Kendra eyed him with concern. “Maybe you should stand out in the hall?”
“I am—I shall be fine . . . now.”
Still, he averted his eyes to stare at the collection of cats.
“Take deep breaths and bend over if you think you’re going to pass out,” Kendra advised, before crossing the room to get a closer look at the body.
Jameson stepped in front of her. “Miss Donovan, you don’t want ter come any nearer. ’Tis not for female eyes.” When Kendra simply walked around him, he puffed out his chest in indignation. “Now see here, yer Grace, I ain’t gonna be responsible for any female hysterics!”
“I shall take full responsibility for my ward if she should become hysterical, rest assured,” the Duke told him, and followed Kendra to look at the corpse.
Kendra focused on the body, sprawled on the floor face up. Mr. Stone had been a big man. Fat, not muscle, strained the seams of the pantaloons, coat, waistcoat, and shirt he was wearing. His stomach plumed over his breeches. He was also a lot older than Kendra had expected him to be. Late sixties, she deduced. His face was heavy and jowly. His eyes were open and filmed over. He still had a decent head of hair, once dark, but now silver. There were no marks on his forehead, but the left side of the head was matted with blood. His cravat, shirt, and coat were soaked in blood as well. A few blowflies were already buzzing around the body, crawling across the man’s face.
“You moved the body,” she said.
It wasn’t a question, but Jameson answered. “’Course we did! Me and Bernard here.” Jameson jerked a thumb at the man standing next to him. “Mr. Stone was flat on his face. Hard ter imagine that he’d be alive with his head caved in like that, but we had ter check. It wasn’t easy rollin’ him over either. He’s as fat as Prinny.”
“Nah, the Prince Regent’s fatter!” the man next to him chortled.
Kendra bit back a sigh. She would have liked to have seen the body in its original position. When it came to homicide investigations, the crime scene was vital, every detail important. Still, it wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened here.
“What about the chair?” she asked. “Did you move that as well?”
“No reason ter do that,” said Jameson.
“So the chair was overturned. And you found him lying beside it, facedown?”
“Aye.” Jameson scowled. “Wot’s this about, anyways?”
Kendra didn’t say anything. Her gaze traveled across the pool of blood near the mill manager’s head to the telling splatter on the back of the chair, the desk, the wall behind the desk.
The desk was the most interesting, both because of the blood spatter and one particular item upon it—a bronze lion. It was roughly the size of a small toaster, and cast in the style of the famous lions, Patience and Fortitude, flanking the entrance of the New York Public Library. Even from where she was standing, Kendra could see the flecks of blood and brain matter on the lion’s base.
“And what about that?” She pointed at the bronze. “Was that on the desk?”
The constable shot her an exasperated look. “It was on the floor. ’Tis the weapon, you know. One of the Luddites used it ter bash Stone’s head in.”
“I don’t think so.”
Jameson stared at her. “Wot do you mean, you don’t think so? There’s blood on that statue, and a sodding hole in Mr. Stone’s head. Even a blind man can see that it’s the murder weapon!”
“It’s the murder weapon used to bludgeon Mr. Stone,” Kendra agreed calmly. “But the Luddites were not responsible for Mr. Stone’s murder.”
Jameson thrust out his chin, immediately aggressive. “’Course they were!” He looked to the Duke. “Sir!”
But the Duke was regarding Kendra intently. “What are you seeing, Miss Donovan?”
Kendra squatted down next to the victim. She wished that she had latex gloves, but pushed away her revulsion as she reached for the victim’s elbow. She lifted it, testing the tractability. She dropped the arm, then pressed her fingers against the neck and jaw.
“W’ot’s the gentry mort doin’?” whispered the man named Bernard.
“The victim is in the beginning stages of rigor mortis,” she told them, withdrawing her fingers. She turned her eyes to the blood around the man, and wanted to curse as she noticed the streaks caused by moving the body. She could even see footprints walking through the blood. Footprints that could be the killer’s—or could be the constable’s.
She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose in frustration. Unfortunately, saying something on the point wouldn’t change any minds. Christ. She dropped her hand and surveyed the body again. There was nothing stopping her from rolling the victim back to its original position, except that the man weighed a ton.
“I need help turning him over again.” She lifted her gaze to her audience.
“W’ot for?” demanded Jameson, not moving.
The Duke started forward, and was joined by Freddie and Benjamin. Grunting, they rolled the dead man until he was facedown again. The new position clearly revealed the mortal injury. Mr. Stone’s skull had been bludgeoned so savagely that it had shattered, caving in the back of his head. Blood and bits of brain matter clung to the back of his coat. The flies that had buzzed up when they rolled him over now swarmed onto the exposed wound.
Someone gasped. Matthews had braved a closer look, but the sight of the insects using the back of Stone’s head for their breeding ground made him gag again. Pressing his hankie against his lips, he fled the room.
“Dear God . . .” the Duke breathed, staring at the damaged head. “The poor wretch.”
“Wot’s this about?” Jameson repeated. His hostility hadn’t dissipated, but he now appeared more puzzled than angry. “Beggin’ your pardon, your Grace, but this ain’t your concern. Yours . . . or your ward’s.”
Kendra pushed herself to her feet. “It’s our concern if you’re going to hold the wrong person responsible for this man’s death. The Luddites didn’t kill him.”
“Oh?” the constable cocked his head, regarding her with an expression both smug and challenging. “And who do you think killed Mr. Stone, Miss Donovan, if the blasted Luddites didn’t do it?”
Kendra said nothing for a long moment. She allowed her gaze to sweep the room once more before returning to the pulverized skull of the victim. “I don’t know the killer’s identity—yet,” she said finally. “That will require a much more thorough investigation. But offhand? I’d say we’re dealing with a killer who didn’t intend to kill. But once he started, I don’t think he could stop.”
4
Constable Jameson stared at her. Then he summarily dismissed her by turning to look at the Duke. “This is why ladies shouldn’t involve themselves in such weighty matters, your Grace,” he said. “They get fanciful notions.”
Kendra drew in a sharp breath. She’d dealt with plenty of assholes in her career, but this man was a moron. “Okay, then,” she snapped, “answer this: Was Mr. Stone deaf?”
Jameson grunted. “Wot kind of question is that? ‘Course he wasn’t!”
“Really? Because he’d have to be if he stayed at his desk while the Luddites were downstairs smashing the looms.”
The constable blinked.
Bernard shifted his cap to scratch behind his ear. “The gentry mort’s got a point. Oi reckon there’d ’ave ter been a godawful racket goin’ on with them Luddites breakin’ the frames.”
Kendra kept her gaze locked on Jameson. “So why didn’t Mr. Stone leave his office to investigate the noise? Unless you think he hid here while the Luddites vandalized the factory.”
Bernard shook his head. “Nay. Mr. Stone ain’t no bugaboo.”
“Coward,” Aldridge clarified, for Kendra’s sake.
“Aye.” Bernard nodded now. “He ain’t—wasn’t no coward.”
The Duke said, “I see what you are getting at, Miss Donovan. The noise would have been enough to draw him downstairs to investigate. And if such a
thing had happened, the Luddites would have set upon the poor man in the factory. Thus, his body would have been discovered downstairs.”
Anger flared in the constable’s brown eyes. “Doesn’t mean one of those Luddites didn’t sneak up here before they started ter break the frames. They could’ve clouted the poor sod then.”
Kendra held onto her patience with an effort. “Mr. Stone was sitting here, behind his desk, when the unsub—when the killer picked up the bronze and struck the first blow. Has anyone been to Mr. Stone’s office before?”
The men shook their heads.
“I’m going to hypothesize that the bronze was on the desk. It’s the most reasonable assumption. Based on the angle of the head injury, the killer was standing on Mr. Stone’s left, slightly behind him when he reached over to grab the bronze, hitting the victim and striking the parietal bone.” She looked at Jameson. “Based on your theory, Constable, Mr. Stone continued to sit at his desk while a violent Luddite barged into his office. He didn’t stand up or do anything to fend off the intruder.”
Jameson’s brows lowered as he stared at her.
She went on, sarcasm thickening her voice. “No, Mr. Stone, being the helpful soul that he must have been, just continued to sit there while the intruder picked up the bronze and walked around the desk to hit him on the back of the head.”
Now Jameson’s mouth knotted. “Mr. Stone was known ter drink. He could’ve been drunk and unaware when the Luddite snuck in and struck him.”
Kendra eyed the man. He was stubborn. “The physical evidence doesn’t support that theory,” she said flatly. “If Mr. Stone had been drunk and passed out in his chair, with his head against the backrest, he would have been facing the killer. Mr. Stone would have been struck on the temple, crushing the frontal bone, not the parietal bone.”
Her gaze traveled back to the dead man. “That’s not what we have here. Mr. Stone was struck on the back of his head. And if the victim had been drunk, slumped over the desk when the first blow was struck, we’d be dealing with a different blood spatter pattern.”
“How so, Miss Donovan?” asked the Duke, intrigued.
“Blood is dense; its surface tension basically creates a perfect sphere. For instance, if you cut your finger and let the blood drip on the floor, each drop will form a circle,” she explained. “But do you see how the blood droplets on the desk are more oval—elongated, with what looks like a thin tail? The tail will point in the direction of the source of the blood spatter.”
She watched as the men’s eyes followed the invisible line across the desk to where Stone would have been sitting in the chair. “What we have here is a medium velocity impact,” she continued. “The force of the bludgeoning would have propelled the blood to travel outward from the injury until gravity brought the droplets down across the desk.”
The Duke nodded, and appeared to study the splatter of blood with fresh eyes. “’Tis basic physics. If Mr. Stone’s head was already resting on the desk, the blood droplets would have little distance to travel—”
“And we’d be dealing with a ninety-degree impact, which is basically a free fall,” Kendra cut in, nodding. “The splatter would be formed by round droplets, not oval.”
Aldridge glanced at the back wall and ceiling. “What about there? It follows the same principle, I assume?”
“Yes and no. That was created when the murderer swung the bronze, contaminated with Stone’s blood. It’s called a cast-off pattern, which is exactly what its name implies. The blood was cast off from the bronze onto the walls and ceiling.”
Jameson shifted impatiently, his brown eyes still regarding Kendra with skepticism.
“Look, it’s not just the blood pattern,” she said. “If Stone had been passed out with his head on his desk, you would also have found him in that position—not on the floor. Nor would the chair have been toppled over.”
The constable crossed his arms and glared at her. “That’s jest guesswork, Miss Donovan. You can’t know any of that.”
“It’s more than guesswork. I’m looking at the evidence. There’s other evidence that disproves Mr. Stone was drinking.”
“Like w’ot?” he demanded.
“Where’s the glass he was drinking from?” She flicked a glance at the sparkling crystal decanters and tumblers on the credenza that she’d noticed earlier. “I doubt the killer washed his glass and put it back.”
The Duke’s blue eyes brightened with admiration. “Yes. Yes, a brilliant observation, Miss Donovan. What you are saying is the most plausible explanation, with the fiend standing next to Mr. Stone, and using the bronze to strike him.”
“They were both looking at something on the desk—”
“How can you know where a dead man was lookin’?” the constable interrupted, his eyes narrowed.
She said, “Because blood tells a story. Do you see this area here?” She pointed at the center of the desk.
The Duke frowned, inspecting the area she’d pointed at. “Yes, but I do not see any blood, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra nodded. “Exactly. But there’s blood spatter elsewhere on the desk. It’s called a void pattern. It means something was on the desk, which protected that area from becoming contaminated.”
Bernard and Freddie had come forward to study the desk as well. “Aye,” Bernard said. “There’s no blood there.”
“Approximately twenty-six inches in length, sixteen inches in width,” calculated the Duke. “We can only assume the height—”
“Yes and no,” Kendra interrupted. “I’d say we’re dealing with something no more than four inches high. Anything higher would have interfered with the trajectory of the blood spatter. But there’s something more important represented by the void pattern.”
The Duke lifted his eyes from the desk to meet hers. “The killer took whatever had been on the desk after he murdered Mr. Stone,” he said softly.
“And in that, the unsub made his first mistake.” She scanned the area again. “The murder was disorganized, impulsive. The unsub took whatever was on the desk, so it means something.”
Jameson scowled at her. “W’ot’s this unsub you keep speaking of, eh?”
The Duke answered with a touch of pride. “Unknown subject—the perpetrator.”
Freddie spoke up for the first time, looking at her. “How’d ye know it was impulsive?”
“Because the killer didn’t bring a murder weapon with him. He acted rashly, using whatever was handy.” She swung her gaze to Jameson. “It’s another point against the killer being one of the Luddites, you know. The men that we ran into on the road were armed with axes and hammers. They brought potential murder weapons with them to the mill. Why not use them against Mr. Stone?”
Bernard gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “They’d ’ave used them, right enough.”
Kendra circled the desk, her gaze roving over the black dots and drips against the wall, the smears on the floor. “I think Mr. Stone invited his killer inside his office. The person was someone he knew, or someone he didn’t feel threatened by.”
The constable was still standing with his arms crossed, his attitude hostile as he regarded Kendra. “Wot witchery is this, for you ter know such a thing?”
“No witchery or any magical nonsense, Constable Jameson,” the Duke said, his voice hardening. “’Tis keen observation. Go on, Miss Donovan.”
The Duke’s defense of her hadn’t won her any favor, Kendra realized. The constable’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t see any defensive wounds on Mr. Stone’s hands,” she said. “He didn’t try to defend or protect himself. He had a level of trust with the unsub, allowing the killer to stand next to him, even slightly behind him.” She shrugged. “If he didn’t trust the killer, he was overly confident in his ability to fend off an attack.” She eyed the body. “The victim was advanced in his age, but he’s a big man. Men who are physically imposing like Mr. Stone often have a false sense of security.”
Out of the corner of her eye, s
he saw Jameson straighten his spine, push his shoulders back, his chest out. The constable was a big man, too, though more muscle and less fat than the victim. Still, in this matter, he related to the victim, and he wasn’t even aware that he was adopting a don’t-mess-with-me stance.
As if adopting a swagger would allow him to avoid Stone’s fate, Kendra thought. But she didn’t let her lip curl with annoyance.
“The way I see it,” she said, “Mr. Stone was sitting in his chair, angled forward slightly, which exposed the back of his head to the unsub. His attention was on whatever was on the desk. The killer was standing over him, picked up the bronze, and hit Stone. But the first blow didn’t kill him immediately.” She was visualizing it now. “Mr. Stone attempted to stand. He would have been stunned by the blow. Maybe he put his hands on the armrests of his chair to push himself up, and the killer struck again. That second blow sent Mr. Stone falling sideways to the floor. His grip on the chair would have caused it to tip over. The killer then continued to bludgeon his victim.” She thought of the adrenaline pumping through the unsub, typical of high-stress situations. “It might have taken the killer a moment to even realize Mr. Stone was dead.”
“Bloody hell,” whispered Freddie, and made the sign of the cross.
“The killer then dropped the bronze.” Kendra didn’t want to think about the fingerprints from the unsub that were probably still on the murder weapon. She had no way to access the evidence. And even if she did, it wasn’t like she could run them through any database or begin fingerprinting potential suspects. “He took whatever had been on the desk before he left.”
She turned to the men and asked, “What was Mr. Stone like?”
Freddie spoke up. “He was a right bastard, that’s what he was.” His gaze settled on the body, his face twisting in distaste. “But I can’t hold with this, nay. This ain’t right.”
“The Earl’s gotta be informed,” Jameson said ominously. “About the attack on the mill and Mr. Stone being killed.”
“I shall send word to Falcon Court,” said Matthews, who’d apparently crept back into the room. He still looked ashen, his face sweaty, but Kendra gave him points for returning. “No sense in disturbing his lordship’s peace this evening though. Not like anything can be done about Mr. Stone now.”
Caught in Time Page 4