An Unspoken Betrayal Book Two of The Devane Files Denyse Bridger (c) 2006
An Unspoken Betrayal Book Two of The Devane Files Denyse Bridger Published 2006 ISBN 1-59578-296-6 Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2006, Denyse Bridger. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. Manufactured in the United States of America Liquid Silver Books http://LSbooks.com Email:
[email protected] Editor Vikky Bertling Cover Artist April Martinez This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
An Unspoken Betrayal “Well, darling,” Michael Devane smiled broadly at his lovely wife and extended his hand to help her from the carriage, “home at last.” He kissed her temple and they stood for several moments looking at the sprawling Kensington townhouse that had been her family’s home for over fifty years. “Home,” she repeated softly, both pleasure and reticence in the quiet word. The last time they’d stood on this spot, they’d just been married, and her father had just been hanged for his part in the murder of her previous husband. Michael Devane had been the police inspector in charge of that investigation; it’s how they’d met. “We don’t have to stay here, Bethany,” he murmured close to her ear. She smiled, and leaned into him as they began to move away from the carriage that had collected them at the train station. Their baggage was being taken inside and the huge double doors were now open. Carstaires, the family butler, patiently awaited them. “As you said, Michael,” she whispered, “this is home.” Genuine warmth came into her voice and her pretty features as she approached the tall, austere butler and his hauteur cracked, bringing forth a smile that surprised Devane as he watched her greet the man whose presence was as solid as the house itself. Michael wondered, in that moment, if she’d ever known a day in her life when Carstaires wasn’t part of her home. Probably not, he concluded, there was too much sincere happiness in the man’s face for there to be any doubt about his devotion to Bethany. “The servants have assembled in the main hall, sir,” he told Michael when he arrived a step behind his wife. Bethany’s grin was infectious and Devane nodded, then followed her inside. The household staff now consisted of a dozen people, in various positions. It was half the number her father and her previous husband had employed. Bethany had made it clear that she wanted to take an active part in the day to day affairs of the household, as well as do her share of the work. Devane had been more surprised than any of the servants, and it made him acutely aware of the fact that in many ways, they knew his wife better than he did. She’d insisted on selecting a small gift for each remaining member of the staff, and he had happily joined her in the shopping trips to obtain the presents. “Amelia!” She ran to the cook the instant she spotted her waiting, and Devane held back, simply watching his wife’s pleasure in greeting the people she most often referred to as her friends, not her servants. “Is there anything requiring my attention, Carstaires?” Devane asked the butler who stood next to him. “A note from Sergeant Goodwin arrived this morning, sir,” he replied quietly. “I placed it on the desk in the library. Shall I retrieve it, Mr. Devane?” Devane shook his head and smiled at the older man. “I’ll see to it, Carstaires,” he said. “Why don’t you join them?” he suggested, indicating the group of chatting staff. “Beth has a gift for you.” “Sir?” Michael’s smile deepened at the genuine surprise in Carstaires’ voice. “The library?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir,” the butler nodded, and Devane’s smile turned to a grin as he left the entrance hall and headed for the library. **** An hour later, Michael found his wife in the master bedroom at the end of a long corridor that ran the entire length of the upper floor of the townhouse. He paused at the doorway, watching her for several moments. She was lost in thought, her beautiful face a study in poignant memory. “Bethany?” She looked up as he entered the room and went to stand beside her. “What is it, love?” “This is the master bedroom, Michael,” she murmured. He nodded, then after a second’s thought, awareness came to him. “This is the room you shared with Robert,” he surmised. “I don’t want to sleep in this bed, Michael,” she whispered, the thickness of tears making her voice hushed and heavy. “Not with you. It reminds me too vividly of Robert and all he forced me to…” Devane drew her close and kissed her forehead when she snuggled close to him. “Have you chosen the room you wish us to share, Bethany?” She eased back enough to look at him. “This is the finest room in Davenshire House, Michael,” she said. “The one my parents shared.” “I prefer not to share my bed with ghosts,” he smiled. “Especially Robert Bradshaw’s. Come, darling,” he teased gently, “show me our room.” “You truly don’t mind?” He shook his head, and she entwined her fingers with his, leading him to the other end of the long corridor. He opened the large doors when she stopped, and his smile turned to laughter. All of their luggage had been delivered to the small suite, but none of it unpacked. The room was brightly lit, sunlight streaming in through floor to ceiling windows, their heavy curtains drawn back to allow the golden radiance and warmth to permeate the space. Their bed was a huge four-poster, with royal blue velvet draperies gathered and tied with silver rope. The spread was of the same rich blue color, trimmed with ivory lace. There was a fireplace with a crackling blaze already throwing heat into the air. A short distance from the stone hearth, flanking the fire, were two well-stuffed armchairs, positioned to face each other. The rugs were simple in design, their shades of blue a striking yet unobtrusive complement to the bed. The wooden chests of drawers and the vanity table were dark, almost ebony in hue. Everything had the imprint of careful thought, and elegant comfort. “What would you like to do with the master bedroom?” He asked the question absently as he walked around the room, cast a glance out the window at the gardens below. He met her eyes and smiled, expectant. “I thought to reserve it for special guests we might have,” she proposed. “Then do as you see fit, Beth,” he laughed. “Does this room have any family history?” he wondered with a grin sliding solidly into place. He’d already drawn some conclusions from the very air of the place, now he simply sought confirmation of his suspicions. “This is where I grew up,” she confessed, and her head tilted to one side as she studied him. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
He nodded, and his grin deepened with mischief. “Have you handed out your gifts, darling?” “I have,” she replied and went to him when he held out his hands, beckoning her into his arms. “All but one I have kept for you, my dear Inspector Devane.” “I have all I need right here,” he assured her and covered her mouth with his, kissing her with sweet, familiar passion. “Shall we retire early, Mrs. Devane?” he asked when they finally drew back from the caress. “Michael,” she whispered in faint shock, blushing in spite of their six-month-old marriage. “It’s not even tea time.” When she would have stepped free of his arms, Michael’s hands slid around her waist and he pulled her closer again, the contact sudden, hard, and demanding as he molded her curves to his hungry body. His mouth descended on hers, crushing with the intensity of his passion. Bethany pressed herself tighter to him, opened her mouth to his, and surrendered to him, heart and soul. A discreet knock on the door interrupted the kiss as it threatened to suffocate them both. Bethany gasped when his lips left hers, and she turned away as he went to answer the summons to the door. As she heard the soft murmur of Michael’s voice, she began to work the buttons of her dress, as eager to shed her clothes as she was to feel his naked skin against her palms. She was only dimly aware of his brief replies to whatever was being said then his attention was fully on her again. Michael reached her seconds after the door shut firmly and laughed when she stepped gracefully from the heavy pool of her dress, then turned to face him. His hands rose and plucked the pins from her hair before he buried his fingers in the lush, thick fall and held her head, forcing her focus to steady as he looked at her. “I’ve asked Carstaires to bring supper to us in an hour or so,” he whispered, kissing her lightly. “And to tell anyone who may come calling that we’re not receiving guests.” “For how long?” she asked with a happy smile. “Let me think about it. Perhaps we’ll stay in bed for a few days?” he suggested with a gleam in his soulful, dark eyes. “A … a few days?” she laughed softly, breathless with excitement. He finished working the hooks of her corset and tossed the confining garment aside. “Maybe longer,” he decided, hands smoothing over her from the curve of her bottom to the generous swell of her breasts. His thumbs lingered over the rigid tips, caressing them to greater sensitivity beneath the thin barrier of her satin camisole. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened, lips parted slightly as she gasped with pleasure. Slender fingers encircled his wrists, and he grinned down at her when she guided his hands back to her waist then upward again, under the lightweight garment. Michael hooked his fingers in the shimmering material and quickly pulled it over her head. Silken, warm skin seemed to ripple beneath his caressing hands and her back arched, pressing her closer to his chest. “You’re still dressed, my love,” Bethany pointed out as her fingers splayed over the smooth expanse of his back. She slid her hands inside the jacket of his dark suit and began to loosen the knot of his black silk tie. “Give me a minute, darling,” Michael kissed her lightly and walked several feet away from her, his nimble fingers rapidly divesting himself of the rich suit, and his undergarments. In a few breathless minutes, he was naked and standing before her as she smiled at him, eyes shining with love, and hunger.
Bethany’s hand rose to the center of his chest, stroking the smoothly contoured muscles, before moving downward. He groaned quietly when her fingers began to trace the hard length of his erection. He moved slightly back, took her hands and brought them to his lips, placing a soft kiss into each palm. He then went to the bed, tossed back the linens, and sat with the headboard at his back, cushioned by pillows. Bethany stared at him, eyes blazing, and very slowly began to peel away the last layers of her own clothing. She grinned at him, enjoying the rapt attention with which he watched every tiny movement of her body. Michael felt a shiver ripple his spine as the depth of her love and her passion for him tumbled into his mind as warm waves of longing. He kicked the bed linens further aside, and nodded seductively as Bethany crawled on the bed to join him. She straddled his thighs and lowered herself onto him, moaning softly as their bodies merged. Michael’s tongue began caressing her nipples, sucking gently at one then the other. She pushed harder, taking him deeper into her. He lifted his head and pulled her into another searing, lusting kiss as their rhythm quickly grew frantic with the explosive force of their need. Before their passion peaked, Michael eased free of the kiss, then rearranged her on the pristine mattress. The springs creaked ever so slightly, and he lifted her hair and let it spill over the feather pillows as he stretched over her. He reentered her with a strong thrust that made her cling harder to him, and this time their desire consumed them and pushed them into the familiar abyss of exquisite ecstasy they had discovered together. A long while later, after a time in which they apparently slept lightly, Devane’s awareness returned and he felt dizzy with the intensity of his happiness. Bethany was curled tightly into his side, her breath a whisper of cool draught on his shoulder. “You planned this, didn’t you, Michael?” She nestled closer, her voice husky with contentment and sleep. “Maybe,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head, then pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “You’re insatiable.” “Indulge me,” he replied, smile teasing and faintly wicked, voice a low growl in his throat. He ducked his head and caught a nipple between his teeth, nibbling gently before he started suckling. Bethany’s low, murmuring sigh ruffled his hair and she moved restlessly under him, her body already aching again for him. “I indulge you too much,” she laughed, voice throaty with desire. “If you could arrange to stay in bed forever, there are times when I think we would die here.” He laughed and lifted his head to look at her, eyes alight with humor. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, darling!” Before she could reply, he caught her mouth with his, turning what was meant to be a light kiss into something sensuous and provocative. His hands drifted over familiar curves, rousing and soothing at the same time. Bethany’s limbs seemed to melt under him and she pushed her hips into his as her legs wrapped around his waist. “How long do you suppose it will be before Carstaires arrives with our supper?” she whispered close to his ear when his mouth moved to her neck and his tongue began to stroke persuasively at the hyper-sensitive hollow near her throat. “Long enough,” he decreed, his muffled murmur creating a bubble of happy laughter inside her that spilled out in a tinkle of silvery bright sound…
**** “Shall I ring for dinner?” Bethany asked, stretching lazily, then tucking the sheets under her chin. Michael tossed a grin at her then went to the fireplace and tugged on the velvet cord that hung within easy reach there. Then he finished belting his robe. “Stay where you are, love,” he directed when he saw she was preparing to leave the bed, too. “Much more of this behavior and I won’t be able to show myself in public for fear of showing my decadence for all to see,” she teased. “You’ll be the envy of every woman you know, only they’d die before admitting it,” he assured her with a crooked smile. **** Carstaires directed the pretty new housemaid, a girl called Winifred, to the proper room, telling her the cart would be waiting on the landing for her and all she need do was retrieve the dishes from the dumb waiter. He would have brought the meal as Devane requested, but his immediate duty was to answer the insistent knocking on the front doors. He opened the right panel and stepped aside when Daphne Ashton swept past him in a rush of cool autumn air and expensive perfume. “I need to see Beth, Carstaires,” she informed him without preamble. “It’s quite urgent.” “Mr. and Mrs. Devane are not receiving guests this evening, Miss Ashton,” he replied with a polite bow of his head. “Perhaps you would care to leave a message, and I’ll see that Lady … Mrs. Devane is informed of your need to speak with her.” Daphne whirled to look at him, then laughed. “I know she’s at home, Carstaires,” she said breezily. “The carriage was seen collecting her and the good inspector.” He smiled thinly. “That may be, Miss Ashton,” he agreed, “but Mr. Devane has requested that all visitors…” He stopped speaking when she headed directly for the staircase and began to ascend. “Miss Ashton!” “Don’t worry, Carstaires,” she called back with a careless wave of her hand, “I’ll assure Beth that you tried valiantly to stop me.” She spotted the maid, and beyond her, through the open door of Bethany’s old bedroom suite, stood Michael Devane, dressed in a rich, burgundy robe. The door closed, and the maid stared at her, eyes wide with surprise. “Get about your business, girl,” Daphne ordered sharply. The girl nodded, dropped a quick curtsey, and darted away. Daphne continued to the doors, and rapped sharply before she opened the heavy wooden panel and went inside without waiting for an answer. “Beth, welcome home, dearest…” She stumbled to a halt and tried to stifle a nervous laugh when she saw her friend. Bethany was kneeling on the edge of the bed, Michael’s arms wrapped around her naked body as they kissed passionately. The instant she spoke, Beth grabbed the bed linen and fell away from her husband. Devane’s face was a study in cold fury. “I’m very sorry, sir,” Carstaires’ voice reached past Daphne’s shoulder, and he sounded miserable. “She refused to listen.” Michael nodded. “I’m sure this intrusion is not your fault, Carstaires,” he responded.
“We’ll speak to Miss Ashton in the library,” he added. “Please escort her there.” He cast another chilling look at Daphne, and added just as icily, “We’ll join you in twenty minutes, Miss Ashton.” It was a curt dismissal, and she was stunned into silence. Her gaze went to Bethany, who met her eyes with an uneasy combination of embarrassment and the same illconcealed annoyance that was in her husband’s face. Defeated, she nodded, murmured an apology, and was led out of the suite. **** Precisely twenty minutes after Carstaires had left her in the library, the door opened again and Bethany came into the room. It had changed greatly in the past three months, since the Devanes had left for their honeymoon in France. All traces of Robert Bradshaw and Albert Davenshire had been banished. It was a light, comfortable room now, with new rugs in pale colors, and the walls virtually free of decoration. The massive desk was still present, but the shining top was littered with police files and reports; it was now wholly Inspector Michael Devane’s domain. “Daphne,” Bethany came to her and hugged her close, kissing her cheek before she drew back, hands still grasping Daphne’s. “It’s good to see you again.” “I rather think your new husband doesn’t share that sentiment,” Daphne noted dryly. Bethany’s eyebrows came together in a frown. “Under the circumstances, you can hardly blame Michael for reacting as he did,” she chided gently. “I would very much like to know the reason for that little invasion of privacy, Miss Ashton,” Devane interjected as he walked into the room. Daphne glanced at him, her sweeping appraisal taking quick inventory of him. He was dressed in elegant simplicity, dark trousers, white shirt, polished black shoes, and a deep blue smoking jacket. His dark hair was forever falling over his forehead, and it gave him a roguish look that was exceedingly appealing. For a relatively slender and unimposing man, Michael Devane had an intense quality of personality that commanded attention and respect. His dark eyes were unfathomable, and Daphne knew they missed nothing, be it external or internal. It was one of the things that had drawn Bethany to him from the instant they’d met, and it was the very thing Daphne hated most about him. He knew too much about everyone on whom he turned that probing ebony gaze. Bethany had watched the silent exchange between her husband and her closest friend. It wasn’t the first time they’d looked at each other with challenge and confrontation sparking the air between them. “Daphne,” she stepped into the breach that had grown the instant Michael had appeared. “Why was it so urgent to speak with me tonight?” “Night, Bethany,” she noted with faint disdainful mocking texturing the observation. “It’s barely evening. I hardly expected to find you in bed,” she added. Bethany’s cheeks turned scarlet and she was at a loss for several seconds. Devane went to sit at the desk, his eyes never leaving the two women. He was already being battered by Daphne Ashton’s repressed agitation, and he knew he’d return to his bed with a massive headache before long. It had been this way since he’d overcome his addiction to opium. The first month of his honeymoon had been spent in a clinic outside of Paris. Bethany had not asked him to give up his indulgence, she never once made reference to it
and for that reason more than any other, Michael had set his considerable will to overcoming the disease of drug addiction. She had spent every day at his side, holding him through the worst of it, loving him through all of it. But it had left his sensitive mind vulnerable to the onslaught of other people’s heightened emotions when they were in close proximity to him. Daphne Ashton was all but aglow with the magnitude of her turmoil. “You came here for a reason, Miss Ashton,” he said smoothly. “My wife merely wishes to know what it is.” He smiled, expression cool. “If it was to insult her, I’ll have to ask you to leave, of course.” Daphne cast a glower his way and he actually laughed at her. “Michael!” Bethany’s admonishment chased the obvious humor from his face, but he continued to watch them closely. “Is there something I can have Carstaires bring you, Daphne?” “A brandy would be lovely,” Daphne said and ignored Devane’s smile. Bethany rang for the butler and while she spoke to him, Michael met Daphne’s restless stare. “You’re here because you’ve lost track of a lover, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly, his alert mind snatching a fleeting image out of virtual air. “A lover!” It was Bethany’s shocked voice that sputtered the word, but his gaze never left Daphne Ashton’s starkly pale features. “How can you know that?” “Who is he?” She tore her look away from Devane with considerably more effort than she would have thought possible for such a simple gesture. Bethany was staring at her, shock etched into her pretty face. “For heaven’s sake, Beth!” Daphne snapped. “Stop looking like he’s just told you I’ve murdered someone.” She winced at the inadvertent reminder that it was murder that had brought Inspector Michael Devane into Bethany’s life a year ago. “Of course,” Bethany nodded, her features flooded once again with the heated flush of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Daphne.” She met her friend’s eyes again. “Is Michael right?” Daphne sank into one of the armchairs near the fire and sighed heavily. Carstaires arrived with the brandy, and once he was gone and she’d sipped at the rich liquor, drawing warmth and strength from it, Daphne nodded resolutely. “I don’t know how he knows, but yes, he’s right.” She waited and Bethany came to sit in the chair across from her. Devane appeared at his wife’s back almost magically. Daphne hadn’t seen or heard him move. “Do you wish me to look into this for you, Miss Ashton?” he inquired quietly, his hand on Bethany’s shoulder, fingers caressing unconsciously, tracing the subtle line of her collarbone beneath the dressing gown she wore. “Yes,” she admitted with some reluctance. “It’s why I came to see Bethany.” “Will you help her?” Bethany asked, peering up at him. Devane moved to perch casually on the arm of his wife’s chair. He smiled down at her and placed a quick kiss on her temple, then turned to face Daphne Ashton again. “Tell me everything you can, Miss Ashton,” he requested.
She finished the brandy and set aside the glass, then with visible effort, she dragged in a breath and held his gaze squarely. “I met him a few weeks after you and Beth left for Paris,” she began, trying to order her thoughts into some coherent sequence. “He’s an artist. He wanted me to model for him.” She glanced away when she said it, then refused to look at him afterward, continuing her story to Bethany’s sympathetic presence. “I did. He’s a very talented artist, and we have so much in common, Beth,” she enthused. “I fell in love with him almost immediately, as you did with Devane.” She tried to use his first name, but it wouldn’t come smoothly. She thought of him simply as ‘Devane’, or ‘the Inspector’; it was reflexive. Michael Devane didn’t like her, and she didn’t like him. That, too, had been immediate. “Where is this artist’s studio, Miss Ashton?” Her head rose in automatic response to his question, and the glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes made her bristle with aggravation. He was laughing at her, and it was not only impudent, it was utterly infuriating since he was the only one who might conceivably help her. Something he was clearly all too aware of, she realized. “Whitechapel, near Spitalfields,” she replied, and pretended Bethany’s gasp of horror didn’t hurt quite as deeply as it truly did. “Not far from Miller’s Court,” she added. As Daphne watched, Devane’s hand tightened reflexively on Bethany’s shoulder and she hissed softly when his grip created pain. “Michael?” Her concern was evident, in her tone and the weak smile she offered him. “I’m sorry, darling,” he murmured. “Have I hurt you, love?” “No,” she shook her head. “But something has upset you.” “We’ll talk about it later,” he promised, though he would do nothing of the sort, something Daphne could easily read in his eyes. “Miss Ashton,” he swung his look back to her. “Why would you be foolish enough to go anywhere near the Whitechapel district? Especially alone. I assume you were alone when you went to these trysts?” “Yes, I was,” she retorted. “And I do not appreciate your use of the word foolish, Inspector Devane.” “Would you prefer stupid?” he snapped in a voice quiet with contained anger. “Because I assure you, madam, stupid is the only word I can associate with any woman of breeding who seeks company in the East End.” When she continued to stare in irritated surprise, he rose and glared at her. “Miller’s Court is where Mary Jane Kelly was butchered by the Ripper a few years back,” he said with savage rage. “Do I need to remind you of what he did to her?” Bethany was drained of all color and she stared from her husband’s disturbed fury, to Daphne’s shocked realization, the truth dawning much too slowly. “That was years ago,” Daphne sputtered weakly. “He was never caught!” Devane ground out from between tightly clenched teeth. “Some of the women he killed were artist’s models, too,” he snarled. “Do you remember that? Abberline always believed that Mary Kelly knew her killer!” Daphne could no longer look at him, and sought comfort in Bethany. To her steadily rising distress, she saw that Bethany’s complete attention was directed toward her husband, and the depth of her concern was plain. She rose and went to Michael, who stood now with his back to them, his rigid stance one of tightly leashed control.
“Michael,” she whispered, “Are you all right, darling?” The anxiety in her voice was undeniable and he turned, pulling her close to him as he forced old demons into silence and submission. When he felt certain he could speak without shouting, he released her, smiled a warm reassurance, and saw her back to her chair where he again perched on the arm. He imposed calm into his voice, and spoke to Daphne. “You haven’t said why you need my assistance, Miss Ashton.” The chill had returned to his voice, but it was preferable to the quick-silver fury of minutes earlier. Daphne’s hands clutched the empty brandy snifter and she stared at the shifting film the liquor had left on the glass. “I haven’t been able to find him for over a week,” she confessed awkwardly. “The key to his studio no longer works, and there is no sign of his ever being there.” Her voice finally broke as she was faced with the very real stupidity of her actions. She was not indignant at Devane’s choice of words now, merely humiliated by the truth of them. Devane nodded. “His name?” “Jean-Guy DeVries,” she said softly, her gaze wary when she dared to look at him again. For a long moment, Devane watched her, absorbing the tempest of emotion that seethed within her. She tried to look away, but he refused to release her. There was more that she hadn’t spoken of yet, but he suspected it would be of little use in finding the man. Swirling within the turmoil was a very real fear, but he was disinclined to examine whether it was for herself or her missing artist that she was afraid. He rose suddenly, breaking the hold he’d maintained on Daphne’s gaze. He turned to his wife, bent, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be upstairs when you’ve spoken with Miss Ashton,” he told her. Before he left them, he bowed politely to Daphne. “I’ll look into this in the morning,” he promised quietly. “Discreetly, of course.” “Thank you,” Daphne murmured, reluctant to say the words, despite the necessity. Devane laughed a little, then left them alone. “Your father was right about him,” Daphne hissed in annoyance. “He’s far too arrogant and smug.” “He’s just agreed to help you out of something that could be rather indelicate for you, Daphne,” Bethany said, tone low and steady. “And, my father knew nothing about Michael. He was afraid of him, and it made him dislike everything about Michael. Is that why you dislike him so, because you are afraid of him, too?” “I am not afraid of Inspector Michael Devane, Beth,” she denied harshly, only then realizing it was the truth. No doubt something else Devane was fully aware of, as well. Silence fell between them, and lingered. **** Devane shifted in the bed, restless, and haunted. He’d left Bethany and Daphne Ashton almost an hour earlier, and he’d been edgy ever since. He’d hardly touched the meal he’d ordered, and decided to relax with a book while he waited for his wife to rejoin him. The book was boring and he was yawning within ten minutes. A nap had seemed like an ideal solution to his agitation. Sleep had even come relatively fast. But on the heels of slumber came the reawakened demons of nightmares past…
Devane shivered in the dampness of the night, and felt the fine mist of fog and rain working its way past the layers of his clothes and seeping relentlessly into his very bones. There was a hushed quality to the murkiness, yet within it each sound became unique and separate, sharply clear without ever having substance. He heard the cries of hungry children, the shouts of angry men and women, the screams of those being beaten and murdered, and the grunts and obscenities of the prostitutes working diligently at their trade. All around him the streets of Whitechapel breathed and in turn smothered him. The ever-present stench permeated his senses, and he recoiled. Then the familiar, soulshattering, terrifying rhythm of an excited heartbeat… Michael tried to ignore it, to block out the pounding pulse that meant death was approaching him. Once ensnared, he was helpless to flee, and he drifted into the chasm of horror and carnage again. The glimmer of a silver blade shone brightly in the beacon of a gas-light, and he ran toward it. The street sign caught his eye as he passed beneath it: Buck’s Row. The heartbeat throbbed louder, banging into his temples, making him weep soundlessly. He stumbled over something in the street, fell, then rolled onto his back. A turn of his head and he was staring into the dead eyes of Mary Ann Nichols, and the gaping hole that had been her throat pumped tiny rivulets of blood onto the cobblestones. He tried to gain his feet and slipped again in a second pool of crimson gore. Another attempt had him running, as police poured into the road and shouted after him… Once more, as he ran, a street sign caught his attention and he read it with dread: Hanbury Street. He recoiled, inner knowledge telling him he didn’t want to go in this direction. In his nightmare, Devane had no control over his movement, and before long he stood at the fence of number twenty-nine. Again, as though lit from some hell-fire source, he looked upon the body of Annie Chapman, her intestines draped over her shoulder, her eyes accusing him even in death. A flutter of black drew his eyes away from her and he heard the clatter of hoofbeats drumming in perfect synchronization with the rapid heartbeat that he now recognized as his own. He followed, even as he pleaded for a way out of the atrocities he was witnessing… A phantom carriage taunted him, crossing his path as he stumbled onward. The driver glanced over his shoulder, and Devane froze inside as he stared into the empty sockets of a skull, and hideous laughter battered his spirit unmercifully. Berner Street loomed ahead and the carriage turned. He ran onward, driven beyond reason, knowing he had to stop what was about to happen. He arrived just as the surgeon’s Liston knife sliced the air, and scarlet life spurted forth in a shimmering arc of blazing color. Devane saw each individual droplet as it soared upward, then rained down on the filth-littered street. His scream deafened in the pulsing hell where he was trapped, and the Ripper looked over his shoulder. Two faces imprinted themselves on Devane’s mind as he stared, shocked motionless by his abhorrence, every part of his being rejecting the madness before him. Elizabeth Stride, a woman he had once loved with the passion of innocent youth, and the face of a man he had admired from the day they’d met. Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline laughed wildly, insanity swirling in the air that separated them, then he threw the knife at Devane. Michael’s felt the crushing weight strike his chest, and as his heart exploded, blood drowned his screams… ****
“Do you love this artist, Daphne?” Bethany had finally relented against the tension and was smiling at her friend as they shared tea. “I thought I did,” Daphne confessed with a shrug of her shoulders. “I suppose I must have.” Bethany shook her head. “If you aren’t sure, Daphne, it was not love that drew you into this predicament.” “And you are now the expert on such things, are you, Bethany?” she questioned dryly. “I know what it is to love, Daphne,” she demurred softly. “Nothing more.” Daphne shifted uncomfortably in her chair but let the matter drop. She had a more pressing concern. “If Devane finds him,” she began, choosing her words with care. “What will he do?” “Why?” Bethany asked, frowning at the odd query. “I posed for Jean-Guy, Bethany,” Daphne stated with impatience. “Must I speak more plainly than that?” Bethany’s face cleared of confusion and she choked back a giggle. “Is that what you didn’t want to tell Michael? That you posed nude for this artist of yours?” “I hardly think it funny, Beth.” She shook her head. “Funny? No, Daphne, I do not think it funny. I think it amusing that you would assume Michael didn’t figure it out without your confirmation.” “Dear God!” Daphne muttered furiously. “Is there anything that bloody man doesn’t see?” “Very little,” Bethany assured her, still amused despite the situation. “It is one of the main reasons he is so very good at his job.” **** The nightmare refused to let him go, and Devane’s feet moved of their own volition, following where the specter of Abberline led him… The interruption in Berner Street had angered the killer, and he moved swiftly onward to Mitre Square. Devane arrived in time to see the ghostly madman cutting away at Catherine Eddowes, laying her body’s internal organs open to the unnaturally lit night. Bile rose in Devane’s throat and he vomited, retching violently as the knife worked with methodical, macabre precision. When he was done, the Ripper again looked directly into Michael’s eyes, and this time he wore the face of Police Commissioner Charles Warren. He beckoned to Devane, and Michael’s body jerked forward, a puppet yanked along on an invisible string… The apparition displayed his work for Devane’s inspection, and when Michael closed his eyes to deny it, night returned to cloak him for precious seconds. The roaring hammerfall of his heartbeat rose in tempo, pulsing twice as fast as the natural seventy to eighty beats of a healthy heart. The scene shifted radically, but he knew without the aid of a sign that he was now in Miller’s Court on Dorset Street, and the final abomination was about to be unleashed… The bed was grander than he expected, and the slender woman who slept in unsuspecting innocence in it murmured a name that he couldn’t quite hear. The shadow loomed large over her, a demonic, unstoppable force that carefully laid out the tools that would enable him to complete his
gruesome task… The woman twisted on the rich blue curtained bed and Devane fell to his knees, pleading incoherently, his voice ragged with the depth of his anguish. The Ripper laughed, and Michael screamed as his beautiful wife was hacked into pieces, her blood everywhere as he tried to make his body move to protect her and found he was incapable of motion… “Michael!” Bethany fell back as he lunged up off the bed and her name spilled from him as a hoarse rasp of sound. She reached for him, and shivered at the abject terror in his eyes as he finally looked at her. “Michael, darling,” she soothed and drew him into her arms. He was trembling violently, and she knew he was crying when the wetness of tears soaked into the front of her nightgown. “Please, my love, tell me what’s wrong?” “A dream.” He summoned control from the vast recesses of his mind, and repeated it a second time, without the edge of panic tainting his voice. “You haven’t awakened like this in many weeks,” she noted when he lifted his head from her shoulder, and his arms lost some of their crushing strength. Looking into his dark eyes, she could almost taste the residue of his fear. “What is it you will not tell me?” “The Ripper case,” he finally conceded. “I thought it was over. For some reason it’s come back to me again.” She considered it, and touched the side of his face, her palm pressed lightly to the contour of his cheek. Her thumb absently brushed aside the lingering wetness of his tears. “Daphne’s rather foolish trips into Whitechapel can no doubt be blamed,” she surmised quietly. “But there is something more to this, isn’t there, Michael?” He admired her courage in facing what must be deeply frightening to her, but he’d admired her bravery from the moment he’d met her so it was no real surprise that he would be met with it now. Despite the very real hurt that it caused his heart, he chose to deliberately lie to her. “Nothing more, dearest,” he assured her with a shadow of his usual smile. “Come to bed with me, Bethany,” he asked, his hands already persuasively stroking the firm swells of her breasts. “Michael…” He silenced further questions by covering her mouth with his and dragging her gently downward until she was pressed to the plush feather mattress, her warm curves cushioning him as he settled between her legs and pushed his hips into hers… **** “Welcome back, Inspector,” Sergeant David Goodwin’s broad face split into a grin when he saw who it was coming into the busy office. “I trust you enjoyed your time in France, sir?” “Very much, Sergeant,” Devane smiled warmly, genuinely pleased to see his friend and colleague again. “I didn’t expect to see you here quite this soon, Inspector,” Goodwin observed. He took the opportunity to look closely at the younger man. Devane didn’t look different, yet there was something very changed in him. The dark hair was as untidy as it always was, the ebony depths of his eyes sharp and insightful, and his dress simple and elegant, tailored to fit his slender form to perfection. His skin, normally pale, sometimes almost ashen, was sun-kissed and glowing with health, and Goodwin nodded in satisfaction.
“Marriage appears to be doing wonders for your well-being, Inspector,” he remarked. Devane draped his suit jacket over the back of his chair and sat down, lighting a cigarette as he considered his sergeant. He smoked in silence for a few minutes then offered Goodwin a smile that was vividly colored with humor. “I spent the first month of my marriage in a clinic, David,” he admitted softly. “Your days of dragging me out of opium dens in the East End are over, old friend.” “I am very glad to hear it, Inspector,” Goodwin replied. The big man spoke lightly, but the barely audible catch in his voice told Devane how sincerely relieved he was by the news. Before they could continue their conversation, a knock on the door made Devane look upward. “Constable?” “A woman here to see you, Inspector Devane,” he answered smartly. “Miss Ashton, she says.” Devane’s eyebrows rose and he tossed Goodwin a wry smile. “Show her in, Constable…?” “Owen, sir.” “Constable Owen. Thank you,” Devane nodded. In less than a minute, Daphne Ashton strode into the small office and looked around, her distaste evident in every line of her body. As was her custom, she was dressed to perfection in the latest fashion, every tiny detail a testimony to taste, elegance, and wealth. The only variance Devane could see was her choice of colors; on the few occasions he’d seen her before, she was always in striking, flamboyant shades. Today, for her excursion to a police office, she had chosen a heavy shade of plum, and a hat that veiled her pretty features. “Would you like to sit down, Miss Ashton?” Devane offered. “This is hardly a social call, Inspector,” she snapped impatiently. He smiled, just a little. “No,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t be comfortable while we talk.” “Comfortable,” she repeated, and the derisive note was in no way disguised. “I assure you, Inspector, I would not be comfortable here under any circumstances. Can we speak privately?” At this point she hadn’t so much as glanced at Goodwin. Devane cast a questioning look at his sergeant, who had risen the instant she’d entered the office. He nodded his understanding and picked up several of the files that littered his desk. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll see about filing some of this.” Devane waited, and when the door closed behind his friend he stubbed his cigarette out and gestured again to the chair in front of his desk. This time, Daphne sat, barely. Hovering close to the edge of the seat, she looked like a bird poised for flight. “What’s happened since last night?” he asked. “I’ve barely arrived here myself.” “So Bethany told me,” she replied. “This arrived in the morning post,” she said and tossed a plain ivory envelope onto his desktop. Devane picked it up and let the undercurrents of emotion filter from his touch to his sensitive mind… The images rushed at him like an oncoming train, their speed and impact blistering his psyche and battering his carefully cultivated control. The whirlwind of color and sounds churned like a tempest, and he instinctively reached inward and slowed the influx enough to distinguish what he was seeing: Daphne Ashton was clear
and laughing happily for a moment, then she danced away from his sight, only to reappear in the next heartbeat, this time beautifully naked and smiling coquettishly as she posed gracefully on a chaise longue. The man behind the easel remained hidden, but the shift in Devane’s mental attention also changed the taint of the images, and bright joy was extinguished. In its place came the onslaught of anger and contempt, so potent that the very taste of it was bitter in his mouth. As the acrid flavor grew metallic and thick, Devane’s spirit cringed away, and as it had the night before in his nightmare world, his life exploded in pain and a wash of scarlet gore… “Devane!” He dropped the envelope and drew back, his hand shaking so violently that he knew she couldn’t possibly have not seen it. There was annoyance in her eyes as she stared at him, and no trace of any warmth or concern. “Have you been to an opium den already?” “What?” The query sounded stupid and sluggish, even to him. “Does Bethany know about this?” He smiled thinly, and the cloak of composure fell into place naturally. “There is nothing for Bethany to know, Miss Ashton,” he stated quietly. “I no longer chase the dragon, but I still see many things. Your lover is not a lover at all, is he?” She was on the defensive now, and it galled her to have to confirm what he obviously had gleaned from his brief contact with the missive she’d received. “He wants five thousand pounds, immediately, or he will sell the paintings to a gallery in London. That’s the price I am to pay for my trust.” “A small price for a woman of your means,” Devane noted coolly. “Yet you choose to bring this to me instead? Why is that?” “If I request a sum of that amount, there will be questions, and I can hardly account for five thousand pounds and nothing to show for the expenditure.” “You could always produce the paintings,” he suggested. “I did not come here to listen to the insults of a… a…” “Careful, Miss Ashton,” he advised. “My wife is not here to keep us from speaking our minds.” “You appear to be doing so in spite of that,” she retorted. He nodded, and even offered her a sincere apology for his rudeness. She was unimpressed. “I’ve said I will look into this, Miss Ashton,” he reaffirmed. “I will. When does he want an answer to his demand for money?” “Within two days,” she said, sighing heavily. “I can’t arrange it, Devane, and the scandal will destroy my family, as well as my own prospects.” He refrained from comment about her lack of consideration for those things prior to the relationship she’d entered into. “Tell your family you will join us for dinner tonight,” he directed quietly. “If things go in our favor, I should have some idea of this man’s identity by that time.” She nodded, but declined to offer him the gratitude his discretion deserved. She was gone only a few minutes when Goodwin returned. “Where are we headed now, Inspector?” Devane buttoned his jacket and grabbed his overcoat off the rack beside the office door.
“Whitechapel,” he replied succinctly. He didn’t need to look back to know Goodwin was frowning, but following him anyway. **** Late in the afternoon, Devane checked his watch and wondered if there was any way to uncover precisely who it was Daphne Ashton had become involved with. So far a good number of hours had passed in futile questions and non-committal answers. He’d arranged to meet Goodwin at the Britannia in Commercial Street. Since that meeting was still an hour away, he decided to go to Miller’s Court and see the landlord he’d questioned several times in the Autumn and Winter of ‘88. George Hunt had owned the lodging house for a number of years then, it was likely he’d still be there now. As he approached the correct corner, turned down Dorset Street and headed toward Miller’s Court, Devane’s muscles began to knot and his head ached with building tension. Even as he pursued the phantom artist who blackmailed his wife’s friend, every instinct he possessed wanted to walk away from the Whitechapel district and never look back. Aside from the fact that it was an impossible fancy, there was a deeper, more honest part of him that knew he needed to uncover the truth that lay buried in the misery of the East End. He reached the lodging house, braced himself for a backlash of memory, and knocked hard on the landlord’s door. A few moments passed, then it swung inward. Hunt peered intently at him, then surprise flitted over the man’s aged features. “Sergeant Devane,” he nodded. “Didn’t expect to ever see you again.” “Actually, it’s Inspector now, Mr. Hunt,” Devane replied with a tight smile. “I need to ask you some questions.” Hunt laughed without humor. “Come in then, Inspector,” he invited. “I wasn’t likely to have mistook this for a social call, now was I?” “I’m looking for a man who might have been one of your lodgers,” Devane came directly to the point, eager to leave as rapidly as possible. The smell and squalor of the Spitalfields area never failed to make him feel vaguely ill, and it was already weighing heavily on his mind and senses. “An artist by trade, if you can call such a thing trade.” Hunt’s smile lacked any warmth whatsoever. “Not the first time you rozzers have been ’round lookin’ for him, is it?” “Isn’t it?” Devane asked, keeping his interest hidden. Hunt looked more closely at him, curiosity lighting his face. “What’s this about, Inspector?” “It’s a private matter, Mr. Hunt,” he dropped his voice, and added a plaintive note to his voice. “A friend of my wife has been somewhat … indiscreet, shall we say? Apparently this artist, Jean-Guy DeVries she calls him, has attempted to blackmail her.” Hunt laughed, and this time there was uproarious amusement in the sound. “Got her good, did he?” Devane waited, feigning innocence and mild embarrassment. “She ain’t the first one he done it to, I’d reckon,” Hunt went on. “He shows up every few years, lures them in, and disappears again a few months later. But his name ain’t Jean-Guy, it’s Joseph Garrett most times he comes here.” “Is he here now?” Hunt shook his head. “Gone about a fortnight.”
“Would it be possible to see his studio?” Devane asked, tone appealing. Deep inside him, some fine-tuned instinct quivered to life. Hunt shrugged and went to get his keys. Devane followed him up the stairs and down a dark, dank corridor that reeked of things he’d prefer not to think too much about. “The lock is new,” Devane noted when Hunt opened the door and swung it inward. “Old one was bloody well torn off the night he left.” Again, Devane chose not to offer comment. “Would you mind if I had a look around?” Hunt snorted and laughed his dark disdain again. “Like I could stop you.” He left the small studio after handing Devane the key and ordering him to return it. Devane walked around the almost empty room. There was a bed in the corner, a narrow cot stripped of linen, and a couch with a surprisingly clean swath of red velvet draped over it. The floor was splattered with paints of all colors, and the windows were cleaner than any others he’d seen in the district, allowing sunlight to flood into the room. A closer look at the floor gave Devane the exact location of the easel and the artist. He knelt and ran his fingers lightly over the spot, expecting nothing, but curious in spite of it. The assault on his mind was sudden, fierce, and shocking in its intensity. He staggered, and fell to the floor, staring in surprise, and pain. There was more rage in this room than he would ever have anticipated. Amid the fury was contempt, and a deviant malice that taunted Devane’s ability to find its source. He crawled toward the spot a second time, and ran his hand over the floorboards. His finger caught on a splinter and he yanked it back, a drop of his blood slipping into the crevice. Devane’s heartbeat throbbed to a deafening crescendo in his ears and he bent closer, seeing the uneven symmetry that he hadn’t noticed at first. He dug into his pocket and produced a small knife, which he opened and slid into the crack, then pried upward. The board lifted without much pressure and he was startled to find a small niche built under the floor. He reached into the cache and tried to ignore the furious timpani of his heartbeat as he encountered a book and carefully withdrew it. It was a sketchbook, and the pages were in disarray. He straightened and went to sit on the couch, with the book on his knees. He stared at it for eternal seconds, debating the wisdom of opening it, though it was inevitable that he do so. Slowly, with growing trepidation, Devane lifted the cover. A serpent of icy pain began to worm its way into his brain, and the snake of terror coiled tighter in the pit of his stomach, readying to strike. He flipped through the pages, and the faces began to take shape in his mind, familiar faces, with accusing eyes and shrieking, accusing voices that shredded his soul and laid it to barren waste. He was halfway through the pile of charcoal images when he found her, and his chest threatened to collapse beneath the weight of his grief. Elizabeth Stride, in a kinder and softer vision, stared up at him from the textured ivory of the page. The implications of the faces didn’t matter for a few minutes, then he forced his hands to continue to move through the sheaf of thick paper. Devane felt the world dissipate around him, and everything grew grey and murky. The black and white lines on the pages came to new life, and the wetness of his tears splashed onto the heavy paper as the final set of drawings detailed the bodies as the police had found them almost five years earlier, mutilated almost beyond recognition. The keening wails of the dead surrounded him, and their attack dragged him to the fringes of madness for indeterminate minutes. The book slid from his lifeless grasp and
hit the floor with a dull thud that jolted him back into the reality in which he sat. His breath was coming in harsh, shuddering rasps, and it took a concentrated effort of will to focus his attention on the bland room, with its newly revealed ghosts. He glanced down, then bent to retrieve the book a second time. There were other pictures in the collection, as well. Rough drawings of people Devane knew very well: Sir Charles Warren, the police commissioner at the time of the Whitechapel murders; Chief Inspector Fred Abberline; Sir William Gull; and a lovely young woman with a baby in her arms and a shadowy masculine form off to the side; the names Annie and Alice scrawled near the bottom of the page. “Inspector?” He caught the book when it would have fallen again, and closed it quickly. He rose and went to answer the summons that came from the opposite side of the door. “Mr. Hunt?” He stepped from the studio room and handed the key back to the landlord. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.” Before the man could offer any comment, Devane left, walking rapidly. **** “Good evening, darling,” Devane greeted his wife with a kiss when he came into their bedroom suite and found her dressing for dinner. She turned from the vanity and looked intently at him. “You look tired, Michael,” she noted softly. “And very worried,” she added, her brows drawing together in a frown. “It’s nothing, Beth,” he assured her. “Finish dressing, love,” he suggested. “I have to send several messages before dinner, and,” he listened, then smiled, “I believe Miss Ashton has arrived. I’ve asked Carstaires to show her into your sitting room.” She watched him leave as quickly as he’d entered the room, and chewed her lip for several moments before she turned to the mirror and stuck the last pin in her upswept hair. “Where is the Inspector tonight?” Daphne asked the instant Bethany joined her in the cozy sitting room. Daphne was dressed in deep blue, the silk shimmering softly in the golden glow of the lamps. The sky-blue color was a perfect match to her lovely eyes, and her fair, gilt-tinted hair was swept into a fashionable coil, accented by sapphire adorned pins. Light from the crackling fire caught and glittered within the equally vivid blaze of diamonds at her throat and ears. She was agitated and pacing incessantly. “Michael will join us shortly,” Bethany answered, feeling far less radiant than her friend, with her simply sienna-colored gown. “Daphne, for pity’s sake, sit down, please!” Daphne glared at her, then sat on the divan opposite Bethany. “Has he told you anything?” Bethany bit back a retort and sighed. “He’s hardly arrived home, Daphne. Give him time to relax. I’m sure he has some news for you.” A soft knock on the door preceded Devane into the room. He smiled at them both, but turned to face his wife. He was again dressed in an overcoat, hat in hand. “I have to go out for a short time, Bethany,” he said quietly. “It’s urgent, or I would put it off.” “Does it involve Jean-Guy?” Daphne asked. He forced a cordial smile to his features and faced her. “It may,” he conceded, “but I’ve discovered there is a great deal more at stake in this matter than the potential loss of
your reputation, Miss Ashton.” “Devane!” The tone was imperious and he locked his gaze with hers, daring her to say more. Daphne relented first, but the set of her jaw was ample proof of her anger. “I will join you after dinner,” he again addressed his wife. “And we’ll discuss all I’ve uncovered about this man.” Bethany rose and went to him, slipping into his arms and holding him tightly for several moments. “Please be careful, Michael,” she whispered, her concern obvious. He kissed her; a slow, easy caress that was both loving and a sweet promise of later passions to be inflamed and sated. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, and released her. “If you would remain after dinner, Miss Ashton, I hope to have some answers for you.” She didn’t bother with a reply, and Devane didn’t wait for one. “That man is infuriating,” she remarked. “So you’ve said,” Bethany replied with cool irony. **** Hyde Park was a dark and dangerous place this late in the evening, but Devane was virtually unaware of his surroundings as he watched the path. He’d picked up the steady tread of a man approaching, and part of him wanted to walk away without ever speaking to the newcomer. But, it had been his request that they meet, and there was no longer any choice of going back when his former supervisor stepped into the small cleared space at the farthest corner of the park. “Good evening, Chief Inspector.” Devane rose from the bench he’d been sitting on and waited for Fred Abberline to come face to face with him. “Devane,” he said quietly. “Walk, it’s not safe to linger here in the event that we’re overheard.” “Where would you like to go, sir?” Abberline looked at him, bristling at the hint of sarcasm that tinged Devane’s voice. “I have a carriage waiting, Inspector,” he finally responded. “We’ll conduct this meeting at my office, if you have no objections?” Devane fell into step beside him and they were exiting the park in less than ten minutes. A short while after that they were seated in front of a small fire and Abberline’s dark eyes watched him warily. “You look well, Michael,” he observed. “I am, sir, thank you,” Devane smiled. “I was asked to look into a blackmail case recently. The man involved was an artist from Whitechapel.” He saw the spark of interest, and fear, in Abberline’s eyes the instant the words fell between them. “Do you have a name?” “Jean-Guy DeVries,” Devane supplied. “Another is Joseph Garrett.” He watched Abberline closely for an uncomfortable minute, and the steady gaze drew in vision, as it had in the years before he’d used opium, absinthe, and other stimulants to evoke the images he needed. The room’s perimeters blurred, and all that remained was the reflected fire in Abberline’s eyes, and the emerging specters that took shape in Devane’s mind… He saw them, the three men he’d worked with and admired for so long, Abberline, Warren, and Swanson, the three key police officials investigating the Whitechapel
murders… There were others as well, men of power who met in small, dark rooms and plotted feverishly, their words hushed and filled with fear… The familiar symbol of the Freemasons began to burn brightly in the background, a wheel of fire that started to spin toward him, the tongues of flame spearing the darkness and taking aim at his heart… “Devane?” It was sharp and piercing, and drew him abruptly from the chimera. Abberline’s uneasy stare locked with his, and Devane uncovered the package he’d brought with him. He passed it to Abberline, who accepted the sketchbook with obvious apprehension. “I found this in Miller’s Court, the artist’s studio.” Abberline glanced at the contents and closed his eyes, falling heavily back into his chair. It was a long, unsettling silence that engulfed them, but Devane didn’t choose to break the hushed tension. Quite unexpectedly, Abberline was a relative stranger to him. His clothes were impeccable, and his presence as strong as it had always been, but there was more than the affluence of his new work that created a distinctly different aspect to his personal air; there was anger, and uncertainty in the shift of his body as he finally pulled himself up straight and spoke again. “What have you deduced from this, Michael?” Abberline sounded old and tired. Devane felt a pang of guilt stab him. This was a man he’d admired greatly, and one to whom he owed a great deal. Abberline opened his eyes and watched the younger man, waiting patiently. “Nothing,” Devane answered eventually. “More questions. Do you know who Jack the Ripper was, Chief Inspector?” Abberline eyed him for a moment. “Leave it, Inspector. It’s over. Leave it in the past. The threat is no more.” “If he’s still out there…” “He’s not!” “You’re very certain, Chief Inspector.” The air was static with contained emotions, the complexity as compelling as the unspoken knowledge they were carefully avoiding. Devane felt betrayed, though it made little enough sense. Abberline didn’t owe him explanations for whatever choices he’d made with regard to the case. Yet, the sense of loss was profound. “If you cherish your life, and your new wife, Michael,” Abberline finally broke the silence again, “leave this alone.” Devane considered the warning. “I see the murders in my dreams. The killer’s face is never clear.” Abberline nodded. “Pray it stays that way, Inspector Devane. If it doesn’t, be careful to see that no one else knows.” “What about that?” Devane asked, pointing to the sketchbook, with its record of murder and mayhem captured in charcoal lines. To his stunned surprise, Abberline tossed the book into the fire and let the blazing tongues of flame envelope the pages, curling them quickly into blackened ash. “Forget this meeting ever occurred, Inspector,” Abberline said heavily. There was no threat in the words, only a weary kind of sorrow. Devane knew they would never see each other again. ****
Devane approached Davenshire House in a hansom cab, his mind preoccupied, and his heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The meeting with Abberline had been unsettling for numerous reasons, and all he truly wanted was a chance to think about everything, and possibly, to forget, as Abberline had advised. He knew he was not to be permitted the luxury of self-indulgence yet, however. He paid the driver and passed through the open gates of the house. The short walk gave him time to dismiss the ghosts from his mind, and reorder his troubled thoughts. Carstaires met him at the door, took his coat and hat, and told him the ladies were in the library. “Michael!” Bethany was out of her chair and in his arms the minute he came through the door. He hugged her close and breathed in the soft fragrance of lavender while he absorbed the more potent force of her love. “I’m sorry to have been so long, darling,” he apologized softly. “Have you eaten?” He shook his head. “I’ll have something before going to bed,” he smiled. He glanced over her shoulder and the smile grew less warm when he spotted Daphne Ashton watching them with ill-concealed annoyance. “Miss Ashton, thank you for waiting.” “You didn’t give me much choice, Inspector,” she replied icily. He kissed Bethany’s temple and kept his arm around her waist when they walked into the room and joined Daphne. Bethany left his side to sit on the couch, and he sat in the chair opposite Daphne. He lit a cigarette, drew deeply on it, and exhaled, smoke wreathing him in a haze of bluish grey. Crossing his legs, he leaned back in the cushioned cocoon of the chair and watched his wife’s friend with curious interest for a moment before he finally spoke again. “I found your artist’s studio,” he imparted. “He’s been gone for a number of days.” She opened her mouth, no doubt to toss some sarcastic barb at him, but thought better of it and remained silent. “The landlord assures me he will come back, though there is no way of knowing precisely when that will be.” He drew on the cigarette, and blew a perfect smoke ring outward to float toward the shadowed ceiling above them. “Sergeant Goodwin has made contact with a man who claims to represent your Mr. DeVries. We are attempting to arrange a meeting, at which time our man will offer to buy the paintings. We’ll offer him a much higher price than £5000 to insure that he is willing to deal with our officer.” She stared, dumbfounded. “What will you do with the paintings?” The cringe of humiliation was in her voice, but Devane felt no pity for her. “If you want this man prosecuted, they may well end up in evidence,” he said quietly. Daphne shot to her feet, outraged. “If this is your idea of help, Inspector Devane, then you must either hate me more than I suspected, or you are nowhere near as brilliant as your wife claims!” “Miss Ashton,” he stated, tone schooled to careful neutrality, “I have no feelings about you whatsoever. You are Bethany’s friend. For that reason I’ve spent one of the few remaining days of my leave walking the streets of the East End, instead of enjoying my wife’s company. If you don’t want this man imprisoned, what, exactly, do you wish me to do?” He knew he was being deliberately difficult, but Daphne Ashton had this
effect on him each time they were in the same room. He’d figured out why the second time they’d met, but instead of easing with time, the discord seemed to grow between them. He didn’t like her arrogance, but he hadn’t lied about his feelings, or lack thereof, where she was concerned. “I asked you to find him,” she seethed. “I thought that was simple enough.” Devane nodded. “Then he asked you for money. Blackmail is an ugly thing, Miss Ashton. Do you want me to drop this investigation?” “I don’t believe this is happening,” she rose and began to pace, the soft swish of layers of satin and muslin the only sound in the room for several minutes. “Bethany?” Devane watched his wife’s concern grow when she rose and went to answer the plea in Daphne’s voice. For the first time, Michael saw real fear and tears in the other woman’s eyes. “He said he loved me, Beth,” Daphne whispered. “I believed him.” “Michael has not yet found him, Daphne,” Bethany reasoned. “Perhaps he will have some kind of explanation for his actions?” She offered the possibility as a potential balm to her friend’s wounded spirit, and watching her compassion and empathy, Michael felt a tremendous surge of love and pride. He stubbed out his cigarette and rose. He went to his wife and kissed her cheek. “I’m going up to bed, love,” he murmured close to her ear. He smiled at Daphne with the first touch of warmth he’d ever accorded her. “I will do what I can to protect your privacy and reputation in this matter, Miss Ashton,” he assured her. “My sergeant will be in charge, and his discretion is absolute.” Daphne stared at him, and he laughed softly. “There is no hidden meaning in my words, Miss Ashton. Beth will let you know as soon as I have your paintings safely in hand.” He bowed to both women. “Good-night, Miss Ashton.” **** An hour after he’d left them, Devane was settled comfortably in bed, fresh from a hot bath and a soothing cognac. He was relaxed, but his mind refused to let go of all that had been uncovered by the day’s enquiries. There was a connection between the man Daphne Ashton knew as Jean-Guy DeVries, and the Whitechapel murderer; the discovery of the sketchbook was ample proof of that. But, what did it mean? Was he the killer, or simply someone who knew him, perhaps without being aware of the knowledge he possessed? Devane drifted in serene comfort for a long time as he mused on the surprising twists such a simple case had suddenly taken. A yawn crept into his throat and he closed his eyes, letting his mind float on the ripples of an ocean of tranquility… …Shots ripped through the cottony clouds that were gently buffeting him, and within seconds all traces of peace were shattered… Blood tainted the images that began to rush at him, and in the shifting swirl of color and sound, he started to distinguish faces… Daphne Ashton’s laughter washed over him, and he felt the backlash of her passion when the shapes of two bodies entwined in an ageless dance of rhythmic perfection… The low moans of desire mutated and became shrieks of terror and rage… Daphne’s face faded away, and the pulse of a gunshot ripped through the eerie silence that trapped him in another nightmare…
“Michael! Darling, it’s Beth. Please, wake up!” Devane jolted back to wakefulness and his wife jerked back when he sat up, gasping loudly. “Michael?” He reached out, touched her hair and maintained the contact by letting his hand rest on the side of her neck. “I’m all right, darling,” he offered her a weak smile. “Dreams, again.” “The Ripper murders?” She shivered against the cold that even a mention of the Whitechapel murderer created in most people. “I…” He thought about it, then leaned close, his forehead touching hers. “I don’t really know,” he confessed in a hushed whisper. He dragged in a deep draught of air and let his mind clear of the distorted blur of blood and mayhem. When he could see past his vision, he drew her close and covered her mouth with his, seeking solace and love in her touch. The kiss quickly roused passion, and his hands sought and found the lush curves of her breasts, stroking slow, evocative caresses over the firm swells of flesh. “Come to bed, darling,” he directed, his lips brushing over her cheek, then drifting downward to the gentle curve of her shoulder and neck. His tongue played over the throbbing pulse, subtle pressure making its tempo quicken against his touch. “Let me go for a moment, Michael,” she requested, voice quivering with excitement and husky with need. Reluctantly, Devane released her. He pulled his nightshirt over his head and tossed it aside, then watched her shaking hands begin the process of removing the layers and layers of her clothes. One of the things he loved best about her was her lack of concession to the demands of fashion. Bethany often chose to wear a minimum of petticoats and drawers, and she had cheerfully packed away corsets and stays when he assured her he didn’t care whether she wore them or not. The lovely sienna muslin was carefully placed over the divan, and she pulled pins from her hair quickly, letting the waist length waves of warm brown fall freely down her back. Then she stripped off the last of her things and walked to the side of the bed. “Lie on your back, darling,” she asked, and smiled with the combination of innocence and sensual knowledge that he adored in her. He complied with a grin and tossed the bed linens aside. She climbed on the end of the bed and eased his legs slightly apart, her grasp on his ankles cool and light. Michael’s eyes never left her as she began to crawl upward, and the rigid points of her nipples brushed over the skin of his thighs until his erection was nestled snugly between her breasts. She swayed carefully, letting her silken skin brush against the velvet heat of his arousal. Her eyes closed and she moved again, her hands closing over his hard length as her tongue began to lick repeatedly, until she took him into her mouth to suck gently. Pleasure washed over him in waves, and he whispered her name as a sigh. When she finally drew back he looked at her again, then he moaned softly when she positioned herself over his hips and guided the turgid tip of his erection to the weeping entrance of her body. “Bethany,” he choked her name out, a plea and a prayer in the gasp of her name. “Yes, Michael?” He reached for her and she caught his hands, pushing them to the pillows on either side of his head as she stretched over him. He lifted his head, caught one ripe nipple between his teeth and bit softly. She shivered violently and he began a slow, steady
stroke over the sensitive bud, his tongue swirling and licking before he began to suckle. She backed away and offered her other breast, smiling. He lavished the same erotic attention on her sweet flesh, and carefully disengaged her light hold on his wrists. His fingers smoothed the delicate curve of her waist and he moved slightly under her. Bethany’s soft laugh startled him for an instant and she drew back with a sudden motion that made him stare. Before he could anticipate her intent, she slid over him, taking him deep into her slick heat. She shuddered and rose slightly, Michael watched in fascination as the glow of lamplight revealed the glistening length of him, then she slid downward again, and he was encased in tight, hot flesh that clutched and spasmed around him. He took her hands in his, kissed them, then covered her bouncing breasts with her own fingers. She smiled, and began to caress herself, fingertips flicking at her nipples, then pinching them gently. He loved watching her, and continued to let her torment him for another few minutes. When her body shuddered and tightened around him, he moaned softly and reached for her, catching her waist in a solid grip. He pushed his hips upward, and they began to move together, creating a smooth easy rhythm that brought them slowly to madness and tumbled them into euphoric release. **** “Do you think you can protect Daphne, Michael?” He murmured incoherently into her shoulder, then lifted his head and sighed. “I can only promise I will try, Beth,” he said quietly. Passion had been temporarily sated, and peace restored to his heart. She turned in the bed and he shifted onto his back while she curled tightly to his side. Absently, his fingers toyed with long strands of golden brown hair, twirling them into curls. “I can’t believe she was so foolish,” Bethany whispered. “To pose for a man she hardly knew. To risk scandal and shame for her family.” He laughed. “We were a scandal just a short time back, my love,” he reminded her. “Marriage hasn’t changed much about that, given your father was hanged less than a year ago, and your first husband dead barely longer than that.” She blushed uncomfortably. “But I loved you,” she insisted. “It was not the same.” “You came to my bed long before we were married, darling,” he said, though there was only tenderness in his tone. “Daphne went to her lover for perhaps the same reasons.” “Her lover,” Bethany repeated weakly. “Then she has thrown away her virtue and her prospects for a good marriage.” “Not all affairs end as well as ours,” he grinned. He pushed her hand from the center of his chest downward and shivered slightly when her fingers started a slow careful stroke between his legs. She squeezed with exquisite gentleness, then the backs of her fingers caressed the hardening length of his shaft, before they curled around it and began a smooth stroking that had him fully erect in mere seconds. Devane eased away and moved her onto her stomach, then he covered her body again with his, resting his weight on his elbows once he stretched her arms over her head. Her fingers curled around the edge of the pillows and he moved down to kiss the soft curve at the base of her spine. As he drew himself over her, he kissed the back of her
neck and lifted her hips off the bed, entering her in a gentle, smooth thrust. “My God… Michael…” The sound of her longing pulsed in his veins and he closed his eyes, his body willingly answering the soft cries that weren’t completely muffled by the pillows as he lost himself in his desperate need for her. **** “Are we ready, Sergeant?” Goodwin looked over at Devane and nodded. “Aye, Inspector, everything’s in place, and Owen knows what he’s to do.” Devane nodded, and his eyes watched the sparse activity on Commercial Street, near the corner of Wentworth. They had planned their operation for after dark in an effort to avoid much of the traffic in the busy area. The Princess Alice was a black square against a blacker sky, silhouetted by the fragile glow of the gaslights. The meeting between Constable William Owen and DeVries was slated to take place in the public house. There were other men inside, policemen who were not the regular patrol that walked the streets of Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Devane and Goodwin remained outside, fully aware that their faces were well known in the area. A chill crept into Devane’s flesh, a coldness that had little to do with the damp, autumn night. Misty fog was tufting like cottony clouds drifting over the shining, wet cobblestones of the street. Above them, the occasional star attempted to peer past the smoke-laden blanket that covered the district and trapped the myriad scents of too much life in too little space. Devane resisted the inexplicable urge to gag, and tried to concentrate on what was going on outside his head. Inside, he was fighting off a new assault of bloody images of murders, past and possibly imminent. Familiar shades walked amid the visions, faces he did not want to acknowledge. “Inspector?” Goodwin’s voice penetrated his awareness and Devane looked in the direction his sergeant indicated. Owen had drawn the blackmailer outside, to a waiting carriage, where he would, ostensibly, give him the money they’d agreed on in the public house. The simplicity of the plan was its safety, and Devane felt a tension inside him begin to ease. It was short-lived. When the two men passed under a streetlight, the muted sounds of life were shredded by the loud report of a gunshot. The man beside Constable Owen fell, and the young officer was on his knees instantly, checking to see if the man lived. Devane shouted orders automatically, never fully conscious of the instructions he gave as he ran toward the two men. Goodwin, close behind him, added his voice to the buzz and dispatched those police personnel who hadn’t been given direct orders by Devane as he passed them. “Get a carriage, Sergeant,” he demanded when he dropped to his knees next to the man he assumed was DeVries. He was still breathing, just. The bullet had caught him very near the center of the chest, and was bleeding profusely. “Who did you rent your studio from, DeVries?” the Inspector asked quietly, catching the man’s faltering gaze and holding it with his own. “Inspector!” Goodwin’s shouted warning reached him and he turned. He muttered a colorful, eloquent curse and stood. He headed toward her, pace brisk, and intercepted her well
away from the fallen man. Goodwin was at his side almost immediately. He grabbed Daphne Ashton’s arm and shoved her none too gently toward the big sergeant. “Get her out of here, Goodwin,” he said, voice cold with fury. “Take her to my home and post a guard there to make sure she doesn’t leave. Tell Beth I’ll be there as soon as possible.” “Yes, sir,” Goodwin nodded and took the protesting woman in hand. Daphne Ashton hurled surprisingly inventive obscenities at Devane as he walked away, ignoring her completely. Goodwin was equally immune to her tirade. **** “What did the police surgeon have to offer?” Devane asked several hours after they’d returned to their office. Goodwin had been overseeing the activities related directly to the shooting, while Devane wrote reports, and considered everything that had gone wrong with the straight-forward operation. He detected the fine hand of outside forces in the mess, and the certainty that it had been one of the policemen who’d fired the shot that silenced DeVries was a warning that made Abberline’s caution all the more potent. Suddenly, it wasn’t at all difficult to understand why the man had opted for early retirement so short a time after his promotion to Chief Inspector. Devane had thought the constant surveillance of those involved with the Whitechapel murders was over, but he doubted now that it ever would be. As long as there was someone alive who might yet reveal the truth, there would be watchers. And deaths to safeguard the conspiracy of silence. “He’s barely breathing now, Inspector. They expect him to be dead by morning, sir,” Goodwin snorted, answering Devane and pulling him back to the immediate present. “Like we hadn’t figured that much out ourselves!” He was tired, and Devane’s barely contained rage was wearing him further. “Has anyone found the man who fired the shot?” Goodwin sighed heavily and eased his bulk into the chair at his desk. He stared intently at Devane for several moments before answering. “Inspector, I rarely feel the need to question your handling of anything, sir,” he began slowly. “But there’s a lot more to this than meets the eye.” “There is, sergeant,” Devane agreed. “What is it, sir?” “Has anyone found the shooter, Sergeant?” Anger sparked in Goodwin’s eyes, but he tamped it down swiftly. “No. Sir.” The curtness of the two short words spoke eloquently of the annoyance Goodwin was wrestling with, and Devane nodded. “I think he was shot by one of our men, David.” The stunned silence hung in the air for several heartbeats of time while Goodwin digested the information. “What?” …followed rapidly by the obvious… “Why?” Devane smiled, sadly. “He probably knows who the Whitechapel murderer was,” Devane imparted softly. “Or is,” he added after a pause. “Is, sir?”
Devane felt the lash of terror and revulsion emanating from Goodwin, and he regretted his statement. “Forget it, Sergeant,” Devane sighed. “Perhaps I’m just too tired to make sense of this.” “Unlikely, Michael,” Goodwin observed. “There’s a lot about this that you haven’t spoken about, isn’t there, sir?” Devane considered the query seriously, then, decision made, he nodded. “There is, David,” he admitted. “But I think it’s best left that way, don’t you?” “Aye, sir,” he said after his own moment of thoughtful contemplation. “If it’s to do with ‘Bloody Jack’, then it’s best left alone entirely.” “Were they able to develop the photograph I asked for?” Goodwin dug into his coat pocket and produced the picture. “Cohen wasn’t happy to be put to work at this hour, but he was persuaded to see reason,” Goodwin smiled. Devane laughed softly. “I’ve seen your persuasive skills, Sergeant.” He accepted the picture, tucked it into his own pocket, and reached for his overcoat. “Thank you, sergeant. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Go home and get some rest.” “Good night, Inspector.” Devane hesitated and looked back from the doorway. “The paintings, have they been located?” Goodwin nodded. “He was conscious long enough to tell us where they were. Said there were others that would interest us, as well,” he added, suddenly realizing the implications of that statement when coupled with Devane’s earlier revelations. “They’re being gathered and brought to the station.” “Intercept them if you can, Sergeant,” Devane asked. “And put them some place safe, until I can look at them myself.” “Yes, sir,” Goodwin nodded. “I’ll stay here until they arrive.” “Thank you.” **** It was nearing morning when the police carriage dropped Devane at the entrance to his home. He peered at the slowly lightening sky and resisted the desire to slip in through the back and go straight to his bed. He spotted the constable he’d told Goodwin to post, and stopped to tell the policeman to go home before he went inside himself. “Mr. Devane,” Carstaires greeted him quietly. “Mrs. Devane and Miss Ashton have been waiting in your study, sir.” “Thank you, Carstaires.” Michael turned to head in that direction, then looked back. “Would you have someone bring a pot of coffee, please?” “I’ll see to it myself, sir,” the butler nodded. Devane took the stairs two at a time and went to the small study that Bethany had shown him only the previous evening. She’d been planning it as a surprise, and had even chosen a vast array of books, arranged his papers, and placed the gift of a gold cigarette case on the desktop. It was a comfortable, functional room. An old storage case that held other things was also in a corner of the room, though it had been some time since he’d so much as looked at the absinthe, laudanum, and other paraphernalia of his drug-addicted days of investigation. He knocked brusquely and went inside.
“Bethany, darling,” he smiled warmly at his wife. “I’ve asked Carstaires to bring coffee, but I need to speak with Miss Ashton privately for a few minutes. Could you see to it, love?” “Of course,” she said and rose from her seat on the couch near the fire. When she was gone, Devane sat at the desk and ran his hands through his untidy hair, then he looked at Daphne Ashton. Every line of her body telegraphed her wariness, but she didn’t flinch when she met his eyes. “What happened?” she asked when he was disinclined to begin. “Does my wife know you were one of Bradshaw’s mistresses?” Daphne’s face drained of color and she gasped, then looked away. “She doesn’t,” Devane surmised, correctly. “She’s been very concerned about your reputation being protected, as well as that of your family’s. For her sake, I will keep my silence in this. But, rest assured, Miss Ashton, this is the only time I will lie to Beth, or ignore the obligations of my job so that you may be saved from your own lack of discretion or good sense.” “You’ve got some nerve, Devane…” “Be quiet!” he snapped harshly. “An unspoken betrayal is still a betrayal, Miss Ashton. I don’t intend to lie to my wife again, her trust is far too precious to me. I will not risk destroying it for anyone. Most especially a spoiled, foolish strumpet who looks down her nose at a woman who is all you’ll never be, madam.” If she planned a retaliation, it was aborted when Bethany’s knock preceded her return to the room. She carried a tray laden with cups, a pot of coffee, and a plate of sandwiches. Michael stood and crossed the room to take it from her, placing it on the small table in front of the couch. Daphne glared at him while Bethany poured three cups and passed the first to Michael, and the second to Daphne. “Have you recovered Jean-Guy’s paintings?” Daphne finally asked. “Yes. They will be returned to you later today. His name was not Jean-Guy DeVries, it was Joseph Garrett, possibly even that is not correct. We are looking into it further.” He pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and passed it to her. “This is the man who met us tonight. He will, quite probably, die from the shooting that took place. Is he your artist, Miss Ashton?” She stared at the photograph that had been developed immediately at Devane’s request. He knew before she shook her head. “That’s not him.” Sighing heavily, Devane closed his eyes and nodded. “I thought not,” he said softly. “It would have been far too simple that it be him.” Deep inside him, Devane had a horrible dread of who it was Daphne Ashton had been involved with in Whitechapel. The sketchbook came back to haunt him, as did Abberline’s warning about leaving it all in the past. For now, he decided to do precisely that. “I’ll be in touch later today, Miss Ashton,” he said with an effort at cordiality. “Good night.” He looked at Bethany, and his smile came without thought. “Wake me when you come to bed, Beth,” he requested and bent to kiss her. After he had left, Daphne stared at the serene happiness that fairly emanated from Bethany. “I envy you so much, Beth,” she confessed in a voice barely more than a whisper of sound.
“Envy? Me?” She was genuinely startled by the unexpected admission. “Devane loves you, very much.” Bethany nodded, seeing no sense in pretending it was not something of which she was fully aware. “I love him just as deeply, in a way I would never have thought possible until I met him.” “He’s very different from Robert, isn’t he?” “He is everything Robert was not,” Bethany asserted. “Kind, gentle, wise, and wickedly funny, Daphne,” she added the last with a giggle, unable to quell the laughter that rose in her throat. “He’s very handsome, as well,” her friend noted cautiously. “He is.” “I hated that it was you he wanted when I first saw him, Beth.” “What?” Bethany was honestly shocked. “I thought you hated him the moment you met him.” “I did,” Daphne laughed self-consciously. “Because I wondered what it would be like to be his lover, and he wasn’t even aware of me that way. When I met Jean-Guy, he treated me the way Devane treats you. I wanted that, Bethany. I wanted it very much.” Bethany wasn’t sure how to reply, and Daphne clearly saw her confusion. She laughed again, though the sound was brittle. “Let’s finish our coffee quickly, Bethany,” she suggested. “Your husband is no doubt anxiously waiting for you to join him.” “I am sorry, Daphne,” Bethany said softly. “Why?” Daphne countered. “It’s not your fault he’s right about me. I’ve been incredibly stupid and foolish, Beth. Perhaps this time I’ll learn not to be so eager for adventure in future.” “Really?” Daphne considered the query, and Bethany’s raised eyebrows. “Probably not,” she shrugged, and for the first time in a long while, their shared laughter was relaxed and free of tension or underlying jealousy. **** “Have you seen Daphne’s paintings?” Bethany asked as she readied for bed and watched Michael’s smiling pleasure reflected in the vanity mirror. “Yes, I have,” he nodded. “In the dreams, not the actual paintings. Goodwin will be keeping them safe until I can look at them tomorrow and arrange for their return to her.” She was thoughtful as she finished brushing her hair, then she went to sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong, love?” “You’ve seen my best friend without her clothes. In your dreams.” She spoke the words softly, uncertain how she felt about the knowledge. She reached for his hand and their fingers entwined in the early dawn blush of light that was pouring in through the windows. Devane saw her uneasiness and guessed that she was thinking about Robert Bradshaw, and his penchant for other women. He sat up, and kissed her, a long, sensuous caress of loving desire. “She’s no different than a thousand other women, and none of them is you, my love,” he whispered against her lips. He smiled, and the seduction was in his eyes and his
tone when he finished, “Now, take off your nightgown and come to bed.” “It’s almost morning, Michael,” she pointed out, captivated by the dark fire building in his ebony eyes. “Good,” he nodded, “I won’t have to light the lamps to look at you while we make love.” Bethany shivered, her body already longing for him. “She said she was jealous. Of me. Of you. She wanted to have what you’ve given me.” Devane kissed her again, and held her face between his hands. “The color of love is never green, darling. It’s a radiant light that graces everything it touches with its purity and truth. It creates life, not destroys it.” “I love you, Michael,” she smiled, and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. “Come to bed and show me how much, Bethany,” he laughed, pulling her down to the soft mattress with him… **** Several hours after he’d fallen asleep in his wife’s arms, Devane was awakened by insistent knocking on their bedroom door. Bethany stirred and he whispered to her to go back to sleep. He kissed her forehead, smiled when she sighed softly and murmured his name, then he rose and went to answer the summons. He was tightening the belt on his robe when he swung the door inward and stared in surprise. David Goodwin was waiting for him, anxiety etched into his features. “Sergeant?” “We need you in Whitechapel, Inspector,” Goodwin said, his dread evident. Devane felt his blood turn to ice water in his veins, and dizziness assaulted his body for several seconds. Somewhere inside him, he knew he didn’t want to go with Goodwin. He truly didn’t want to know what it was that had driven his sergeant to come into his home just as the new day was dawning. “I’ll be right down, David,” he said, voice hushed. He spotted a worried Carstaires hovering a few feet away and he nodded. “Please show the sergeant to my study, Carstaires,” he requested. “Then go back to bed. I’ll leave a note for Beth.” “Very good, sir,” Carstaires nodded, apparently relieved that he wasn’t about to be dismissed for allowing Goodwin to wake Devane. **** The trip to Whitechapel was made in a closed police carriage, and Goodwin’s usually animated face was washed free of color as he told Devane what had led him back to the streets in the middle of the night. “I’ve stored the paintings some place safe, Inspector,” Goodwin began quietly. “Before going home, I decided to check on our prisoner’s condition,” he said after a long pause. He met Devane’s dark eyes, and rubbed his sweaty palms against his pant-legs before he continued. “He was gone, Inspector. Taken from the hospital by God-knowswho, and no one saw a thing, of course. After an hour of questioning the staff, a constable arrived with a message from the H Division Superintendent. I came for you
immediately.” Devane accepted the words in thoughtful silence, and Goodwin refused to say more. When they stepped from the carriage a short while later, the area was virtually blocked off with policemen. Goodwin led him through to the familiar courtyard of Mitre Square. Devane’s heartbeat roared in his ears and he walked, unwillingly, toward the most closely guarded area near the fence. In his soul, a shadow passed over him and left him cold as death. He braced and the policemen stepped clear at Goodwin’s nod. Devane froze, too stunned to move as his mind screamed objection to what he was seeing. DeVries, or Garrett, was lying spread-eagled on the cobblestones. His body had been ripped open and the entrails spilled over the ground around him. His eyes had been taken from his head, and he was distantly aware of Goodwin telling him the man’s tongue had been cut out, and his ears were gone, as well. “Owen?” The constable had come up to them, his hand shaking badly when he held out a blood-stained envelope. “We found this on his body after you left, Sergeant,” he managed not to choke on the words, but his voice trembled with shock and horror. “It’s addressed to Inspector Devane.” Devane swayed very slightly, and Goodwin’s hand slipped unobtrusively under his elbow and gripped tightly. “Sir?” Devane took the missive from Owen and they walked a short distance from the body. Goodwin watched, and waited. Devane opened the envelope and carefully removed the single sheet of heavy paper. The words, scrawled unevenly on the page, were written in blood… “Silence is life. This is the price paid for betrayal…” The backlash hit him like a blow and he stumbled, falling against a nearby wall as the images assailed his mind… He saw the murder, the vicious, ripping blade slashing and hacking, and the stoic faces of men he thought he knew, apart, yet gathered in silent communion. His conversation with Abberline came back to him, and he shuddered. “I see the murders in my dreams. The killer’s face is never clear.” Abberline nodded. “Pray it stays that way, Inspector Devane. If it doesn’t, be careful to see that no one else knows.” Devane had been right. The Ripper was still out there, and the police had always known his identity… “Inspector?” Goodwin’s concerned voice penetrated the tempest threatening to swallow Devane’s sanity, and Michael forced his attention to turn outward. He glanced from Goodwin’s worry-lined features to the body a short distance away. “We have to bury this one, David,” he said softly. “Quickly.” Goodwin stared at him for several moments, and reflected in the sergeant’s blue eyes was all of the horror and fear that shook Devane to the core of his existence. “I’ll take care of it, Inspector,” Goodwin assured him. “Go home to your wife, Michael.” Devane took a final look at the mutilated corpse, nodded, and walked away. The
threat had been delivered, would they now leave him be, he wondered? Macabre laughter chased him out of the square, the taint of madness groping insidiously for the thin barrier that once shattered would destroy Devane’s soul entirely… The End About the Author: Denysé is a native of Atlantic Canada, born in the country’s Easternmost province, Newfoundland, and raised in Nova Scotia. A lifelong dreamer, she began writing at an early age and can’t recall a time when she wasn’t creating in some artistic form. An active interest in the American West, and to a lesser extent the American Civil War, has been a lifelong obsession. Cowboys have been a love-affair that began at the tender age of three, and eventually expanded to encompass an equally timeless passion for pirates, Greek Gods, and Ancient Egypt. The other side of the Old West intrigue is an affinity for Victorian England, particularly the 1885-1895 part of the century. Denysé’s first fantasy novel, AS FATE DECREES, will be released in the Summer of 2007, from Canadian publisher EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy. The novel relies heavily on Greek Mythology, and is set in Ancient Greece and modern Athens. If you enjoy a tale of Gods, Destiny, and the battles of an Eternal Champion, this is the book for you! Not surprisingly, there’s a touch of romance throughout, of course! “It’s what I do best, after all!” At this point in her career, Denyse has had published in the vicinity of 400 stories and novellas, in almost any genre you can name. “The only thing I haven’t tried yet is hard-core science fiction, and horror. Since I don’t consider vampires as I write them to be the fodder of horror, I classify those stories as Dark Fantasy.” Many of her vampire stories have appeared in Margaret L. Carter’s anthology, The Vampire’s Crypt, and Night To Dawn, published and edited by Dawn Callahan for the first two years, and now published by author/editor Barbara A. Custer. Denysé’s poetry has been published internationally, as well. She has also been the recipient of numerous awards, most notably the Fan Quality Award, which is given annually for excellence in fan-written fictions based on film and television. As of May 2004, there are four awards in her collection, and no less than a dozen nominations to her credit. Also in 2004, Denysé was chosen as a winner in the Amber Heat Wave, an annual contest held by ePublishing company Amber Quill Press. Since then, AQP has published, over a dozen Erotic Romance short stories and novellas, in various genres. One of these novellas, Mirage, is included in the anthology collection “Suits, Ties, and the Water Cooler”, which was a finalist for the 2006 EPPIE Award, a prestigious award given for excellence in electronic publishing. More recently, Denyse has formed a partnership with actor/producer/singer Branscombe Richmond to create and write a serial that is best described as a modern day western. (think motorcycles in place of horses!) Installments of the book have begun appearing on the American motorcycle company website, the first episode appeared in April 2006. The serial is available for free, and can found at the company’s home page. A
new project with Mr. Richmond will be officially announced shortly. It is a second serial story, this one a romance novel posted in chapters, will be featured on the website of good morning, hawaii. Simply The Best is the title of Denysé’s first full-length erotic romance novel, and is her debut title with Liquid Silver Books. Upcoming projects include a new Historical/Western romance, an adventure/fantasy, and possibly a sequel to As Fate Decrees in the near future. In the erotic romance genre there is also lots to look forward to, including the beginning of a Victorian mystery series set in and around the infamous Ripper murders; a set of tales that take place at a Venetian Masquerade Ball; and many other stories set in a variety of genres. The short Action/Thriller Silent Death marks Denysé’s debut with New Concepts Publishing, a new contemporary vampire thriller with Forbidden Publications, and two new titles with Samhain Publishing are also on the books for the coming months. To stay current with all these projects, or to just say hello, please feel free to visit Denysé’s website: http://denysebridger.com Or, sign up for the monthly newsletter Romance and Fantasy. If you prefer to chat with Denysé and other readers, the newsgroup is open to everyone. Denysé Bridger News.
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