Blood Autumn Read online

  Which didn't mean he wasn't murdered. Now, Lyttleton thought with a frown, what did that mean? But Terris had fancied himself in love with Tommy's widow — precisely what Dr. Napier's other patients thought.

  The deaths had begun with Tommy's. His wasn't the same as the later ones, though. Or was it? He didn't know. If he could talk to Tommy's doctor — but August said she hadn't called one. Again he thought that odd. Still, there had been a gap of time between Tommy's death and Terris', and Gerald Ashford's, and the others'.

  But what if other deaths similar in nature had been occurring in those gaps? Deaths of which he had no knowledge? The deaths hadn't begun until the Hamiltons had arrived in London, but there might have been other deaths before that. The police would have records.

  What then? he asked himself.

  If this sort of death had occurred before the Hamiltons returned to London, all right. And if the deaths had only begun afterward, then . . . then what? Then somehow, he thought grimly, somehow August Hamilton was implicated in them. No. Not implicated. That was too strong a word. But then there existed a connection of sorts between the deaths and the widow. If, if, if.

  But what sort of connection could this be? Was she an accomplice to some madman or criminal mind? What madman? What criminal? She scarcely knew anyone in London — or hadn't. Perhaps she had lied when she said she had no family left; perhaps there was a brother, father, uncle, cousin, some relative who lived in England, and for a long time they had conspired together to —

  Lyttleton smiled briefly. August and her unknown relative conspired to kill men of quality. A truly absurd notion. Besides, hadn't August Hamilton said she'd lived in India all her life?

  Or so she claimed.

  What if, Lyttleton proposed, she were the murderer? Good God, he must be losing his mind. No gently nurtured woman could be capable of such horror. How could anyone, much less a woman as frail as August Hamilton, accomplish such a dreadful act in the first place? Impossible.

  Still, if someone wanted to murder a man, wouldn't it be easier to simply knife or shoot him, or even club him with a heavy instrument? Why go to the trouble of removing his blood?

  He could not forget that Bethany Ashford had accused the widow of killing Gerald. Still, the girl had been mourning her brother and was doubtless out of her mind with grief.

  But no woman he'd met seemed to like August Hamilton.

  Certainly, though, that didn't mean she was a murderer. Through the years he had observed any number of women who were greatly disliked by the members of their sex for one reason or another, particularly when that woman proved very attractive to every male she met.

  But had any of those women been like August Hamilton?

  No, none. He'd never before met a woman to whom men were universally attracted, for whom her admirers would forget and forgive anything at all. Never. It was downright uncanny. Almost unnatural.

  And that led back to the dreams which were, in his opinion, unnatural. Nothing could convince him otherwise. Perhaps, as Dr. Napier had suggested, the dreams were representations of his grief for his friend or of desire for his friend's widow. Nonetheless, the dreams remained unnatural.

  Certainly Lyttleton had had sensual dreams numerous times before in his life. He was, after all, a healthy male with healthy tastes, but never had his dreams been so explicit, so detailed, so real as these. And never in any previous dream had he made love to a woman only to have her use him and for him to experience pain. Before, his sensual dreams had been pleasant for both participants. In his recent dreams only August achieved satisfaction. And he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat.

  No, he thought wryly, not natural at all.

  What, then, did these reflections leave him with? Did he, in fact, suspect that Mrs. Hamilton had killed four — no, five and possibly more — young men? Had she grappled to the ground tall and strong men from whom she'd somehow drained their blood? Well, yes, he did suspect her, one part of him admitted, and sheepishly he laughed aloud. Again, absurd. Doubtless she had known the men. He knew she had met Gerald and Timothy at the Ashfords' dinner party. Even so, what did that prove? Nothing. Simply that she had known the murder victims, just as he had, just as did any number of men and women.

  Perhaps the widow was a madwoman whose insanity gave her inhuman strength and who was able to conceal her madness. Others had before this. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. No, that made no sense. He had looked into her eyes and known she was not mad, at least no more mad than he.

  He stood and crossed over to his desk to get writing paper and pen and ink. He would write all of his reflections of the past hour down, then draft a copy of it and send it around to Dr. Napier in the morning. Much later in the morning, he thought as he yawned. And perhaps Dr. Napier could make something of it; perhaps not. Lyttleton began writing, the only sound in the room the rapid scratching of the pen nib across the paper. Midway through the first page Lyttleton lifted his pen and paused as he stared down at one sentence.

  "Besides," he had written to the doctor, "August Hamilton told Terris, Montchalmers, and me, upon the occasion of our meeting her, that she had lived in India all her life. How do we know this is accurate?"

  Indeed, how did they? They had only her word for it. And that, Lyttleton realized, he was not prepared to fully accept now.

  She and Tommy had recently left India; no doubt his regiment was still stationed there, and if not, he could find where it was located presently. Tommy's brother officers and friends in the regiment might reveal information about this strange woman and her origins, information that would shed some light on the mystery. When he finished Napier's letter, he would begin writing others. It would be, he thought, a far busier night than he had previously thought.

  *

  Lyttleton heard nothing from Dr. Napier, and he began to wonder if Napier thought he was crazy. Then, a few days after he'd sent the note, he received a dinner invitation from Mrs. Napier for the next night.

  At the bottom of the note a brief postscript had been penned in another hand. Dr. Napier indicated he had business to discuss with Lyttleton. He sensed that the doctor had made some discovery.

  The next evening as Lyttleton dressed, his hands trembled with the inner excitement he felt at the impending appointment.

  He wished he had more to report to Napier. He'd been about to post the letters to India when it occurred to him that the regiment might have moved. He checked and found it had returned to England. After readdressing his letters, he sent them out. Only God knew if the letters would reach their destinations.

  Still, the letters weren't his last resort. He'd resolved to ask around the city — particularly at the clubs. Perhaps he could find someone who was with Tommy in India — God knows, the regiment had been large enough — and who was now in London or nearby.

  Dr. Napier greeted Lyttleton warmly, and the two men settled in the doctor's study before dinner. Lyttleton, the only guest, sat in a chair flanking the fireplace, while Napier paced, his hands locked behind his back. For a few minutes the doctor continued pacing, his agitation clearly evident, then finally he whirled and threw up his hands.

  "You were right, damn you! Too terribly right, Mr. Lyttleton." The doctor's burr had grown thick from his excitement.

  Lyttleton waited, his breath held, to hear what the doctor said he was too terribly right about.

  Napier took another turn around the study, sighing deeply as he did so, then eased himself into a chair opposite Lyttleton.

  "In your note you suggested I investigate other deaths that match the ones with which we're familiar. Well, there have been others." Dr. Napier held up a hand before Lyttleton could speak. Scowling fiercely, he leaned forward. "The very same, my friend, the very same as the deaths of Ashford and the others. That is, the victims were drained completely of their blood, and in death their faces held that terrible expression we have seen on the others. The police report that over twenty of these deaths have occurred."

&
nbsp; "The victims?" Lyttleton said, his voice nearly a croak. "What of them?"

  "All were men ranging in age from seventeen to thirty-three or so. All had previously enjoyed good health, and unlike Mr. Ashford and Mr. Cleveland and the others, many of these victims were quite poor. The police found them in the East End, not far from their homes."

  Lyttleton stared, unable to believe that any of his suppositions of that strange night could possibly be true. And now not one, but two. Were there others? He was almost afraid to ask.

  "Twenty," Napier muttered, shaking his head.

  "My God," Lyttleton whispered. "I didn't know. I-I didn't really think that . . ." He couldn't go on as he realized the enormous horror of it.

  "Yes." Napier toyed with his wineglass and momentarily closed his eyes, then opened them to look at the other man. "It was far worse than I had thought, too. Terrible, terrible. There has very nearly been panic in the East End, and the police have maintained order only by asking the newspapers not to print each case. That is why we had not heard of these."

  "The timing," Lyttleton said, "what of that? Did the deaths begin before the Hamiltons arrived, or afterward?" Napier did not speak, and from the look on the doctor's face Lyttleton knew. "My God! Afterward? The deaths began after they came to London?"

  "Yes, if the date you gave me for their arrival is correct."

  "It is."

  "I've listed the date of each death and the name of the victim, as well as where he lived at the time of his death. I think you will find it interesting."

  Lyttleton glanced through the columns. Close to thirty names were written there. Thirty. And could there be more that the police had never discovered? Bodies dumped into the Thames? Bodies outside the city? He shuddered at the thought.

  "What do we do now?"

  "If it's a disease, then there's little we can do but let it run its course and try to find an antidote. If it's not . . ." Napier stopped.

  "If it's not disease, then it's a deliberate killing. Either by beast or man."

  "Yes, and no factual reportings of animals have been seen, plus the fact that the evidence of the bodies does not support that theory."

  "Thus ..."

  "Yes. The deaths must be by human hand." Napier's thick eyebrows beetled as he frowned. "Mr. Lyttleton, I suggested to the police that the two sets of deaths might be linked. Do you know what they said?" Lyttleton shook his head, almost fearing what he would hear. "They told me that the very night Arthur Ives died, another death had occurred, one that we hadn't heard about — one virtually identical with Ives'. The authorities have concluded that the deaths occurred no more than thirty minutes apart as both bodies were still warm when found."

  Lyttleton's voice betrayed his excitement as he sat up. "Then that means the crimes have all been committed by a single murderer!"

  "Yes, yes, that's what I thought, too, for it is a logical inference, after all." Dr. Napier's voice was very calm, and suddenly Lyttleton's elation began to dim. "As you can well imagine, I told the police my observation that the murderer must be the same. They denied it."

  "What?" Lyttleton said slowly.

  "Yes. The police said it couldn't be the same killer, for the murders were at opposite ends of the city — Ives' in Kensington, the other in the East End. How, the police asked me, could the killer have gone from one end of the city to the other in thirty minutes or so — flown? The man didn't laugh at me; he didn't have to."

  Lyttleton sagged back against the chair.

  Napier continued. "The wounds in the throat and groin area are identical. In width, length, depth — all identical.

  How could one villain duplicate exactly what his accomplice was doing?"

  "I don't understand then," Lyttleton said truthfully. "If it's impossible for one man to have killed Ives and the other fellow, and if it is impossible for two men, separately, to have killed Ives and the other man, then how in God's name did they die?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps it's truly some exotic disease of which we're just learning."

  The doctor paused to pour himself another glass of wine and held up the decanter to Lyttleton, who shook his head. He suspected he'd best keep a clear head.

  Napier continued. "It's true that the police haven't been able to discover a similar crime — let us now call it a death, for argument's sake only, Mr. Lyttleton — before the Hamiltons arrived in London. They traveled from India, a country known for its unusual diseases. I have treated many men and women alike who have returned from India near death from one disease or another, for the doctors there could not cure them."

  August Hamilton had said that her husband's fever had reoccurred, Lyttleton remembered, and she had gone from one doctor to another in India, and none of them had been able to cure her husband. And so she had returned to England to save Tommy's life. And yet he had died shortly afterward.

  "If either August or Tommy Hamilton had brought this disease back to London, then it could have begun spreading and killing others."

  "I suppose it's possible."

  "Mrs. Hamilton is quite active socially, from what I've gathered. She could have innocently spread the disease through her contacts at dinners and parties. That's not unknown."

  "But wouldn't she suffer from the disease and ultimately die as the others have?"

  Napier shook his head. "Some men and women are immune to diseases naturally. They're few, but they do exist. So Mrs. Hamilton might well carry the illness but not be affected by it. This is given substance by the fact that she's lived in India all her life."

  "Which leaves us where, Doctor?"

  Dr. Napier spread his hands. "I don't know, Mr. Lyttleton. Murder, perhaps."

  At that moment someone knocked on the study door.

  "Ah, that will be our dinner summons. Shall we go, Mr. Lyttleton?"

  As they left the study, Lyttleton paused.

  "Tommy Hamilton wasted away before his death," he said slowly, his eyes meeting the doctor's.

  Dr. Napier's eyes grew grim. "I think that I should do some more investigation. What do you say, Mr. Lyttleton?"

  "An excellent idea, sir."

  From the shadows she watched the child play with his spaniel pup behind the house. The full moon cast a silvery light on them as they raced across the grass, the dog barking while the child laughed. Such a pretty sight, she thought, and obviously the child's parents did not know he had slipped outside for a midnight romp with his new pet. Such a handsome, sturdy fellow. And so very innocent.

  Suddenly bounding into the air, the dog knocked the surprised boy down, and together they rolled over and over, the boy giggling even more while his pet licked his face. Finally tired, the boy lay on his back, the panting puppy resting his head on the child's stomach.

  She stepped out of the shadows into the light of the moon. The dog lifted its head, drew back its lips in what someday might be a ferocious look, and growled.

  "Hello."

  The child sat up, suddenly conscious of an adult. The puppy, stiff-legged, advanced toward her.

  "Come back, Trifle," the boy called in his childish tones. "Come back."

  The puppy kept approaching.

  She glanced down at the growling creature, then glided toward the child. He was looking nervously from his upset puppy to the beautiful woman, and slowly he backed up as she drew closer.

  "Come here, little one," she coaxed. "I won't harm you. Come here."

  The boy shook his head.

  Suddenly the dog lunged toward her, his small jaw open to display puppy teeth.

  Impatient, she swept her hands in front of her, and the dog stopped as though it had run into an invisible barricade. It whimpered pitifully as it was lifted several feet in the air and flung across the grass to land with a thud against a tree. The boy's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to shriek.

  Close to him now, she reached out to grasp the boy's shaking shoulders with her long fingers. One hand stroked his plump cheek.

  "Be quiet, chil
d. Your puppy is not dead. Come to me, my little sweetling." She knelt, and obediently the boy went into her waiting arms. She hugged him close and kissed his soft lips, and he shivered under the icy touch of hers.

  *

  Lyttleton blanched and shakily set his teacup down as he read the story in the newspaper. Another victim.

  This time, though, a child had died. A boy who'd turned seven that day had been found behind his parents' home. The article said murder was suspected. Curiously, the body of his spaniel had also been found at the base of a tree not far from the boy's body. It appeared the dog had been flung with considerable strength to its death.

  He rang for Edgar. "Bring me my writing materials at once," he instructed. The servant nodded and left, and returned within minutes. Lyttleton began writing. When he was finished, he rang for Edgar again and handed him the sealed note. "Have John deliver this to Dr. Napier at once."

  "Yes, sir." The servant bowed and left.

  Lyttleton wondered what answer Napier would send. He set the newspaper down; he made a half-hearted attempt to finish his breakfast of eggs and sausage but found he'd lost his appetite. He went upstairs and dressed with care.

  It might take some time for Dr. Napier to reply, particularly if the doctor was busy, and so Lyttleton thought he'd go to the club. He hadn't seen Montchalmers for a while, and if he did get an answer from the doctor, Edgar would send word to him there.

  "I haven't seen you in a long time, old boy," Lyttleton said as he greeted his friend.

  Henry Montchalmers smiled wanly. "It's been a while. Well, what with one thing or another, I've been busy."

  "Yes, I don't doubt." Lyttleton frowned momentarily. Montchalmers looked terrible; in fact, the flesh on his friend's face seemed to sag and no longer looked as youthful as it had just days before. Swollen pouches lay under his eyes, as though he had missed a great amount of sleep. "Are you still having those dreams, old man?" Lyttleton asked casually.