She drew in another breathe. Her heartbeat sped up, but her hand remained steady on the pistol as she moved to the door. The windows hadn’t been shuttered here, so Kendra saw the figure crumpled on the kitchen floor about five steps from the doorway. The odor, of course, was more pungent, the coppery smell of blood mixed with a rancid whiff of decaying meat and defecation.
Kendra did a quick sweep of the kitchen, heart jackhammering in her chest, hand tightening on the gun before she circled to the body on the floor. She was careful not to step into the lake of blood, long since congealed into something like Jell-O, which surrounded Mrs. Trout.
The housekeeper was lying on her back, her cloudy eyes fixed on the ceiling, her dour features slack in death. Kendra’s gaze slowly tracked from her face to the gaping wound below her chin.
Somebody had slit Mrs. Trout’s throat, from ear to ear.
21
Kendra slowly backed away from the body and blood, retreating into the hallway. The trill of birds and stirring of trees drifted in from the outdoors, almost jarring in its normalcy. Kendra tuned them out as she moved forward down the shadowy corridor, her finger on the muff pistol’s trigger. She nudged open a door on the right and took a quick peek inside. It was a small room that held shelves filled with jars of jellies and jams, and bottles of what appeared to be homemade alcohol, maybe brandies or ales. Kendra recognized it as a still room, although much smaller and simpler than the one at Aldridge Castle, which also stocked herbal medicines, potions, and the castle’s soaps. No one was hiding inside.
Pulse racing, she returned to the hallway, and crept down to the next closed door. She held her breath, listening. Nothing. Even though she was certain it was empty, she led with the gun, sweeping the interior of the morning room.
She was deep enough in the interior of the house to no longer hear the birds or wind. Unfortunately, the very stillness amplified the rapid thumping of her own heart. Briefly, the thought flitted through her mind that maybe she should wait for backup. But what kind of reaction would she get from her nineteenth-century counterparts? Maybe it was arrogance on her part, but she knew how to deal with this type of situation better than anyone here.
Adrenaline made her skin tingle. She swung left, then right down the dark hall. She remembered this area of the house from their visit the other day, knew where this door would lead. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, her finger on the pistol’s trigger, her ears straining to pick up any sound within.
Silence.
Though she didn’t expect to find anyone inside the room—alive, she amended—she moved quickly, pushing open the door and going in low. Inside, her gaze swept the drawing room. Someone had opened the shutters a crack, allowing a gray beam of light to slice through the gloom. Kendra stopped, and stared at the destruction around her. The tufted red silk chairs and sofa had been viciously slashed, goose down feathers pulled angrily and strewn about. Porcelain chips covered the Oriental rug like confetti. Every cat figurine had been taken off the shelves and tables, and smashed.
Kendra forced herself to leave, closing the door again and continuing down the hallway into the foyer. It could have been midnight, the shadows were so thick in the small space. Kendra moved to the stairs and peered up into the darkness. She held her breath. Listened. Was that the creak of a floorboard? Or just the noise of an old house settling?
It was cold in the house, but a skinny line of sweat wiggled down her spine. She ignored it and focused on the darkness at the top of the staircase, and began to climb the steps. The only sounds were the dry whisper of her skirt trailing behind her, the scrape of her sole across the runner.
On the second-floor landing, her eyes strained to pierce the gloom. A credenza bracketed by two chairs hugged one wall in the wide hallway. On the other side of the wall were three closed doors. There was a window at the end of the hall, but it was shuttered. Kendra could see a seam of light bisecting the two panels.
She sucked in a deep breath, and opened the door nearest her. She kept the door between her and anyone lurking inside. It was another drawing room. Someone had gone through here with a sharp knife, as well, slashing the cushions and overturning furniture.
Pace quickening, Kendra moved to the other rooms—a library and formal dining room. Both had been tossed.
She returned to the staircase, and climbed to the third-story landing. Her pulse was settling down. She was almost certain the house was empty—
A woman appeared before her, her face ghostly white. Kendra gasped, jerking back as her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. It was only her training that kept her from pulling the pistol’s trigger, and shattering the mirror in front of her. Good job, Donovan. You almost shot your own damn reflection.
Gritting her teeth, Kendra had to pause to get her racing heart under control again, before she could move forward to the first door. She swung it open. The smell hit her first, strong enough for her gag reflex kick in. She swallowed hard, and entered the bedchamber. The emerald silk curtains were open, and the gray light from the outdoors spilled inside, touching on the green-and-yellow striped canopy bed and the velvet settee, the cherrywood vanity and dresser. Kendra saw all of that in one sweeping glance, then her gaze settled on the woman in the chair. Lavinia Stone stared back at her, her eyes fixed and glassy in death. The woman had been killed like Mrs. Trout, her throat slashed, but there were more wounds on her flesh.
Kendra’s first thought was that the Duke had been wrong. Two women together hadn’t stopped the murderer from striking after all.
Kendra was ninety-nine percent certain the house was empty, but that one percent could kill you. She kept her finger on the pistol’s trigger and crossed to the double doors, which led to a dressing room. The next set of doors led to another dressing room, masculine in its colors. She kept going, through to the bedchamber on the other side. The curtains here had been opened as well. Kendra scanned the room, no longer surprised to see the destruction. Feathers and glass shards carpeted the floor from the slashed mattress and chair cushions, the broken decanters and goblets. The whisky fumes were as strong here as the blood in the other bedchamber.
She exited through the doors that led to the hallway. She had to take a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom again, then she continued down the corridor. She hesitated where the hall branched off in an L-shape. Another door. She opened it to reveal a darkened room with no furniture. A guest bedchamber, Kendra assumed, which, from the looks of it, had never been used. The Stones apparently were not interested in entertaining overnight guests. She didn’t venture into the room. Even in the gloom, she could see the thick layer of dust on the floor.
Closing the door, she walked to the servant’s staircase tucked discreetly at the end of the corridor. Her Spidey-sense told Kendra that no one was upstairs. Still, she felt obligated to be thorough and finish her search. The steps creaked slightly as she climbed them. Mrs. Trout apparently hadn’t felt any need to mourn Mr. Stone, as she hadn’t bothered covering the windows on the third floor. Sensing the emptiness of the area, Kendra picked up her pace to check out the four small rooms. Two were filled with old furniture, rolled carpets—and enough dust to assure Kendra that no one had been inside for at least a decade. Another room was empty. The fourth room was clearly Mrs. Trout’s sleeping quarters. Light from a single window revealed a single-sized bed, nightstand, wardrobe, washstand, and rocking chair.
Kendra caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and whirled around in time to see a brown mouse streak along the baseboards, disappearing behind the wardrobe. Suppressing a shudder, she retreated into the hall. She could still hear tapping, perhaps tiny rodent feet. She traced the sound to the windows. A light rain had begun to fall from the overcast sky, hitting the windowpanes in a sharp staccato.
Kendra drew in another deep breath, and let it out. Her chest felt tight, her skin clammy. The atmosphere was clearly getting to her. She retraced her steps to the second floor, debating whether she should begin proces
sing the crime scene in Lavinia Stone’s bedchamber, or wait for everyone in the kitchen. Even though Mrs. Trout’s murder had been simpler, she didn’t want that scene to be trampled over by her inexperienced nineteenth-century counterparts.
There really was no option, she decided. She’d wait in the kitchen. She moved down the hall, toward the stairs, and gave a reflexive jerk at the sound of crunching glass coming from Stone’s bedchamber. I’m not alone.
Her heart slammed into her throat as she started to turn. Her peripheral vision caught a dark shape looming in the threshold. In the next instant, strong arms encircled her from behind. Letting out a cry, she reacted instinctively, whipping her elbow back as forcefully as she could into the man’s diaphragm. The pain made her assailant exhale sharply and loosen his grip. She pressed her advantage, throwing her weight against him. She began to swing her arm up, her hand tightening on the gun. The man countered by grasping her arm, and spinning her around. Her body slammed against the wall, hard enough for her to lose her breath. Before she could move again, he was pinning her there with his hard body.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
The only thing that stopped Kendra from stomping on her assailant’s foot was the familiar voice. Her fear evaporated, replaced first by relief and then by anger. She considered still stomping on his foot, out of sheer annoyance.
“Goddamn it, Alec!”
She caught the gleam of his eyes. In the gloom of the hallway, they looked almost black, shaded even more by his spiky lashes. But they were green, she knew, like a cool lake in the middle of a forest, warmed only by the flecks of amber around the pupil.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “I could have blown your goddamn head off.”
He cocked a dark eyebrow at her. “Which is why I thought to embrace you, thereby disabling you. I thought if I called out, you might be startled into shooting. I foolishly forgot about your other skills.”
“One more second, and you would have been limping for days.”
“I was under the impression that you needed assistance. Mr. Kelly and I had only just arrived at the Green Maiden when Molly came running into the stable yard.”
“Sam—Mr. Kelly’s here, too?”
“He’s downstairs with the maid. She had to show us the location of the house. We put her outside as soon as we walked into the kitchen. My God. What is it about you that always attracts murder?”
Insulted, she tried to shift back, but he still had her pressed to the wall. “Hey! I seem to remember last month you were the one attracting murder.”
“Ah, the memory is coming back to me. So is this.”
He dropped his hands from her arms, but only to bring them up to frame her face. He held her gaze for a long moment, long enough for heat to curl all the way down to her toes. Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Her mind went blank. He had always been a good kisser, but something welled up inside her—a strange sort of joy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and responded with enough passion that they were both breathing unevenly by the time he withdrew. His eyes were lit by an emotion that made her heart thump harder as he allowed his gaze to roam over her features. She’d never had anyone look at her like that.
“I missed you, sweet,” he said softly.
“I missed you too.”
She caught the flash of teeth, white against the darkness. He had at least a day’s growth of beard, which surprised her, since he usually was clean-shaven. A dark lock fell over his brow, making him appear almost boyish. Yet there was nothing boyish about Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe, she thought. She couldn’t resist the impulse to bring up her free hand, smoothing the curl back into place.
“You look like a pirate,” she murmured, and dropped her hand to stroke the prickly stubble.
“I almost killed Chance in my quest to get here after receiving Duke’s message,” he admitted, referring to his prized Arabian. “Duke wrote that the manager of the mill had been murdered. However, this . . .” Alec eased back slightly, frowning. “Hell and damnation, Kendra, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
“Seriously?” The bubble of euphoria evaporated. Glaring up at him, she pushed at his shoulders to force him to step back. It irritated her that it wasn’t her shove that forced him backward but the pounding of feet on the stairs behind him. A moment later, Sam Kelly appeared on the landing. He gave them a quick, measuring look, then did the most sensible thing: He went to the windows and opened the curtains. It was still raining, hard enough to distort the windowpanes, but the dreary light spilling into the hallway was better than none.
“God’s teeth, ’tis sheer wickedness that killed that maid in the kitchen,” the Bow Street Runner said, shaking his head as he turned around. He was a short man, but muscular, which seemed an odd contrast to his elfin features. Like Alec, he hadn’t shaved. His stubble was more gray than reddish-brown, matching his sideburns instead of the curls framing his face. His eyes were his most distinctive feature, Kendra thought, a brown so light they appeared golden. They could twinkle in good humor—or when eyeing a glass of whisky—or they could become as flat and hard as any cop Kendra had known in the twenty-first century.
“Mrs. Trout’s murder was expedient,” Kendra said now.
Sam regarded her. “Expedient? How so?”
Kendra allowed herself a moment of pleasure that the Bow Street Runner was looking at her like an equal. It hadn’t always been like that, but two murder investigations had given them a mutual respect for each other. Was it any wonder she wanted to deal with him rather than the constable?
“She wasn’t the intended victim, but she was a witness, so he had to kill her. His intended victim is in there.” She tipped her head to the door that led to Lavinia Stone’s bedchamber.
Sam hesitated, then, face grim, he walked through the doorway. Kendra and Alec followed. Sam was standing in front of the corpse. Does he see what I see? Kendra wondered as she joined him, her gaze once again settling on what had once been Lavinia Stone. Her throat had been slit like Mrs. Trout’s, but that had only been the end of her ordeal.
“She’s been tortured,” Sam observed, his tone flat.
“Yes,” Kendra said.
Alec walked to the window to open the curtains fully. In the new light, Kendra could see how drawn he looked. His normally olive complexion was pale, and lines of exhaustion were carved around his eyes and bracketing the sensual line of his mouth. He was wearing a dark green riding coat, spattered with mud and layered with dust. Sam didn’t look much better, his black topcoat so dirty that it appeared to be gray. For the first time, Kendra wondered how they’d arrived at the Green Maiden together, since she knew Alec had been at his estate in Northamptonshire, while the Bow Street Runner’s usual haunt was London.
But that was a question for later. The victim deserved their complete attention. Kendra had been too intent on searching the house in the off chance that the unsub was still on the premises, and so had only done a quick scan of the body and its wounds. Now she was prepared for a more detailed analysis.
Lavinia Stone had been tied to the chair, her wrists bound to the armrests, her ankles bound to the legs. She’d been held immobile while the unsub had sliced open the bodice of her gown—black, Kendra noticed; most likely recently dyed by Mrs. Trout. The unsub had continued cutting through to the chemise and stays, peeling them open to expose the soft flesh beneath.
“Jesus,” Sam muttered, his gaze on the wounds.
“Burn marks,” Kendra identified, glancing at the fireplace, and the poker that had been tossed carelessly aside. She knew that the tool would match the blisters and blackened flesh that marked Lavinia’s torso.
“Why? Why do this?” Alec wondered. He shot her an angry glance. “How could torturing this poor woman be related to the man that was found murdered at the mill?”
“The man at the mill was her husband,” Kendra said, and gazed at the angry red marks mutilating the woman
’s flesh. She murmured softly, “There are only a few reasons to torture a victim. Sexual gratification, for one—your garden variety sadist. Religious zealotry to coerce their victims to confess their sins, or convert to their faith. Martyrs were always tortured. Then there’s the most popular reason—forcing the victim to give up information.”
Alec met her gaze. “You believe this woman was tortured for information.”
“Yes, that’s what it looks like,” she said, and pulled her eyes away from studying the victim to look at her audience. “We know that Mr. Stone wasn’t murdered for religious reasons. And if a religious zealot had targeted Lavinia Stone, he would have also included Mrs. Trout in his torture. Sexual sadism . . .” She paused, and had to suppress a shudder. “We’ve dealt with a serial killer who tortured his victims for pleasure. As bad as what happened here, a sexual sadist would have done far worse. There would’ve been more mutilation, and, most likely, rape.
“This has to be connected to Stone’s murder,” Kendra added, frowning. “But it doesn’t make sense. I interviewed Mrs. Stone. I could have sworn she didn’t know anything about her husband’s death. But she’d been an actress before her marriage—maybe she was better than I gave her credit for.”
“Nay, I don’t think so,” Sam said, his eyes on the victim. “The fiend was trying ter find out something, I think. He spent a lot of time vandalizing the rooms. It wasn’t all rage. He tortured Mrs. Stone ter get her ter tell him what he wanted. But the poor lass couldn’t do it.”
Alec regarded the Bow Street Runner. “How can you know that, pray tell?”
“Look at her. If she knew anythin’, the bastard would have gotten it out of her after he burned her with that poker the first time.” Sam’s eyes darkened with pity. “She didn’t talk because she couldn’t. She didn’t have the information the fiend was wantin’ . . . and she died in agony because of it.”
Caught in Time Page 17