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She gave a bitter laugh. “I don't need to think. I know the best way for you to get in. It's the same way I dreamed about escaping through every moment of the day I spent in that particular room.” She shuddered, took another long sip of tea. “There's a window in back, on the ground floor. It leads to an empty storage room. That's the room where the killer first brought me. Later, Maurelle dragged me down the hall and put me in with the other women she means to sell.”
“How many rooms did you pass along the way?”
Emma frowned, trying to recall. “Not many. It was very quiet in that area of the house. Maurelle wanted it that way. She had to be sure that, if any of the women cried not, nothing could be overheard by her patrons.”
Girard's disgust was evident. “I understand. Tell me, Miss Martin, did you happen to notice if the window in that storage room was looked?”
“As I said, I planned my escape at least two dozen times. So, yes, I studied the window, and its lock. It's actually a latch. Not a very strong one. A man could definitely break it. Also, the window is hidden by some ivy. That makes it hard to find.” She set aside the tray. “When do you plan to break in?”
Surprise darted across Girard's handsome features. “Why?”
“Because I want to be there. I can show you where the window is, and where the women are being kept. I can also help keep your presence a secret. When you first burst in, those women are going to be terrified. Someone is bound to scream. But if I go in before you, explain what's about to happen, they'll be prepared.”
Girard's jaw dropped. “You would do that? You'd go back there, after all you've been through?”
“For this? Yes.” She gazed from Girard to Hibbert. “When shall we go?”
'Tonight.” Hibbert's mind was already racing. “It must be tonight. The sooner we grab Maurelle, the sooner she'll lead us to the assassin. Time is running out.”
“That leads me to the third question,” Girard continued, nodding his agreement. “Miss Martin, where are Maurelle's chambers?”
“They're in a separate section of the house. But you won't find her there. She doesn’t retire until daylight, after all the night's payments have been collected. She reads all night in the front parlor—the one I met Mr. Hibbert in. The only exceptions are when she's away, and when her noble assassin visits. But he's not at Le Joyau now. So she'll be in the salon, not her chambers.”
“I'll get the women,” Girard told Hibbert quietly. “I'm sure you want the pleasure of seizing Mademoiselle Le Joyau.”
A terse nod. “She'll be accompanying me back to England,” Hibbert informed him. “You keep the women here in Paris. Find a safe place for them. Until the killer is caught, if s not safe for them to go home. We can't run the risk of him finding out they've escaped. That includes you, Emma.”
Her shrug was sad. “That's fine. I'm not sure I'm ready to go home and face a future without my mother.”
“I'll make the arrangements,” Girard agreed. His gaze drifted to Emma, and there was an intensity in his eyes that was palpable. “You'll be cared for and safe.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Emma, one more question,” Hibbert concluded “You said the assassin is gone. Do you remember when he left, and how long he stayed at Le Joyau on his last visit?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “One day spilled into the next. I didn't see him leave. It must have been several days ago. As for how long he stayed, I overheard Maurelle's women whispering about how she was closeted in her chambers for a whole day with him. Only—I also heard some gossip about him coming back next week, after he finalized some urgent business.”
“Urgent business,” Hibbert repeated grimly. “I can guess what that is. And we must prevent it from happening.”
The next porcelain figure arrived at Medford the following night, just after sunset.
It, too, was part of the set of statues that had been stolen from the Canterbury shop—the set depicting two identical women. This time, the women were posed arranging white flowers in a vase. A quiet, tranquil scene.
Except that the flowers had been stained with red paint, as had the women's gowns over their hearts.
The same monstrous touch as last time had been added.
The women's right hands had been stained red, and their right forefingers had been hacked off.
The accompanying note read: Flowers for Lady Anastasia's grave. Even flanked by Sheldrake and Wells, she'll die. Like an arrow to its target, my bullet will bypass their ranks and find her heart. One bullet. Then one for you. Severed finger, severed lives.
The household was still reeling from that delivery, when the next one arrived the following afternoon. It was another statue, similar in design, identical in disfigurement, and with a similarly ominous note.
Royce was becoming more and more troubled by the pattern.
His instincts told him that the assassin planned a steady stream of these deliveries until all the statues had reached their mark.
After which, he planned to strike.
