She straightened and started to turn, her aim to locate the tinderbox she kept on her nightstand, when a pair of large hands captured her throat. She opened her mouth, attempted to scream, but couldn’t even manage a gasp as the fingers dug deeper and cut off her breath.
Terrified, she stared at the window, at her own blurry figure reflected in the wet glass, and the larger man standing behind her. Tears welled in her eyes. She clawed at the hands that gripped her, kicked herattacker’s shins, and did what she could to wriggle free.
None of it worked.
He was much stronger than she, and her strength waned with each breath she was denied. Her heart fluttered desperately. It begged her to keep on fighting. But it was no use.
She had already lost
Chief Constable Peter Kendrick removed his hat as he entered Orendel House. Given the circumstances, a somber atmosphere wasn’t surprising. But the gloom he encountered in the elegant foyer was unparalleled.
Servants stood near the walls, slumped like wilting plants. Maids wept while the male servants stared into nothing, their stricken expressions underscoring the horror they’d woken up to. Even the butler struggled to speak when he offered to take Peter’s hat, his voice cracking before he averted his gaze.
“Where are the earl and countess?” Peter asked.
The butler gave his eyes a quick swipe and straightened his posture. “In the parlor with their…remaining children.” Someone sobbed and the old man’s expression twisted with grief. “As you can no doubt imagine, this is terribly difficult for them. They asked me to show you upstairs.”
“Very well.”
He followed the butler, one step at a time, a coupleof Runners at his back. They arrived on the landing, their footfalls muted by the plush carpet lining the hardwood floor. A few more paces and then…
The butler paused and gestured toward a door. “Through there. I realize I ought to come with you, but… Do you mind if I remain here?”
“Not at all.” Peter reached Lady Eleanor’s bedchamber doorway and froze. A sick feeling caught hold of his stomach. Ghastly didn’t come close to describing the scene he beheld. This was the sort of thing that could make men lose all hope in humanity. It was…barbaric.
“Good lord,” murmured Anderson, the Runner standing at Peter’s right shoulder.
Anderson’s colleague, Lewis, only managed a faint, “Excu…” before he bolted for the stairs, no doubt hoping to make it outside before he vomited.
Peter swallowed and took a deep breath, then entered the room. It hadn’t been so long ago since another young woman’s body was found – the last in a series of brutal murders that left him baffled for more than a year. But that killer was dead, so it couldn’t be the same man who’d acted here.
Besides, this was different and shockingly worse.
He clenched his jaw, reminded himself that he had a job to accomplish. There was just…so much blood. It felt like the room was bathed in it. And the victim…
Forcing himself to employ an analytical mindset, he considered her position on the bed and the clean blanket draped over her torso and legs.
“I’ll need the usual sketches,” he said.
“Already working on it,” Anderson told him, his voice gruff.
“You may want to wait a moment.” Peter studied Lady Eleanor’s face and the empty eye sockets that seemed to mock him. “Until I’ve removed the blanket.”
“Sir?”
“It doesn’t belong. Someone placed it here after the fact, no doubt to protect her modesty.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “If you’ll please shut the door.”
A firm click followed and then, “Why would the bastard take her eyes?”
“I don’t know. Could be a trophy of sorts. There’s no telling what goes on in such vile creatures’ heads.”
Slowly, with respect and consideration directed toward the poor young woman whose body lay on the bed before him, Peter folded back the blanket and shuddered. Whatever nightgown she’d worn to bed was gone, her naked body left on display.
Air rushed into Peter’s lungs on a sharp inhalation. She’d been stabbed too many times to count, as though her attacker hadn’t been able to stop. And her neck – the skin there was a bright red shade.
Swallowing, he surveyed the rest of the room while Anderson kept on drawing.
A vase lay on the floor near one of the windows, smashed to pieces. The flowers were strewn across the Aubusson rug. They’d probably ended up there during a struggle. Peter lowered himself to a crouch, hisfingertips testing a dark brown stain and feeling the wetness. Mud.
