Painted Trust Read online

“This woman was extensively tattooed and I think we can operate of the premise that the tattoo is what was removed. It was removed through an incision that worked around the design, and the skin then pulled off her body and assisted by small slices, much like removal of a rabbit’s skin. The excess fat was then removed at the site. The fact that the harness was taken indicates that he intends to use it again. The gold paint will most likely result in either gold foil, or the paint used on gold artworks as it is dull and has not been burnished to create the shine.

  “This is a ritualistic killing where the beauty of the girl was preserved, and the skin taken off in a manner to best preserve the design it contained. The skinning was rough in parts and quite skilled in others and thus was most likely the first of this size that the killer has done. The fact that he pulled the skin like rabbit hide indicates he most likely has had access to smaller animals. I’d look for someone in taxidermy.”

  “What about a hunting enthusiast?”

  “No, he would have been exposed to larger animals and would have taken the time to cut the skin rather than try to tug it off, which caused the small rips we have seen.”

  “So you think that the bloodletting was purely ritualistic?” The inspector asked.

  Vaughn looked over to Dr Simpson to give him a chance to answer but he was already busy collecting instruments for the dissection proper.

  “It does look ritualistic and may very well be the primary role, however, if my limited knowledge of taxidermy is correct, ensuring that blood does not get on the skin is of utmost importance to ensure the skin remains undamaged. If it is a ritual, it has been designed around ensuring the skin is protected.”

  “Well, fuck,” the inspector said, shaking his head and grinning. “Looks like you might have been worth the wait. What do they call you in Edinburgh?”

  Vaughn held the man’s gaze. “The Butcher.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Morrison slipped the young bobby on the desk some coin, slid the file into his coat, then headed out the front door of Scotland Yard. “Come on, Pup, time to eat.”

  Vaughn and Simpson said they would most likely be done with the body today and have various tests completed by tomorrow, followed by their final report. Morrison sometimes stayed for the removal of organs but he doubted they would find anything worth putting the pup through the full ordeal.

  “What have you got?” The pup asked as they went down the front steps and started walking down the street.

  “I need a pint and a pie.”

  “Ugh. You can eat after that?”

  “You don’t eat, you die, kid. Come on.”

  They jumped on a trolley car running down Whitehall and, after a few stops, got off at Big Ben and walked down Victoria Street. “There’s a pub up here that has the best mutton pies and a wench named Bess,” Morrison looked at the pup. “You can look but she’s mine. Best tits I’ve ever had in my mouth.” The pup went red and Morrison laughed. He had never been that young.

  Morrison found them a table at The Albert and they sat down.

  “This looks too upmarket for you,” the pup said. “And not the kind of place waitresses will put their body parts in your mouth.”

  “Tits, kid, put their tits in my mouth. No, not my usual, but you are too green to be up for that just yet and, besides, women put their tits in your mouth anywhere if they like you.” The kid made a noise like he found it incredible that anyone would like him enough to have him suck their tits. The kid had a lot to learn about women.

  Morrison pulled the file out from under his coat and laid it out on the table opening it up. “Now, let’s see. Dr Anthony Vaughn, eminent surgeon and anatomist, blah, blah, blah, nicknamed ‘The Butcher’, fucking love that.” Morrison scanned down the page, impressive fact after impressive fact. “Studied with Robert Christenson.”

  “Christenson is one of the country’s finest minds on toxicology,” the pup said, scowling. “He studied under Mathieu Orfila, the modern father of toxicology.”

  “What bedtime stories did your mum read you, kid?”

  “My mother couldn’t read.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. What else do we have? Surgical and anatomy lecturer at a couple of hospitals. Forensics for Scotland Yard, Glasgow, Edinburgh and Leeds.” He slapped the file closed and smiled.

  “Did you steal that?” His sidekick asked hotly.

  “Bought. If I’d have asked, I would have gotten it, but in a month’s time.” He raised his hand.

  The waitress came over. “Two London Glorys and two meat pies, mutton. Bess on today?” He asked the redhead who came to serve them.

  “Don’t work here no more.”

  “Thanks, Love.” Morrison waived her off.

  “I don’t want beer or pie,” the kid said hotly.

  “I’m paying and that’s what you’re getting.” Morrison turned Dr Vaughn’s file to the kid. “What do you see?”

  The kid scowled and opened it. “I am not comfortable with theft.”

  “‘I’m not comfortable with theft’,” Morrison said in a squeaky voice. “It’s only theft if I didn’t pay for it. Now tell me what it says?”

  The kid scanned the contents. “Nothing we couldn’t find out by asking.”

  “And?” Morrison asked.

  The kid huffed and looked again. “There is nothing; he’s a model medico.”

  “Exactly, he’s not as I feared, the friend-of-a-friend looking for the limelight; this man is the real deal. He has done the hard yards at the craft, taken on the small forensic jobs which have led to other opportunities, meaning people have been genuinely happy with his work.”

  “And that means?”

  “That means we can trust what he finds and what he says. When speaking with a source or witness, the first thing we need to know is how reliable—how objective—they are. We need to know their biases, their agenda, and the nature of their character.”

  “So, you think the contents of this file proves him a reliable source?”

  “I think it confirms he is a reliable source, the assessment he just gave us was clear and concise, and he supported all assumptions with detail. He has confirmed some of our own summations and added to them. That is all I ask for from a scene where cause and method of death is relatively clear. And he didn’t take my shit yet didn’t get all puffy about it either; toffs can do that. The fact that he didn’t means he is self-assured and will stand on his beliefs if tested.”

  The kid looked at him for a few long seconds. “You’re much smarter than you let on.”

  There was an unexpected heat at the base of his neck at the pup’s praise.

  “We should tell him about the other bodies,” the pup said.

  Just when he thought the kid was getting smart himself. Morrison glared at the pup.

  “The ones in your report to the Hurleys,” he continued.

  “I didn’t give them a report,” Morrison growled.

  “They got it from Mr Blackburn.”

  “And how did you get it?”

  “Miss Agatha Wood let me read it.”

  “Miss Agatha Wood, the Hurleys’ girl playing sleuth?”

  The pup was blotchy with indignation. “She wrote a report and there are things that she knows that you were not privy to that are pertinent.”

  Irritation spiked as the beers and pies were delivered.

  “Are you telling me you are in the possession of a report that contains information about this killer and you are only now choosing to tell me?” His fist thumped the table, jostling their lunch.

  The pup stood up, his face getting all tight. “I will not be threatened. You have pulled me by my shirt, grabbed at my chest and now slammed the table—I can’t work under the constant threat of violence.”

  The kid’s eyes were glassy but if the kid didn’t tell him what he knew, Morrison would give him something to cry about. “Listen kid, don’t fucking keep shit like this from me and I won’t thump the table. Where’s the report?”

&
nbsp; “I read it, I don’t have it on me.”

  “Well, get it. And I want to talk to Agatha Wood.”

  “No!” The kid looked flustered. “No, she’s… she’s very private.”

  Oh God, no doubt she was one of those bluestocking spinsters who meddled, just what he didn’t need. “But you know her?”

  “I can contact her, yes.” The kid was agitated.

  “Well, get me a copy of that report and a meeting with her.” Morrison waved for the kid to sit down and bit into the pie.

  The kid remained standing.

  He waved the kid down again, swallowing the mouthful. “Listen, kid, I will never hurt you. I’m rough, it comes with the territory, and it’s saved my life more times than gentility could. Just sit down.”

  “I want your word that you will stop threatening me.”

  “Not going to happen, kid, it’s how I am. But I can give you my word I will never backhand you, beat you or intentionally harm you . . . ever. You are under my protection. Now sit down and eat the bloody pie.”

  “That was a human being on the table back there, a beautiful woman with a name and a life, a person, someone’s daughter . . . eating pie after that seems disrespectful.”

  “Stay alive, stay strong, stay sharp and find her killer. Fuel up and get mad. That’s what that girl back there deserves—your indignation, your anger and as much strength and stamina as you can acquire to catch the bastard who did that to her. Now sit down and fucking eat.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Mr Price relayed to Edith that Dr Vaughn would be in London another day or two. The journey home would take a further day. It was the perfect opportunity, one that might not soon present itself. Her heart, her ethics, her values screamed at her to forget the whole thing, to just jump a ship for Africa and take her chances on the ground, without any qualifications; her skills would soon be recognized regardless. But she was not one for wild, unplanned acts and yet those morals and ethics were not worth dying for.

  Edith turned the door handle and entered Vaughn’s study, closing the door behind her. As promised, Mr Price had set up a desk for her, a small, polished oak table with a padded chair behind it. The surface held pens and paper. And, right above it, hung Vaughn’s medical degree from the University in Switzerland. The university which taught medicine to women was far enough away that anyone checking her credentials from England would be unable, or unwilling, to follow up, especially when the missionaries were having trouble finding a candidate as the ongoing advertisement seemed to indicate.

  Edith sat at her desk and looked up at the framed sheet, imagining her name in place of Vaughn’s. She’d thought she would have to do a lot more skulking about to find it. The first hurdle had been surmounted. She now had to find a way to borrow it, unnoticed, for a few days, maybe a week; she had no idea how long a forger would need.

  It was not difficult to drop the frame face down causing the glass to break away from the document. Mr Price came when he heard the breaking glass, and said he would get another made. She slipped the medical degree into a drawer in his presence, suggesting it best for the framer to get the measurements from the current frame than risk losing or damaging his degree. “Most sensible,” Mr Price agreed.

  After taking a quick lunch in the kitchen, Edith returned to the study and retrieved the degree from the drawer. A half-hour later, she told Mr Price that she needed to visit the apothecary and left the house.

  The day was cold. It had rained earlier and the cobblestones shone in greys and silvers. There was no sun, just the blue grey sky fully clouded over the city like a dowager. The degree burned a hole in her bag as she made her way through Edinburgh’s side streets, and, to add to her guilt, she also carried a letter written in Vaughn’s neat hand and containing his signature, which she would need for a letter of reference.

  Edith looked around her for the fourth time, concerned for her safety now that she was out in the open. There was no one who stood out or who looked especially dangerous, but then surely the Skinner, with all of his illegal activities, had learned how to blend in.

  The apothecary was situated close to the center of the city but her next stop was at the other end of town. An area Price had said was less than reputable but safe enough if visited during the day. There had been a question in his face as to her business across town, but her position afforded her a modicum of privacy that another member of the household may not have been allowed.

  It took a good forty-five minutes to find the shop. It was tucked in behind the main thoroughfare, and with each turn the shopfronts became a little bleaker. The sign was clear enough when she found it, The Edinburgh Bibliotheca of Foreign Books. It was part of a network of bookshops across Great Britain whose main business was not books but erotic accessories. It had been one such shop in London, The Bond Street Bookshop, which sheltered Edith and her sisters before their escape from the increasingly dangerous world of the Collectors.

  The door creaked as she entered. A shopkeeper glanced at her and frowned until, to his obvious surprise, she gave the secret hand signal.

  “Miss, this way if you please.”

  She followed him through a worn burgundy velvet curtain, down a corridor and into an office. Behind the desk sat a wiry man with a face which, given the downward sloping lines on either side of his mouth, had not smiled in over a decade.

  “Mr Wire?” In hushed tones, the shop attendant said something further to the man then left.

  Mr. Wire motioned for her to sit. Through her skirts, Edith felt broken springs.

  “Miss . . .?” When Edith did not provide her name, he continued. “You gave a signal that few people know or have the right to use.”

  Edith pulled herself up straighter. These were the kinds of places and people who respected nothing and pounced on fear and uncertainty, yet she had been through too much in her life to have a man like this manipulate her.

  “I need a couple of documents forged quickly, but of a high enough quality to pass close inspection.” She pulled out the medical degree, the sample of Vaughn’s writing and signature, and the letter of recommendation she had drafted for herself. “I need the degree to be made in my name, Edith Appleby, and this letter,” she handed the reference and the samples over to him, “in this script, with this signature.”

  “I also need to get these letters to the Bond Street Bookshop.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out the two letters she had written. One letter to the owner of the Bond Street Bookshop, her friend Elspeth James, the other to Agatha Wood, a Painted Sister-cum-sleuth who was trying to track the killer.

  Mr. Wire made no move toward the documents. “Everything costs, Miss Andrews.” The use of her real name made the blood drain from her face. She could not afford to faint.

  “I’m sorry? My name is Appleby.”

  He reached into a drawer and drew out an envelope. Even from across the desk Edith recognized the seal; it was her Collector’s.

  Mr. Wire opened it and drew out a photograph. Heat swept up her chest. She knew what it was.

  Mr. Wire placed the photograph on the desk facing her. It was a hand-colored image of a naked woman wearing a sparrow mask. The mask covered the whole head and was made of lustrous brown feathers, with the most wonderful detail around the eyelids. A two-inch wide patent leather collar encircled the woman’s throat, keeping her chin up and her back straight. A silver chain ran through a loop on the collar and was held by a gentleman dressed in top hat and tails, his back to the camera.

  The photograph was too small to show the full detail of the designs, but there was no mistaking the fact that the whole of the woman’s body, aside from the hands and feet, was tattooed in intricate floral designs, the petals and leaves of each flower overlapping and framing each beautiful bloom. The designs were outlined in gold paint, to make the images even more luminous in the lamp light at the viewing.

  The photograph was of her. Her and her Collector.

  And Mr. Wire knew it.

&
nbsp; “You are worth a lot of money, Miss Andrews.” He drew out a second photo from beneath the first, this one without her mask, her face easily recognizable. “But there is also some obligation as you have used the signal. I will pass the letters on and prepare your forgeries. I suggest you do not make any future travel arrangements through me.” With that he stood and motioned her to do the same. “There is a nasty piece on your tail, miss, as you no doubt know. If he hears that I have let you go it will be an ugly affair and—hand signal or no—I will look after my own interests before yours. Come back in ten days.”

  “I may not have ten days.”

  “The paper is from the continent; the watermark and the wax seal need to be made. That’s as fast as I can make it, and I’m sure you do not possess the necessary funds to expedite the job.” Mr. Wire rose, signaling the end of the discussion. “If I were in your shoes, I would head straight for the train station and never look back.”

  “That is not possible. I will be back in ten days.”

  “Very well.”

  Edith wasn’t sure how she made it out of the office and back into the street, lost in a fog of terror. She was the property of a very wealthy and cruel man who intended to retrieve his prized possession. Her dreams of a new life in Africa now seemed impossibly out of reach.

  CHAPTER 30

  Vaughn stepped over the threshold into the surgery and the smell of astringent cleaners teased him like an aphrodisiac. She’d smelled like that on the night in his anatomical lab. It had been on her hands and in her clothes as she pressed against him . . . and as she rejected him, ‘Whata preposterous thing to say.’

  His body tightened.

  On the train back to Edinburgh, he’d resolved to get some distance; to get back into his old habits and stay away from the reluctant, respectable woman.

  Vaughn walked into the practice. “Appleby!” He intentionally shouted—she may as well know things were back as they should be.

  The theater doors creaked open and there she was, her face passive and unreadable. “Doctor.”