As it turned out, everyone was even less calm than they had been the night before. Evidently, the guests at the Alice & Ludwig had gone up to their respective rooms and talked themselves into a frenzy of theories. The more Cage thought about it, the more he had come to realize that if this was all some publicity stunt to draw tourists to Absinthia, it was genius. People were frightened, but it was more of a horror-movie type of frightened. They were more delighted than anything else and couldn’t stop talking about it over breakfast.
“Do you really think the killer could be one of us?” Mrs. Brown asked while buttering her toast.
“Of course it could,” her husband boomed. “I’m sure that Detective Inspector Tuggingham will be here asking for everyone’s alibies.”
“All of us were here,” Eleanor stated.
“Except for your husband and the vicar.”
Upon hearing his title, the professor looked up from his plate. “I beg your pardon?”
Eleanor laughed. “Mr. Brown, surely you can’t think that a fine, upstanding man like Alfie or Mr. Sockersby could brutalize a woman like the one in the street.”
Cage looked around, now intensely aware that the aforementioned Sockersby was nowhere to be found. He had returned the night before with the professor, but since then, no one had seen him. Cage shouldn’t be surprised. The young man continually looked like a frightened rabbit.
“I’m merely saying that we should, as the police will most certainly, examine every possibility.” Brown reached over his daughter to grab a plate full of steaming sausages. “So where were you, Professor?”
“Not that it’s any of your affair, Douglas, but I was attending a lecture at the Mayfair,” the Professor said.
“Come, now,” Eleanor entreated. “Let’s not begin accusing one another. After all, we’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Brown countered. “But surely you must realize that Tuggingham and his lot will be back this morning, and they will be questioning all of us about our whereabouts and if any of our fellow lodgers were missing at the time of the murders.”
“My father wants to be sure that you all know that he isn’t interested in lying for you.” Lisa put a fine point on it, pushing her sausages around the plate and looking miserable.
“Don’t be rude, Lisa,” her mother scolded.
“It isn’t rude if I’m telling the truth.”
“You mentioned that you were at a lecture, Professor?” Phoe asked, clearing her throat. Cage smiled. Always the peacekeeper. “Do tell us about it.”
“Oh, it was nothing special, really. It was about the implications of biomechanical technology as it relates to artificial intelligence.”
“That’s an interesting topic,” Cage said. “I read an article several weeks ago about using nano-bots to heal wounds and cure diseases. Fascinating.”
Mr. Brown scoffed. “An abomination, if you ask me. Scientists playing God will never come to anything good. As if the world weren’t strange enough, what with all these Others that everyone is on about. There are days I’m certain that the good Lord above is punishing us for our abundance of scientific advancements.”
Cage gritted his teeth. Clearly there was no topic on which George Brown didn’t have a negative opinion. Cage was preparing to skewer him alive when they heard the bell out front sound and the mechanical whirring of Miss Abecrombie’s insides. A few minutes later, Detective Inspector Tuggingham appeared in the doorway of the dining room.
“Inspector,” Phoe greeted, her skirts swishing as she made her way around the table. “Good morning. Won’t you sit with us and have a bit of breakfast?” she asked, offering her hand.
“I’m afraid I can’t, Mrs. St. John. I’ve come to follow up about last night’s unpleasantness. If I could ask you all to join me in the parlor.”
There was a healthy amount of grumbling around the table at having their breakfasts interrupted, but the group followed the detective, clutching their teacups.
Cage had spent most of his life as an agent, first for MI6 and then for the Interplanetary Union. During his tenure, he’d done his fair share of interviewing suspects and a fair amount of being interviewed. So, when he said that Horace Tuggingham was the most inept police detective he’d ever encountered, that was saying quite a bit. One by one he took the guests into the study to interview them individually. When it was Cage’s turn, he had to try not to look amused.
“You understand, of course, that the only person I actually needed to interview this morning was you, Mr. St. John.”
“Oh? To what do I owe the pleasure of your attention?”
“I did some digging about you. You aren’t exactly who you say you are. Isn’t that right?”
“No one in Absinthia is. Isn’t that the point? To come here to the colonies to have a separate fantasy life?”
Tuggingham’s face reddened. “Not when it means that they come here to murder innocent civilians!”
“I can assure you that I haven’t come here to murder anyone. I’m on my honeymoon.”
The detective laughed heartily. “Mr. St. John, must we keep up this charade? You’re no more here on your honeymoon than that android woman that runs this place.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick folder. He tossed it out on the table between them, its weight making a big noise. “Care to explain that?”
Cage reached forward and took the dossier. He opened it up and flipped through pages and pages of information on himself and his career with MI6. The pictures were old, and Cage hardly recognized the man that stared back at him. The cold, calculating assassin that he’d been before no longer existed.
“You’re not a journalist. You’re a retired MI six agent.” Tuggingham sat back on his chair, his arms crossed smugly over his chest.
“Not that I’m not interested in how you managed to get your hands on classified information, but as you said—I’m retired.”
“Men like you are never retired, St. John. And I want to know what you’re doing here.”
“All right, Detective Inspector. If this is how you want to play it.” Cage leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m here on a secret mission.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Definitely. You see, all of this Jack the Ripper business is a front. A show.”
“Why would they do that?” Tuggingham asked. “These women were brutally murdered.”
“No, they weren’t,” Cage explained, starting to enjoy himself. “All that blood and everything you found in the street, it’s really…” He paused, looking around and leaning in. “It’s not really there. I was sent here to spray the whole area with hallucinogenic gas that made you lot think there was a dead woman in the street decorated with her own intestines.”
“Really?” Tuggingham asked, his eyes so wide that he looked like a particularly bloated frog.
“No.”
It slowly began to dawn on Tuggingham that Cage had been pulling his leg. “That’s very funny, St. John. Sometimes, a guilty man will try to deflect.”
“Guilty?” Cage chuckled. “You think I’m the killer? That’s your big theory?”
“You were in the area. And you certainly have the expertise.”
“Other than the fact that I was here all night with my wife under the watchful eye of several people, according to the newspapers, this killer has been at large for the last two months. I arrived on the colony yesterday. Feel free to check my passport. The travelogues. They’ll reveal that before yesterday I had never set foot on Absinthia.”
With the dawn of space travel, the IU had created a massive database to track its citizens’ interplanetary travel. The travelogues allowed the government to be able to find off-world travelers with the touch of a few buttons. Of course, knowing how to dodge the checkpoints was like Spy Class 101.
“Mr. St. John, your whole profession has been a lie. It wouldn’t be difficult for a man like you to slip in unnoticed, now would it?”
“Without my wife noticing?”
“She’s an agent too. Am I right?”
Cage sighed, pushing his fingers through his hair. His frustration was about to get the better of him. While Tuggingham knew he was MI6, that dossier was old. It wouldn’t do for him to shift right here in the study and string the pompous windbag from the rafters. “Are you even interested in finding this killer?”
“Of course.”
“Then perhaps you should try examining the evidence instead of destroying it.”
Tuggingham flushed red once more as he sputtered. “What are you talking about?”
“Your men were cleaning up the crime scene while the blood was still warm. The woman was missing one hand and an eye. Why? What possible reason could the killer have for taking one eye? Or one hand?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“They’re trophies. And they’re the main prize.”
“What do you mean? How do you know these things?”
“The woman’s innards were strewn about her head in what appeared to be a halo and her heart was arranged carefully on her chest.”
“Obviously a ritual,” Tuggingham said.
“No, an imitation. The person wants us to think it’s ritual. Like a Jack the Ripper sort of thing, but the eye and the hand are the key.”
“Or it could be an Other. Perhaps a vampire coven?”
“Try again.” Cage was out of patience. “A vampire would never have left that much blood. The person you’re looking for is male and middle-aged, judging by the care he’s taken with the bodies. And he’s educated. He studied the Ripper murders closely.” He could hear Phoe’s voice in his head, scolding him for being so arrogant, but this idiot had no business questioning him. Or being the lead investigator on a crime of this magnitude. “Perhaps, Detective Inspector, you’d be better suited to work on shoplifting cases. Or maybe lost pets?”
“Now listen here, Mr. St. John.”
Cage stood up. He was done defending himself and doing this idiot’s job for him. “In case you’re interested in an actual murder investigation, it might interest you to know that there was a man at the crime scene that seemed upset at your officers for destroying evidence. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but had obviously been nosing around. You might want to question your officers.”
“You think this man could be the killer?”
“No, but I think he might be able to offer some insight. At the very least you should know who he is and how he got in.”
Tuggingham jotted some notes in his tiny notebook and shoved it back into his lapel. “And how did you get in, Mr. St. John?”
Cage started to say something but thought better of it. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
When Cage emerged from the study, the excitement of the morning seemed to have died down. People were speaking in hushed whispers, no doubt relating their experiences with the Detective Inspector. More cops had shown up to take photographs and collect evidence from the area around the murder scene. Cage rolled his eyes. There was really no point now. The blood left behind had no doubt been washed away by the sprinkling of rain from the night before.
“Well, Mr. St. John. I see you survived the third degree,” Professor Pankenthorpe commented from behind his newspaper.
“I’d have been more worried about D.I. Tuggingham.”
Pankenthorpe chuckled. “He is an infuriating old sod.”
“You know him?”
The professor shrugged and poured himself another cup of tea. “I wouldn’t say I knew him, but he’s known in Absinthia for being less than accommodating.”
“Oh really?”
Pankenthorpe nodded. “Eleanor and I have been coming here to Absinthia for research on that damned novel over the course of the last year. I guess you could say that we’re regulars at the Alice & Ludwig. At any rate, Miss Abecrombie had a break-in on our trip last spring and Tuggingham came to investigate.”
Cage was intrigued. It seemed like an odd coincidence that the Alice & Ludwig would be at the center of two crimes in the last six months. “Did they ever catch the burglar?”
Pankenthorpe shook his head, turning the pages of his paper. “I don’t think so. If you ask me, the police weren’t too keen to investigate, given that nothing was taken.”
“Nothing was taken?”
“Not a thing. The only reason Miss Abecrombie knew anything was amiss was a single broken window in the kitchen.”
Something about Pankenthorpe’s story didn’t add up. Cage couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had the feeling that the Ripper murders were connected to the Alice & Ludwig somehow. It was purely instinctual, but there was a definite tickle in the back of Cage’s mind and he wouldn’t be able to rest until it was resolved.
“There you are.”
Cage looked up to see Phoe coming through the foyer and into the parlor. She was a vision in her rustling brown skirt and high-necked blouse. And something about the Gibson girl hairdo and the little round glasses perched on her nose was so damn sexy. “Here I am,” he agreed, sweeping her into a scandalous embrace.
“Not in the foyer,” she admonished, pushing his arms away.
“Come on, Phoe. Let’s not go too far with this historical playacting.”
She smiled and started up the stairs, pulling him along behind her. “Come on. I need to talk to you.”
Cage was really hoping that “talk to you” was code, but the way Phoe had her lips pursed made it obvious that she wasn’t in the mood for love.
“You know, you didn’t have to drag me up here this way, Mrs. St. John. I’d have come freely.”
Phoe ignored his joke and led him to sit on the end of the bed. “Cage, I think we have to leave.”
“What? Absinthia? You can’t be scared that you’re going to be murdered by the Ripper.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Besides, you were the one that wanted to come here. In case you’ve forgotten, I said we should go to an island.”
Phoe sighed. “I don’t want to leave Absinthia, but maybe this hotel. There are hundreds of other places to stay that might be…I don’t know…quieter.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Phoe?” Cage took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles softly. “You have nothing to be afraid of. That woman was walking on her own at night, and I don’t plan on letting you out of my sight. Not to mention that I wouldn’t hesitate to filet anyone that even thought about touching you.”
Phoe giggled and kissed his cheek. “You’re such a brute. I love it.”
“I know.”
“But no, I’m not worried about being attacked. Or the fact that the idiot police department seems to be hung up on this idea that you’re involved in these murders.” Cage snorted, holding back hearty laughter. “I wanted this to be our vacation and you’re…you know…”
“No, I have no idea.”
“You know how you get, Cage. You’re involved.”
“Phoe, I am not involved,” he said, dropping her hands and rising from the bed.
“Oh really? Did you or did you not change yourself into a tomcat to go snooping around that crime scene last night?”
“Yes, but…”
“And was that you that I heard giving Horace Tuggingham a run-down of the facts of the case along with your own insights?”
“Well, he was accusing me.”
“And further, was that not your voice I heard giving a description of a possible suspect?”
Cage sighed, crossing his arms and staring down at her with disdain. “Phoe, the man is a moron, and if people really are dying, then it’s our duty to tell the police the truth.”
She rolled her eyes and began to pace, mumbling to herself. “I knew this would happen. I knew it. I tried to tell myself that this would be different, but no. People never change.”
“What are you talking about?”
Phoe whipped around, her concerned face having now turned to one click away from blind rage. “You do this every time,” she accused through gritted teeth.
“Do what?”
“You are so concerned with being the smartest, most adept person in the room that you can’t let things go. Every time we do anything together, you find some way to carry us off on some goofy adventure.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do,” she shouted, then realized that everyone in the pension could probably hear them. “Yes, you do,” she repeated, quieter. “Need I remind you of the weekend after we took Ben to school?”
“What about it? We had a lovely weekend in the country.”
“We ended up chasing a jewel thief all the way to Tuscany.”
“So, one time.”
“Okay, how about the last time we went to St. Francisville?”
“That was not my fault.”
Phoe harrumphed. “You managed to uncover a drug ring at Miss Ava’s book club.”
“That doesn’t count since I didn’t turn them in. I mean, what’s a few hash brownies among friends?”
“And then, let us not forget the charity Santa picking pockets and using the money to buy presents for those orphans.”
“A-ha. That was not a goofy adventure. The old man tried to pick my pocket.”
Phoe had begun to pull at her hair in frustration. “My point is,” she growled, “that every time we’re supposed to be having a lovely, relaxing time together, you can’t just…be. You’re a workaholic.”
Cage could feel himself starting to get angry. He didn’t want to fight, but he’d had quite enough of being accused today. “Phoe, I can’t stop being who and what I am to keep you company. And I don’t particularly relish the idea of lying around here for two weeks like an old rug.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you lie here like an old rug. I thought you might enjoy spending time with me.” She turned away from him and gazed out the window. He could hear her sniffling. Once again, he’d managed to hurt her feelings.
Damn it. He went over and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the nape of her neck. “I do want to spend time with you, love. And you’re right. I’ve been an agent for so long, I guess I don’t know how to turn it off.”
“I—” she spluttered. “I had hoped that this time we’d be able to have some time together, just us. No distractions. When I was captive on Sugoi, I guess I realized how much I loved you, and how precious our time together is. I don’t want to find out one day that I never really knew you.”
Cage turned her to face him, cupping her cheek. “You know me. Better than anyone ever could.” He leaned in and kissed her softly, savoring that strawberries-and-sunshine flavor. “I promise I’ll try. We’ll go out tonight like a regular couple. No chasing criminals.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. And if you want to move lodging…”
Phoe shook her head. “No. No I want to stay here. I love it. But I want you here to enjoy it with me.”
He kissed her again, wiping a tear from under her eye with his thumb. “I’m here, Phoe.”