He’s got Amity and Penny,” Benedict said. He did not take his eyes off the tessen where it lay on Penny’s desk. “The bastard was there in the crowd tonight. He kidnapped her while I was no more than a few yards away.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Logan said. “It’s obvious he used Penny to force Amity to leave the ballroom quietly. That’s the only thing that makes sense, the only reason for taking both of them. He probably terrified Amity by telling her that he would murder her sister if she didn’t go with him.”
“I thought he was a new constable,” Mrs. Houston whispered. She rocked back and forth in the chair, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “I can’t believe I offered him tea and a fresh muffin.”
“You were overpowered, Mrs. Houston,” Cornelius said. “He used chloroform on you and very likely on Mrs. Marsden, as well.”
They had arrived in Exton Street to find Constable Wiggins unconscious in the park and Mrs. Houston sprawled on the kitchen floor. The house was dark. Penny was gone.
Fury and fear were stirring up an icy witch’s brew of emotion in Benedict. It was all he could do to tamp down some of the toxic sensations so that he could think. When he met Logan’s eyes across the short distance of the study, he knew the other man was exerting the same exacting self-control. They were both well aware that their only hope now was to remain coolheaded enough to think through the logic of the situation.
The knocker sounded on the front door. Mrs. Houston leaped to her feet and hurried away to answer it. Benedict heard voices in the front hall. A moment later Declan Garraway appeared. He looked as if he had just been dragged out of bed and given only a few minutes to dress—which was, indeed, the case, Benedict thought.
It had been his idea to send for Garraway, but Logan and Cornelius had welcomed the plan, such as it was. They needed all the insights they could get.
“What is it?” Declan asked. He clutched his hat and stared at the small group in the study. “The constable said that Mrs. Marsden and Miss Doncaster have been kidnapped by that monster they call the Bridegroom.”
“The bastard’s name is Virgil Warwick and he’s got them both,” Benedict said. “We have to find them by morning. Our only hope is to locate the studio where he photographs his victims.”
“I’ll help you in any way I can, of course,” Declan said. “But I don’t know how I can be of service.”
“We know considerably more about the son of a bitch than we did the last time you gave us your opinions.” Logan swept out a hand to indicate the small notebooks on the desk. “Stanbridge and I have arranged everything for you to review with us. If there is any clue in our findings, we must discover it and soon.”
Declan took a deep breath and moved closer to the desk. He looked down at the notes.
“Tell me what you have learned about him in the past few days,” he said.
A short time later Declan put down the notes that he had made while Benedict and Logan filled him in on the new discoveries.
“I think,” he said, “that Virgil Warwick would value control above all else. He is a perfectionist when it comes to his photography. It takes time to get a portrait right. He will need a secure studio, one in which he can be assured of privacy. He’ll take his victims to a place in which he is certain he will not be discovered.”
Cornelius shifted in the depths of the reading chair. “That makes sense. But he won’t risk taking them to his own house or his mother’s, either. He will know that we are aware of both of those locations.”
Benedict looked at the notes spread out on the desk. A great certainty settled on him.
“There is only one way Virgil Warwick can be relatively certain that he won’t be discovered,” he said.
Thirty-nine
Charlotte Warwick sat rigidly upright in the chair behind her desk. She had been in bed when Benedict and Logan had arrived on the doorstep. She had sent word that she would see them in the morning. When Benedict had informed the butler that the visit concerned her son, she had donned a dressing gown and slippers and come downstairs to meet with them. The three of them were now closeted in the library.
“You said this was about Virgil.” Charlotte gripped the polished wooden arms of the chair as though hoping it would keep her afloat in the storm that had overtaken her. She stared at Benedict and Logan. “I have told you everything I know. What do you want from me?”
“Your son abducted two women tonight,” Logan said.
“Dear heaven, no.” Charlotte’s face twisted in anguish.
“He will murder them both before this night is over if we do not stop him,” Benedict said.
Charlotte released her desperate grip on the chair and buried her face in her hands. “This cannot be happening.”
Benedict planted both hands on the top of the desk and leaned toward her. “Look at me, Mrs. Warwick. You know what your son is. You have known all along and that is something you will have to live with for the rest of your life. All we want from you tonight is an address.”
Charlotte raised her head, her eyes wet with tears. “Virgil’s address? But you already know it.”
“Not his house,” Logan said, “his studio—the place where he takes his victims to photograph them before he murders them.”
Charlotte looked dazed. “I don’t know what to tell you. If he is not at his house there is no telling where he may have gone.”
