Edmund nodded happily. “I truly believe I do.” He hesitated. “What I’d like to ask, and I wouldn’t want to impose in any way, is if you could look this magic lantern over and see if there’s a possibility of authenticating it.”
“Confirming that it was owned by Anton Dutilleaux would be extremely difficult if the man is as hard to trace as you say he is.”
“He is, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that. If possible, I’d like to confirm the approximate age of the lantern.”
“I would love to.”
“Good.” Edmund checked the time on the iPad. “We’ll have to save that for another day, though. I have a literature class bloody early in the morning, and none of my students is especially keen on Beowulf. I don’t want to go dragging in looking like one of the underclassmen. But I had an absolutely brilliant time, Annja.”
“Me, too.”
* * *
EDMUND INSISTED ON WALKING Annja back to her hotel, then he flagged down a taxi and left, promising to see her the following afternoon so they could start working on the Robert Louis Stevenson piece.
Up in her room, still slightly muddled from the rich food and the wine but not quite drowsy enough to sleep, Annja exchanged the black dress for a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. The room was just cold enough to make the flannel welcome.
She booted up her notebook computer and logged on to the internet. She checked Google for Anton Dutilleaux but didn’t get any hits on the name that had anything to do with magic lanterns or phantasmagoria.
Frustrated, but not surprised, Annja backtracked and bookmarked sites that dealt with phantasmagoria, magic lanterns and Étienne Robertson. At least that way she could meet Edmund Beswick on a more equal footing when they were together again.
Her sat-phone chirped for attention before her head hit the pillows. Caller ID showed it was Bart McGilley.
Bart was a longtime friend, a detective on the New York City Police Department and a guy who had ended up being a big part of her life—on and off. There was a definite attraction between them, and they’d been the “plus ones” for each other several times as well as going out on legitimate dates. However, the only permanent thing they had between them so far was friendship.
The caller ID picture showed Bart in his shirt and tie, which was how Annja usually saw him. He wore his dark hair cut short and was square jawed, the kind of guy women would want to have children with.
“Hey, Bart.”
“Hey. Not calling too late, am I? Wherever you are.” He sounded distant and a trifle off his game.
“London. Only a five-hour time difference.”
“It’s midnight there.”
Annja looked at the time on the computer. “Yes. But I’m not asleep. Still working on New York time at the moment.”
“Morning’s going to come early.”
“Morning is six hours away no matter how you look at it. I go to sleep and I’m awake six hours later. I don’t have to be up till eight. I’ve still got a couple hours.” Annja waited. Bart McGilley wasn’t one to call frivolously.
Bart hesitated. “Maybe I should call at another time.”
“You’ve got me now.”
“Yeah.”
Annja waited.
“We caught a bad one tonight. I don’t really want to get into it. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”
“Sure.”
“So what are you doing in London?”
Obviously the Mr. Hyde story wasn’t going to fly. That would have reminded Bart of his own problems as well as put him into worry mode. Instead, Annja talked about phantasmagorists, magic lanterns and what little she knew of Étienne Robertson.
Mostly, Bart listened. She’d seen him like this before and knew that he appreciated her talking about something, anything, while he sorted himself out. Chances were, she’d never know what he’d gotten into unless she went back and researched the news. Usually, she chose not to do that.
Finally, Bart thanked her and said he had to go. “You should be careful while you’re over there. There’s some creep in the city calling himself Mr. Hyde who’s killing women. I was watching CNN while you were talking.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
“Well, be careful. According to the news release, he just killed his fourth victim tonight.”
5
The streets were packed near the East End alley where the fourth Mr. Hyde murder had taken place. Annja instructed the cabdriver to get as close as he could, then paid him and walked the rest of the way.
She didn’t like being at a crime scene. Several of the digs she’d been on had been crime scenes, as well. But there wasn’t the immediacy of present-day death.
A logjam of onlookers, police and emergency teams filled the narrow street. Flashes went off from cell phones and pocket cameras. A cold breeze, shot through with patchy fog, blew in from the Thames. The blue lights of the police cars whipped across the apartment buildings and stirred the shadows.
Despite the number of people, Annja got close enough to see a middle-age woman sprawled half on the curb and half in the street between parked cars. Blood darkened the sides of the cars. Bloody handprints streaked the back windshield of one.
“She fought him.” A woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in front of Annja in a faded house robe with a grape Popsicle in one hand, talking to an older man. “’Course, didn’t do her no good. Poor thing couldn’t get away from that madman.”
Annja nudged closer. “Excuse me.”
The woman looked back at her.
“Did you see what happened?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re American?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. I recognize the accent. And yes, I did see what happened. I called in the bobbies. My name is Jane. Jane Morris.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Morris.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Something like that.”
Jane regarded her suspiciously. “I don’t see no notepad.”
“I’ve got a very good memory.”
“No camera, neither.”
Annja nodded toward the policemen as they started out into the bystanders. “Anyone who’s taken a picture
