22
Bleeding hell.” Constable Jameson’s face twisted in horror as he stared down at Lavinia Stone ten minutes later. “W’ot’s this about? What kinda fiend would do such a thing?” He shook his head as he stepped away from the body. “Mr. Stone was one thing—everybody hated the bastard. But who’d have call ter do this ter Mrs. Stone?”
The fact that he’d cursed in her presence told Kendra how shaken he was. Or he just might not view her in the same light as he viewed ladies of Quality. She certainly couldn’t rule that out.
Kendra looked over her shoulder at him as she went through the dead woman’s vanity. Unlike the other rooms in the house, the unsub hadn’t caused any destruction here.
“That’s what we need to find out,” she replied.
“Maybe housebreakers . . .” Jameson began, casting his own look around the room.
Kendra held up the emerald pendant she’d dug out of the jewelry box on the vanity. “I don’t think so. Stone’s murder was impulsive and what was done in this house was premeditated, but the murders are obviously connected.”
Jameson glared at her. “How can you know that?”
Kendra dropped the necklace back into the box and pointed at the corpse. “Do you think that was impulsive? He brought rope with him to bind her. He may have brought the knife, as well—the kitchen needs to be searched. The only instrument that he didn’t bring was the fire poker, but there’s hardly a shortage of those. Every room in this”—she’d been about to say century—“house has one.”
She turned away from Jameson to look at Alec and Sam. “They’ve been dead at least twelve hours—possibly more.”
“Dr. Poole will tell us what we need ter know,” Jameson said, thrusting out his jaw in an aggressive manner. “Word’s been sent ter him and the magistrate.”
“I don’t need Dr. Poole to tell me that Mrs. Stone is in full rigor mortis, which takes at least twelve hours to set in. But it’s cold in here. I’d say it’s probably sixty-two to sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit without any fires to heat up the house. It was colder during the night . . .” She thought of getting out of bed the night before. Her room had been freezing. “Rigor mortis can slow down if the temperature drops below fifty-nine degrees.”
Sam glanced at the clock on the dresser. “’Tis half past twelve now. You think the lass was killed between ten and midnight?”
“It’s an estimate,” she said. “There’s no way to pinpoint the exact time.” Even in the twenty-first century, with all the technological and forensic advances, scientists still couldn’t give the exact time of death without an eyewitness account. There were too many variables that could skew the results.
“Mrs. Trout was obviously killed first,” she continued. “She’s not wearing a nightgown and robe, so it was still early enough when she answered the servant’s door. Mrs. Stone was most likely here in her bedchamber. Why bring her up here? He brought the knife and rope with him. He could have done . . . what he did to Mrs. Stone in almost any room.”
Sam looked around the room, seeing it through Kendra’s eyes. “You’ve got a strong point there, lass.”
She moved back to the corpse, inspecting the face more closely. There were blowflies crawling across the dead woman’s flesh. Given the timeline, Kendra suspected the insects had already begun their cycle of dropping fresh larvae into the body’s soft tissue. “I don’t see any bruising to indicate she was gagged.” Her gaze fell to the violent branding that had been done to the woman’s torso. “She would have been screaming.”
The men behind her were silent. The entire house was silent. The rain had stopped, Kendra realized.
She straightened. “The house is set back from its neighbors, but maybe there’s a witness who saw the killer arrive or leave.”
“Aye.” Sam nodded. “I’ll be talking ter the neighbors. What about other servants?”
“I don’t think there are any,” Kendra said. “When the Duke and I came here the other day, Mrs. Trout complained about not having any help.”
“Stone could be a miserly man, ter be sure,” said Jameson.
“What about outdoor servants?” Sam asked. “Stable hands?”
“There’s old Paddy,” Jameson said, and his lip curled. “Irish. If you don’t find him sleepin’ off a drunk in the stables, you’ll find him at one of the taverns in his cups. I doubt if the bog trotter saw anythin’.”
Sam’s golden eyes narrowed at the slur, but he chose to ignore it. “I’ll find the man, and speak ter him, miss.”
“Maybe he’ll give us some insight into what Stone might have been hiding,” Kendra said. “Mrs. Stone was tortured for a reason.”
Jameson scowled. “Why didn’t the fiend torture Mr. Stone, since he was the one who had whatever it was the monster wanted?”
“I told you, that murder was impulsive. I’m not sure what triggered it, but the unsub—the killer—acted precipitously. I suppose he thought that Stone shared his secrets with his wife.”
“I wish to God that he had.” Alec’s expression was grim. “What this woman went through was barbaric. ’Tis the kind of punishment that the Anglo-Saxons used when they branded their victims.”
Kendra had to suppress a shudder. The medieval period was notorious for the inventive ways human beings could be tortured. People often thought the torturers sick and sadistic to do such evil acts on another human being. But Kendra had often thought the true sadist wasn’t the torturer, but the mind that had actually conceived the instruments to torture in the first place.
She looked at Alec. “If Stone had told her whatever it was the killer wanted to know, she would still have been killed.”
“Yes, but it would have been a quick, merciful death, like that poor woman downstairs. Who knows how long this woman had to endure this brutality?”
Kendra’s gaze fell to the bound wrists. Based on the blood and abrasions she saw there, it had been too long.
They heard footsteps out in the hall. Kendra expected the newcomer to be Dr. Poole, but instead the Duke and Lord Bancroft strode through the door. She frowned, and made an instinctive move to stop the earl from invading the crime scene. But it was already too late, so she hung back and watched Bancroft’s face as he halted in front of the body. He was frowning, his eyes narrowed as he looked over the dead woman, but other than that, his face remained impassive.
The Duke was easier to read. His blue eyes reflected his shock as his gaze roved over the victim, and then came around to lock on Kendra. “Dear heaven . . . I was with his lordship when the Green Maiden sent a messenger for me. We came as soon as we heard. What is this madness?”
“We can only theorize at this point,” Kendra said.
Bancroft regarded Kendra with an impenetrable expression. “And what theory have you come up with, Miss Donovan?”
“If I could have a word, my lord? Outside?”
Something flashed in the old man’s eyes, too quick for her to identify. It could have been annoyance. Or amusement.
“Certainly.” He waited until they were in the hall to ask, “What’s this about, Miss Donovan?”
“Please don’t take offense, but I need to know where you were between ten and midnight last night.”
He stared at her. “Do you honestly think I am capable of what was done in there? Or to Mrs. Trout? In God’s name, why would I?”
Kendra kept her gaze fixed on his. “I think anybody is capable of anything, with the right motivation. And, no, I don’t know yet why anyone would do what was done to these women. Mrs. Stone was tortured. Not for pleasure, but because the unsub—”
“Unsub?” The dark eyes brightened with interest. “What is this word?”
“Sorry. It’s American terminology. It’s another name for the perpetrator.”
“Ah. Interesting.” He was studying her like a bug under a microscope. “Go on, Miss Donovan.”
“Where were you last evening, sir, between ten and midnight?”
“I was in my study
until the early morning hours. I am involved in many investments, many developing projects. This requires a great deal of correspondence, you understand.”
“Can anyone verify your presence there? Your daughter, perhaps?”
“Regretfully, no. Winifred and I dined at our usual time—seven. I was in my study by nine. Crawford brought me in a tray of coffee and sweets at half past nine, because he was aware of the amount of work I planned on doing.”
“When did he collect the tray?”
“Not until morning. My staff had orders not to disturb me.”
“Is that usual? For you to work late into the night with orders not to be disturbed?”
“I’ve done it before, yes.”
“Did your valet help you undress? Can he confirm what time you were in your bedchamber?”
“No. A man is less reliant on his valet than a lady is on her maid, I think.”
She heard footsteps clamoring up the stairs, and turned to watch Dr. Poole appear on the landing, followed by Matthews.
“God in heaven . . .” Matthews said as soon as he saw them. His face was unnaturally pale and he had his hankie out, pressing it against his trembling lips. “Mrs. Trout . . . I never particularly liked the creature, but to see her like that . . .”
Poole shot the younger man a contemptuous look. “I told you to stay outside, Oliver. You nearly cast up your accounts all over the poor woman. It’s not like she ain’t messy enough, having bled everywhere. I don’t need to pick through your last meal on top of it.”
Matthews flushed a bright red. “I am acting as magistrate until my father is well,” he reminded the doctor. “’Tis my duty.”
“If your father doesn’t subscribe to the diet I gave him, you will be acting magistrate forever,” Poole grumbled, “and God help us all. Although we’ve never seen the likes of this.” His blue eyes, nearly obscured by his fuzzy brows, landed on Kendra. “Three murders in East Dingleford . . . if I were a superstitious man, I’d say you are cursed, Miss Donovan. We never had such ill-luck before you came to the village.”
Kendra glared at the older man. “I arrived with the Duke of Aldridge. Why do you blame me, and not him?”
The brows twitched. “Huh. I never thought of it like that.”
“Huh. Maybe that’s why more women were burned as witches than men,” she shot back sarcastically.
He cocked his head and regarded her with a sour humor. “Mayhap it’s because you are standing where most women would not be, Miss Donovan.”
“Needlework and painting watercolors bore me, doctor. Did you have a chance to do the autopsy on Mr. Stone? Anything new to add?”
“No.” He took a step toward the door, then paused and glanced back at her. “Except the last thing Mr. Stone ate was chicken, potatoes, and mincemeat pie. Will that help you?” he said mockingly. Then he turned abruptly and went through the door. Matthews seemed nervous, but he straightened his shoulders and followed the doctor.
Kendra shifted her gaze to find Bancroft eyeing her again with an inscrutable expression. Since she had nothing more to say to him, she started back to the bedchamber. She was nearly bowled over by Matthews, running out of the room, his handkerchief pressed against his mouth as he gagged.
23
Dr. Poole refused to let her attend the autopsy.
Kendra wasn’t surprised. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised. Her surprise came when Dr. Poole maintained his position even when Aldridge stepped in, trying to convince him that she wouldn’t swoon observing the gruesome procedure, that her nerves were steady. It was a rare day when someone’s sensibilities proved stronger than the Duke’s title. Poole lowered his fuzzy brows and proclaimed that a lady’s place was in the drawing room, not at the autopsy table.
I’ve grown accustomed to the Duke smoothing the way for me, and providing me entrée into his world, she realized.
Still, she wanted to kick something. Preferably the doctor’s ass.
Instead, she drew in a deep breath, counted to ten, and spent the next twenty minutes going through the crime scene. She didn’t need the doctor’s permission to procure foolscap and pencil to make her notes, as well as crude drawings of both victims, which depicted the wounds and positions of their bodies. Later, she’d add both to the murder book. Having civilians on the scene like Matthews and Bancroft was an irritant that she forced herself to ignore. Matthews was less of an issue. He spent most of his time outdoors, breathing in fresh air or throwing up in the bushes. Bancroft, on the other hand, seemed to take an inordinate interest in what she was doing, his beady dark eyes following her as she moved around the room. It bugged her. Not just because he gave her the creeps, but because he was a damn suspect.
Then again, what could he really do? Tamper with trace evidence that she had no access to and that meant nothing in this era?
When she finally stepped outside, the sky had lightened up in the east. A small crowd had gathered. Kendra was surprised that they hadn’t come inside to satisfy their ghoulish curiosity.
She approached them. “Who lives in the house next door?”
A woman with light brown hair tucked under a mop cap looked at her. “I do, miss. Me and me husband.” She probably would have been attractive if she hadn’t looked so tired. Kendra attributed much of the woman’s exhaustion to the chubby baby she had propped on her hip. The baby was chewing on a wet rag.
“Mrs.—?”
“Mrs. Hooper.”
“I’m Kendra Donovan. Can we walk a bit, Mrs. Hooper?”
Kendra and Mrs. Hooper moved down the sidewalk, closer to the woman’s whitewashed cottage and out of earshot of the bystanders.
“Did you hear or see anything last evening coming from the Stones’ house, Mrs. Hooper?” Kendra asked.
“Nay, I don’t recollect hearing anythin’. I was up late last evenin’ with me boy. He’s been fussin’ somethin’ awful because of his teeth.” The woman shifted her son in her arms, smoothing down his flyaway hair. The baby’s saucer eyes were locked on Kendra with the unblinking intensity that kids under the age of four seemed to share.
“What about your husband? Did he see or hear anything?”
Mrs. Hooper gave a snort. “Hah! Chester sleeps like the dead, he does.”
“Did you happen to see Mrs. Stone or Mrs. Trout anytime during the day?”
“Nay. I thought ter call on Mrs. Stone, ter express my condolences, but . . .” She gave a shrug.
“How well did you know Mrs. Stone?”
The woman shook her head. “Not well at all. Mr. Stone married Mrs. Stone three years ago, but she . . . Did you know she was an actress in Manchester?” Mrs. Hooper lowered her voice, as though imparting scandalous information.
Kendra knew that actors during this time were often celebrated on stage and even popular guests in certain circles, but they were not considered respectable members of society. Actresses were even less respected than their male counterparts. No surprise there, given the parameters imposed on women. Actresses stepped outside those rules governing unmarried women, often by forming out-of-wedlock relationships with their patrons. Yet Kendra suspected that society’s doors were closed to them more because of fear—fear that the sons of the Beau Monde would have their heads turned by a beautiful face, and elope with a starlet.
“Yes, she mentioned it,” Kendra said. “So you and Mrs. Stone were not friends?”
“Oh, nay. I don’t think she had much interest in forming a connection either. We sometimes spoke at assemblies, but her dance card was always full. There’re plenty of men ready ter make cakes of themselves.” A sour note crept into Mrs. Hooper’s voice, and Kendra wondered if Mr. Hooper might have danced with the former actress himself.
She asked, “How well did you know Mr. Stone?”
Something flickered in the other woman’s eyes before she shifted her gaze away. “We were only slightly acquainted.”
Kendra eyed her more closely. “How long were you and Mr. Stone neighbors?”
M
rs. Hooper focused on the house across the street. “He was here when we came.”
“And when did you move in?”
“After I married Mr. Hooper. He’s an apprentice for Mr. Talbot, the local stone mason.”
“And when was that exactly?”
“Oh. Five years ago.”
“In that time, you never had any encounters with Mr. Stone?”
Mrs. Hooper stiffened. “Why would there be?”
Kendra studied the woman for a long moment, noting the defensive posture and wooden expression. “Five years is a long time.” She waited, but when Mrs. Hooper didn’t respond, she said, “You must have formed some opinion of Mr. Stone. What did you think of him?”
The baby began to squirm. Mrs. Hooper said, “I must tend ter my son.”
Something in Mrs. Hooper’s eyes sent a chill down Kendra’s spine. Acting on instinct, she laid a hand on the other woman’s arm, and waited until Mrs. Hooper’s gaze lifted to hers.
“Mr. Stone has a certain reputation. Did he make a pass at you?”
“A what?”
“Did he try to take advantage of you?”
Mrs. Hooper flushed, and her gaze slid away again.
“Whatever you tell me here will go no further, I promise you,” Kendra pressed.
The baby pulled the rag from his mouth and let it drop to the sidewalk. With a weary sigh, his mother stooped to pick up the wet cloth, then automatically teased her son’s lips with a corner of the material until he opened his mouth like a baby bird and began gumming it again.
“He . . . It happened when we first moved into the cottage,” she finally said. Her voice sounded tight, and she had to clear her throat before she went on. “I was coming home from the market, and Mr. Stone . . . he offered ter carry my basket. I—I never thought ter decline, never thought . . .”
“Mrs. Hooper, whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”
“But I should never have let him inside. He viewed it as an invitation. He misunderstood—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Kendra repeated firmly. “He didn’t misunderstand. He took advantage of your good nature and innocence. That’s what men like Mr. Stone do.”
Caught in Time Page 18