“No,” Benedict said automatically. “I’m not putting you within arm’s reach of that bastard.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Amity said. “But as we all know, I am the only one who might be able to identify him. I need to hear his voice, see his hands and smell the scent of his cigarettes.”
“No,” Benedict said again.
Logan and Penny remained quiet. Benedict knew that he was fighting a losing battle.
“Keep in mind,” Amity said, “that he does not know that I might be able to recognize him. He wore a mask. I’m sure he considers his secret safe.”
Benedict closed one hand into a fist and then forced himself to relax his fingers.
“Damn it to hell,” he said very, very softly.
She was right. There was no other option.
Less than an hour later, Benedict stood with Amity on the front steps of Virgil Warwick’s town house. The drapes were closed on all of the windows. No one responded to a knock on the door.
“The bastard is gone,” Benedict said.
The door of the neighboring house opened. The housekeeper, a middle-aged, sour-looking woman in a grimy apron peered out at them.
“Mr. Warwick ain’t home,” she announced. “Heard he left for Scotland nearly a month ago. Got a hunting lodge there, someone said.”
“Is that so?” Amity said politely. “How did you discover that?”
“The housekeeper mentioned it. She was let go, you know. She was told that she would be notified when it was time to open up the house again. Expect she’ll find a new post before he comes back, though, just like the last housekeeper did when he disappeared for months on end.”
Benedict took Amity’s arm. They went down the steps and walked toward the housekeeper.
“When do you expect him to return?” Benedict asked, taking some coins out of his pocket.
The housekeeper eyed the money with acute interest.
“Got no notion,” she said. “Last time he went off to Scotland, he was gone some six months. Real fond of Scotland, he is. Can’t imagine why.”
“When did he leave on that first trip?” Benedict asked.
“About a year ago.”
Amity smiled. “Did you happen to notice if he took a lot of luggage with him this time?”
“Never saw him leave, not this time or the last time, for that matter.” The housekeeper snorted. “On both occasions he just went out one night and never bothered to come home.”
“Thank you,” Benedict said. He dropped the coins into the housekeeper’s outstretched hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”
The woman closed the door and shot the bolt.
Benedict looked at Amity. He could see the excitement in her eyes. He had a hunch there was a very similar gleam in his own expression. Neither of them spoke, however, until they were back in the cab.
“Mr. Warwick was gone for some six months the last time he disappeared to Scotland,” Amity said.
“And now he has disappeared again,” Benedict said. “The timing certainly fits Logan’s theory that the killer was out of town between the first killing and the more recent murders.”
“Do you suppose he actually is in Scotland?”
“Perhaps he went there the first time,” Benedict said. “But it strikes me that a man who was badly injured would not be in any condition to undertake a long journey by train or private carriage. It seems likely he would select a closer lair in which to recuperate.”
An excited Mrs. Houston opened the front door before Amity could take out her key. But one look at their faces and the housekeeper’s initial anticipation transformed into a look of dismay.
