The door opened.
“Mrs. Warwick will see you,” the butler announced. He looked as if he strongly disapproved of the decision.
Amity gave him a cool smile and stepped briskly into the spacious, elegantly appointed front hall. Benedict followed her.
The butler escorted them into the library. A woman in a dove-gray gown stood at the window, looking out into the garden. Her once-dark hair was rapidly turning the same shade as her dress. She carried herself with a rigid elegance, as if the only thing that kept her upright was a steel corset.
“Dr. Norcott and his assistant, madam,” the butler said.
“Thank you, Briggs.”
Charlotte Warwick did not turn around. She waited until the butler closed the door.
“Have you come here to tell me that my son’s case is hopeless, Dr. Norcott?” she asked. “If so, you made an unnecessary journey. I have resigned myself to the knowledge that Virgil must spend the rest of his life at Cresswell Manor.”
“In that case, why did you insist that he be released into your custody?” Amity asked.
The shock that went through Charlotte was visible. She gasped and stiffened.
Recovering, she turned quickly, her lips parted in astonishment and, perhaps, panic.
“What do you mean?” Charlotte began. She stopped. Anger refocused her expression. “Who are you?” She glared at Benedict. “You are not Dr. Norcott.”
“Benedict Stanbridge, madam,” Benedict said. “My fiancée, Miss Doncaster. You may have heard of her. She is the woman who was recently kidnapped by your son.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. How dare you lie to get into this house?”
Charlotte reached for the velvet bell pull.
“I’d advise you not to summon your butler, madam,” Benedict said. “Not unless you want to be responsible for leaving Virgil free to commit more murders.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Charlotte said. She sounded as if she was having trouble breathing. “Get out of here.”
“We will leave as soon as you tell us where your son is hiding,” Benedict said. “If he is truly insane, he will not hang. He will be sent back to the asylum. We all know that you have the money it takes to ensure such an outcome.”
Charlotte collected herself. She went to stand behind her desk, gripping the back of the chair with clenched hands.
“It is none of your business, but let me be perfectly clear,” she said evenly. “My son is currently taking a cure for a disorder of the nervous system. His health is a private matter. I do not intend to discuss it, certainly not with you.”
“Your son has murdered at least four women that we know of and very probably his wife, as well,” Benedict said. “Three weeks ago he kidnapped my fiancée with the intention of murdering her, too.”
“No,” Charlotte insisted. “No, that’s not true. His nerves are far too delicate. He would never do something so violent.”
“What do you mean by delicate?” Amity asked.
“He cannot stand any great strain or pressure. It takes very little to agitate him. I have always handled the details of life for him, his finances, his social engagements, his household staff.”
“Your son enjoys the hobby of photography, doesn’t he?” Benedict said, unrelenting.
Charlotte hesitated. “My son possesses an artistic temperament. That explains his delicate nerves and his moods. He found his métier in photography. How did you know that? Not that it matters. It is a common enough hobby.”
“The day he tried to seize me I fought back,” Amity said. “He was badly injured.”
“He told me that he was attacked by a common whore,” Charlotte whispered. “It was an argument about money. He may have overreacted.”
Benedict tensed and started to move forward. Never taking her eyes off Charlotte, Amity put her hand on his arm. He stopped but she could feel the fierce energy roiling inside him.
Charlotte never noticed the byplay. She concentrated on the story she was telling. Amity knew that she was desperately trying to convince herself.
