Free Druid's Daughter by Jean Hart Stewart Page A

had. Besides slitting her throat, on each
bare buttock he’d carved the letter “W”. This time the red of the letter
glistened not from a crayon, but from blood. These letters were evidently cut
even after the throat slicing, as the cuts of the letters had bled scarcely at
all. The damned killer must have dipped his finger in the blood from her throat
and painted the letters on her naked backside.
    Lance growled. “I’ll get the bloody bastard one way or
another. He can’t be allowed to survive much longer.”
    He pulled the girl’s skirts down and turned away. Somehow it
seemed almost indecent to stare at her, although he’d looked as carefully as he
could for any clue. There was another small stain on her dress, again about the
middle of her back. This one was still damp and as he leaned over and sniffed
it definitely smelled like semen. There was no other clue. Nothing new to help
them.
    A sex deviate killer was loose and daring the police to
catch him.
    Lance was well aware the investigation of Jack the Ripper
had rebounded on the police because they tried to exclude the press from any
information. The press had been forced to make up and exaggerate a good deal.
As a result the general population became frantic with fear. This time the
press should be given as much accurate information as possible without
compromising the case. Hopefully fear would be lessened if imaginary clues
weren’t printed and magnified.
    Lance gathered his mind and spoke to his men.
    “One of you reach the Commander immediately and ask him to
meet me at the Commissioner’s office. I think the Commissioner will want to
tell the Queen. Then we’ll call in the press.”
    He tossed a rapid series of orders to Shriver and then
dropped him off at the office. He directed his new driver to take him to the
Commissioner’s office.
    He had no way of knowing Morgan was pacing in his office.
Waiting for him and anxious to see him.

Chapter Seven
     
    The night before, Commissioner Devon Randall had taken
Viviane McAfee to dinner with the express determination of talking her into
marriage. He knew it would take all his powers of persuasion. He entertained no
illusions of his position or his wealth influencing the independent, baffling
woman he loved. Loved with a passion he’d never even known existed.
    No matter Queen Victoria herself sometimes called Randall in
for consultation. Queen Victoria, now ruler of her people for over sixty years.
His royal mistress would never understand his unconventional choice. But then
she seldom understood anything outside her conformist experiences. Nor would
many of his associates exhibit any more sympathy. He knew Viviane would throw
these facts at him. He did not care about others’ opinions in the slightest, as
long as he could convince her. Viviane was the only one who mattered.
    He wanted Viviane as his adored wife and devoted mother of
his son. Jamie worshiped her and she seemed to love him with equal intensity.
Why should the opinions of others then be of any significance?
    Commissioner Randall smiled a lot through dinner.
    “Could I give you more wine, my dear? I know you drink
little, but this is mild and very good.”
    He held up the bottle, preferring not to call a waiter to
the table.
    Viviane smiled her beautiful, knowing smile and shook her
head. He kept the conversation light and on general topics until dessert. He
doubted he was fooling Viviane about his seeming lack of purpose.
    Viviane spooned the last of a delicious trifle into her
mouth, as Randall watched her lips lick the last bit and wished they were
someplace private.
    “Devon, you’re looking like a child denied a treat.”
    He crossed his long legs under the table and looked at her,
his yearning for a different kind of dessert evident on his face.
    Viviane’s smile vanished.
    Devon groaned.
    “I’d hoped to ply you with a little more wine before I got
serious, my dear. But as usual, you can see through me as if I were a