek and Roman, though that doesn’t mean he would not have an interest in other eras.”

Gideon’s thoughts had followed much the same path, and yet he struggled to see how the man’s historical interests could be linked to a desire to harm Iris Delacourt, or to the strangulation of three other young ladies.

“Why would he harm two women who work for him? And what cause would he have to know a shopgirl and a dressmaker?”

“I do not know.” She handed him the letter. “I wish I had seen more.”

“You saw the stack of books, and it tells me we should at least speak to Kerrigan again. Perhaps attempt to have a look at his study or any desk he has in his town house.”

Electra nodded.

“I must go to Vine Street to see if any of the constables have anything new to report about the inquiries they’ve made. I suspect you will wish to return to Russell Square.”

“Yes.”

“Good, then let us say I will come to Russell Square in an hour or so, and we can proceed from there.”

She stood and gave him a half-smile, then crossed the room to collect her boots, which he’d set carefully near the foot of the settee.

Gideon started toward the stairs to wash and change his clothes, but he stopped on the first step. “I should offer you tea or something for breakfast.” He was not used to having overnight guests. Indeed, Electra was his first.

At that, she gave him a wider smile. “Worry not, there will be plenty at Kit and Cordelia’s. She has the staff put on quite a spread for breakfast.”

“Shall I go out front to hail a cab for you?”

“I’m quite capable of securing my own hansom cab, Gideon.” Her voice held a warm, playful tone.

He nodded, trying to overcome the awkwardness of this parting after a most unexpected evening. “Then I shall see you shortly?”

“Yes, I’ll be ready.” She sat to put on and lace up her boots.

Gideon felt oddly reluctant to continue up the stairs. He didn’t want to let her go. It was ridiculous. He had work to do. She needed time to refresh herself. And they had a case they needed to pursue.

Yet he couldn’t force himself away from her.

He watched as she wrapped her hair into a simple knot at the back of her head, then collected her coat, and walked toward his front door. At the threshold, she turned back, and their eyes met and held.

A smile touched her lips, not a polite construction as she offered to others. This was the tip-tilted smile that he’d made it his mission to coax out of her when they were younger. Yet in her eyes he saw a hint of the same yearning that filled his own chest whenever she was near. It felt like a promise, a reassurance, that what she’d said last night was not a mistake or anything she regretted.

Chapter Seventeen

As her hansom cab rolled toward Russell Square, Electra contemplated the letter she’d held and the images she’d seen. Why had she only been able to see something so banal? Nothing that would help them find Iris or the man who’d hurt Miss Collier and others.

She fixated on the pile of books, and then her thoughts went immediately to Wakefield.

Would a doctor be keen on ancient history and literature?

He was the one they’d talked to last night. Had it somehow provoked him to send this odd letter? Did he have Iris somewhere and simply needed the family to know that she was alive? Though, of course, he had to know that it wouldn’t stop anyone from asking questions. Not the Delacourts, and certainly not Scotland Yard.