Chapter 30 #2
He would do whatever had to be done to protect her. And to figure out what that would be, he had to assess both crime scenes. “Would you like to sit in the carriage while I work, or do you prefer to wait here?”
“I’ll wait here.”
Peter eased away from her and offered a smile that he hoped would provide reassurance. Taking her hand, he gave it a squeeze then called for Lewis to join them.
“Can you please sit with Miss Hastings while I investigate?” Peter asked the Runner.
“Certainly,” Lewis replied. “Would be a pleasure.”
Peter stood and waited a second to make sure Gabriella would not fall apart the second he left. When he saw that she’d be all right for now, he picked up the lantern and returned to the parlor.
Once inside, he took a deep breath, expelled it, and scrubbed his face with his palm. Right. Time to get on with the business at hand.
He directed his gaze toward the body that lay on the floor. The legs were twisted sideways, the face slightly averted. Swallowing, he banked his emotions and crossed the floor.
The light from the lantern fell on the woman’s face and Peter immediately froze in horror. Not because of the glassy eyes staring back at him as if in surprise, or because her lips, parted in death, were partially painted with blood.
No. It was because he recognized her. He’d seen this woman before. This was the maid Mrs. Croft had alerted him to after Orwell’s murder. Miss Sally Jones, if memory served. He’d spoken to her for at least ten minutes. Only to dismiss her as inconsequential.
Christ have mercy, she’d been within his grasp and he’d let her go.
Guilt gnawed its way through his chest until every heartbeat ached. Thanks to his stupidity, Kipling was now dead as well while Gabriella would be forever marked by what had occurred here this evening.
An unforgiveable tragedy for which he alone was to blame.
Nothing he did from this moment on would ever make up for the loss he’d caused. By God, a man was dead. Yet Miss Hastings still lived and she needed him now more than ever. A reminder that forced him to shuck his own emotional upheaval so he could get on with his job.
He swallowed and drew a deep breath, which somehow managed to steady his chaotic pulse, then proceeded to study Miss Jones with a professional eye.
Blonde wisps of frizzy hair brushed her brow. Several loose strands were fanned out behind her head. She was fairly young, he determined. No older than Miss Hastings.
Her gown, a lovely shade of deep blue, was slightly askew, the bodice so thoroughly stained there was no denying the horror of what had occurred.
She’d been stabbed multiple times. So many, in fact, Peter would have believed the perpetrator to be an unhinged lunatic, had he not been privy to more information.
A sliver of concern settled against his spine.
He’d told Gabriella all would be well but what if he was mistaken?
They didn’t even know if Miss Jones had any relatives or what kind of trouble they might cause.
Yes, she’d killed three men, but could they prove it?
Could they make a believable case in Gabriella’s favor?
No one had been here to witness what happened. Had they?
He stared at the mutilated body. First things first, he needed to get a statement from Lewis, Anderson, and from Gabriella herself. Doctor Fellowes would write a report based on his findings, and then…
Peter shook his head. This was his domain. He believed in the law, but would it be on Gabriella’s side in this instance? What if no one believed she’d acted correctly?
Surely the victim upstairs would lend credence to the threat there had been to her life? But… How had she actually survived her encounter with such an unscrupulous woman? Naturally, he was glad she had, but it did strike him as strange that she’d managed to do so without being wounded herself.
He rubbed the back of his neck. All they knew about Miss Jones was that she’d been employed as a maid at Moorland House. Learning more about her would be useful.
Seeing that her gown appeared to have no pockets and that she wore no form of outerwear, he supposed she must have left a jacket, perhaps even a reticule, elsewhere in the house.
Leaving home with no means by which to carry a key or some coin made no sense.
Neither did venturing out in the rain without some form of protection.
“I realize you’ve had a long day already,” Peter said to Lewis when he returned to the foyer, “but can you stay here a while longer? I’d like to escort Miss Hastings home, after which I’ll return with additional Runners so you can get some rest. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, tops, during which I’d appreciate it if you and Anderson can jot down the sequence of events that occurred here this evening.
You can make more official statements tomorrow, but this should give me enough information to start with. ”
“Maybe I should stay and help,” Gabriella whispered. “You need my statement too, don’t you?”
“We’ll get to that later,” Peter told her. “After you’ve had a chance to recover from the shock.”
When she didn’t move to rise from the step on which she sat, he bent to take her upper arm. Gently coaxing, he managed to get her to stand. He shared a look with Lewis, then reached for the scissors once more. It took some effort to pry them from her fingers, but he eventually managed.
“Put these on the table in the parlor,” Peter told Lewis. “I’ll inspect them more closely when I return.”
After parting ways with his men, Peter took Gabriella by the arm and steered her out of the house. Her footsteps were stilted, as though she wasn’t fully aware of her movements.
They reached the carriage, and he helped her climb in before issuing orders to the driver. The man didn’t question the address Peter provided. He merely nodded and prepared to set off.