Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Tears welled up in Mrs. Hooper’s eyes. Blinking rapidly, she looked away. “I should have fought harder . . . I was jest so shocked . . .”

  Kendra’s chill deepened. “Did Mr. Stone assault you, Mrs. Hooper?” she asked slowly, keeping her voice neutral with an effort.

  Mrs. Hooper flinched, but said nothing. Her gaze was now on the crowd standing outside Stone’s house.

  Kendra’s throat tightened, and she had to take a moment to get her anger under control. “Did you tell your husband?”

  Mrs. Hooper’s gaze jerked back to Kendra, her expression horrified. “Nay! Nay . . . Chester—my husband . . . he would have flown into a rage.”

  “At you?”

  “Nay. At Mr. Stone. He would have killed him—” She went pale.

  “Are you sure he never found out?”

  “Aye. I told no one, Miss Donovan. It was only that one time, and I was careful never ter be alone with Mr. Stone again.” She paused. “When he married, I was happy. I thought I had nothing ter fear. But during our chance encounters, I could see the look in his eye . . . He was a wicked man, Miss Donovan. ’Tis evil of me, but I cannot help but be pleased he is dead.”

  “I understand.” Kendra regarded the other woman. “Are you all right? Do you have someone who you can confide in about your . . . about what happened?”

  She seemed genuinely puzzled over the suggestion. “Why?”

  “It might help if you talk to someone.” Kendra thought of how she’d handle this conversation if she were in her own era. I’d recommend counseling or going to a rape crisis center. She was pretty sure there was no such thing here, any more than there’d be a shelter for abused women like Mrs. Turner.

  Mrs. Hooper was shaking her head. “’Tis over. I do not want ter think about it, Miss Donovan. You won’t tell anyone?”

  Kendra hesitated.

  Mrs. Hooper’s eyes widened. “Please, Miss Donovan. You can’t tell anyone!”

  “No one who lives in East Dingleford will hear it from me,” Kendra said carefully. “You have my word.”

  24

  Kendra didn’t break her word. But there was no room for modesty in murder investigations. Lives were dissected in war rooms just as bodies were dissected on autopsy tables. Victims, suspects, witnesses—everyone’s secrets were exposed and examined in embarrassing detail. Mrs. Hooper’s secret had to be told to the Duke, Alec, and Sam. Kendra comforted herself that since none of the men lived in East Dingleford, she was technically keeping her promise of confidentiality.

  Yet because guilt pinched at her, she emphasized, “This information stays between us.”

  They’d returned to the private parlor. Kendra had taken up her position in front of the slate board, which remained covered with the sheet, as she shared the news. She looked at the men.

  “Certainly,” the Duke stated. “Mrs. Hooper has suffered enough. She doesn’t need to have the other villagers whisper about her.” He moved to the bell-pull and yanked the tasseled cord, which was attached to a clever system of chains and cords snaking through the walls and ceilings to ring a bell in the kitchens. Distaste tightened his jaw. “The man truly was a monster. To attack a young woman in such a manner. I am of the mind to think Mr. Stone may have gotten what he deserved.”

  “Aye.” Sam’s golden eyes turned flinty. “I’m surprised someone didn’t bash the bas—er, the bloke’s head years ago.”

  “That’s been mentioned,” Kendra murmured. She picked up a piece of slate, but held off on removing the sheet from the board when someone knocked on the door.

  Aldridge opened the door to Mrs. Bolton. “Your Grace. How may I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’d like a tray brought in for nuncheon, Mrs. Bolton. And pots of coffee and tea.” He glanced back at Alec and Sam. “Have you been given rooms?”

  Alec sauntered over to the table with the decanters. “We arrived when the maid came running into the stable yard, and left as soon as she sent a boy with a message to you and the constable. Are there rooms available?”

  Mrs. Bolton nodded. “Aye. I shall send Tessa and Lizzie to make up your beds. Did you bring your own linen?” She regarded both men doubtfully.

  Kendra didn’t blame her. Alec had taken off his grimy riding coat, tossing it over the back of one of the chairs around the table, but his coat, shirt, and cravat looked almost as dirty, and the heels of his hessians were caked with mud. Sam had a similarly disheveled appearance. Of course, with the Bow Street Runner it was more normal.

  “Sadly, I did not,” Alec drawled, as he pulled out the decanter’s stopper, and poured a generous three fingers of whisky into a tumbler.

  “Aye. I forgot ter pack me linens too.” Sam grinned at the innkeeper’s wife.

  Mrs. Bolton frowned at the Runner, not entirely sure what to make of him. She decided to ignore him, turning to Alec. “No matter, sir. We keep tidy rooms at the Green Maiden, sir. We wash our linens at least once a week.”

  “Two rooms then, for myself and Mr. Kelly,” Alec said, handing Sam a glass of whisky. “I’ll toss in an extra guinea if you wash the linens before you make the beds. And if you could direct me to the nearest lake or pond to wash off the grime of travel or, better yet, have a bath awaiting me in my room after nuncheon.”

  “I will have a bath sent up, milord. And for you, Mr. Kelly?”

  Sam lifted his glass in a toast. “’Tis better than a lake. Thank you, madam.”

  She gave him another frown, but said briskly, “His Grace and Miss Donovan already occupy our largest bedchambers that include dressing rooms. However, the Green Maiden has several comfortable rooms available. I shall inform Mr. Bolton that you will be staying with us. And I’ll send in a tray as soon as it’s prepared, your Grace.” She curtsied, and departed.

  The Duke glanced at his nephew. “Are you certain you don’t want to find the lake now, Alec?”

  Alec laughed as he splashed whisky into his own glass. “Are you suggesting that I am not in my best looks, uncle?” He crossed the room, and collapsed into the chair before the fire. He didn’t drink the whisky, but balanced the glass on his flat stomach as he stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. It could’ve been a languid pose, but for Kendra it spoke of sheer exhaustion.

  “Actually, you both look like hell,” she said bluntly.

  Sam gave a startled laugh. He was already getting used to the American’s frankness and lack of feminine wiles, but there were times when her bluntness still took him aback. “I feel more alert than I was at four this mornin’, when his lordship shook me awake and put me on my horse without me breakfast,” he said, settling into a chair opposite Alec.

  The Duke regarded them both quizzically. “That brings up an interesting point . . . How did you end up traveling together? I confess that I didn’t expect you, Mr. Kelly, until many hours, if not a full day, after my nephew’s arrival.”

  Sam was lifting the tumbler to his lips, but now lowered it as he peered up at the Duke. “You were calling me in ter investigate Mr. Stone’s murder, your Grace?” Surprised pleasure brightened Sam’s gold eyes. “I didn’t realize.”

  “I don’t understand.” Aldridge raised his eyebrows. “You never received my message?”

  “Nay. It was actually most fortuitous, your Grace. I was with Lord Sutcliffe when he received your letter.”

  “What?” Startled, Aldridge glanced between his nephew and the Bow Street Runner. “Why?”

  “Bow Street wanted the marquis to sign an official statement regarding the incident last month.” Sam hesitated, but they knew what he was talking about—the month before, Alec had come under suspicion of murdering his former mistress. “I offered me services as courier. If your rider for Lord Sutcliffe had come but ten minutes later, I would have missed him, as I was preparin’ ter ride back ter London Town.”

  “We gave the papers Mr. Kelly had brought to your rider, to take to London in Mr. Kelly’s stead,” Alec spoke up. “And Mr. Kelly accompanied me
to East Dingleford.”

  Sam made a wry face. “His lordship is an excellent horseman, but the pace he sets is punishing.”

  Alec lifted his glass, and offered a crooked smile. “But you kept up, Kelly. You are to be commended.”

  Sam returned the salute, and took a healthy swallow of whisky.

  “How extraordinary.” The Duke shot Kendra a pointed look. “It would appear as though Fate has taken a hand in events again.”

  “Or it’s a coincidence,” said Kendra. But it was weird, she had to admit. She didn’t like the idea of some mysterious force pushing her around like a piece on a chessboard, even as the Duke seemed to embrace the idea. Still, now was not the time for a philosophical debate. She smiled at Sam. “I have to say that I’m happy to see you, Mr. Kelly. We can use your services.”

  “You shall have them.” His eyes narrowed. “Anything ter stop the fiend that did what was done in the Stone household. Obviously the killer wanted something from Mrs. Stone, ter torture her like he did. Any notion what that might be?”

  “Not exactly. But I’d say it’s connected to whatever the unsub stole off Mr. Stone’s desk.” She went to retrieve the murder book, pulling out the crude drawings she’d made of the desk. She showed them to Alec and Sam. “This might take a little imagination, but this represents the surface area of Stone’s desk.”

  “It might take a lot of imagination,” Alec murmured.

  Sam asked, “What are those little dots?”

  “Blood spatter.”

  Sam grunted. “Why ain’t there any of dots in this area?”

  “Because that’s what is known as a void pattern. When Stone was killed, something was on his desk that caught the blood. The killer took it.”

  “What was it?” asked Sam. “Any idea?”

  “No. And this is where it becomes a guessing game. We only know the dimensions: twenty-six inches in length, sixteen inches in width. We can only estimate the height. But I wouldn’t go higher than four, maybe five inches, otherwise that would interfere with the spatter pattern.”

  “A book?” Sam suggested.

  “It would have to be open to explain the width,” said the Duke.

  Kendra nodded. “Or a painting. Or a map.”

  “A treasure map,” Alec murmured. His eyes were at half-mast, but Kendra caught the gleam of amusement between his lashes. “I fancied finding myself a treasure map when I was a boy.”

  She could feel her lips curving into a smile. “How old were you?”

  “Seven, I believe.”

  Envisioning Alec as a seven-year-old dreaming of treasure maps brought an unexpected lump to Kendra’s throat. In many ways, Alec’s childhood had been as lonely as hers. His mother, Alexandria, an Italian countess who’d married into the English aristocracy, had died. His father had remarried, but Alec’s stepmother had been a cold woman who’d dealt with her stepson by shipping him off to boarding school. In hindsight, that had been a blessing; Alec’s half-brother hadn’t fared well in his mother’s care.

  Aldridge broke into her reverie. “It could have been a map—although I doubt a treasure map.” Aldridge shot an indulgent smile at Alec. “Sorry, my boy.”

  “My dreams are shattered, but I cannot be too despondent. It appears as though I have enough adventure in my life at the moment.” His gaze slid to Kendra. “I doubt if I could handle the excitement of a treasure map on top of everything else.”

  Kendra rolled her eyes. “Treasure maps are mostly a myth. The only one I’ve ever heard of is . . .” The copper scroll from the Dead Sea Scrolls, which won’t be discovered for another 137 years. “I can’t remember,” she muttered lamely, aware of Sam regarding her with his cop-eyes. Shit.

  Aldridge said, “Whatever was on the desk, it is obviously only half the puzzle. The other half was in the Stone household. It is why Mrs. Stone was tortured.”

  “No.” Kendra set the drawing aside. “The unsub believed the other half was in the Stone household. We don’t know if he found what he was looking for. Personally, I don’t think that he did.”

  “Why?” asked Aldridge.

  Kendra jiggled the piece of slate in her hand as she thought about that. Part was gut instinct, she realized. The other part . . .

  “I can’t be completely sure, you understand,” she said slowly. “But we can reasonably assume the killer dispatched Mrs. Trout as soon as he entered the kitchen. There were no signs of struggle and the door wasn’t forced open. I think she opened the door for him, and he followed her inside. Her body was just inside the kitchen, face-up, which is consistent with the unsub grabbing her hair from behind, yanking her head back to expose her throat, and slashing it. If I had been allowed to attend the autopsy, I might have more to say on the injury.”

  “Would she open the door to just anyone?” asked Sam. He took a hurried swallow of whisky, as though he had a bad taste in his mouth and needed to wash it away with something.

  “I do not think Mrs. Trout was very . . . discriminating,” the Duke said. “She was an unusual creature. I don’t see her turning the killer away if he made a convincing argument as to why he was there at a late hour.”

  “And I’m leaning toward the attack occurring closer to ten o’clock,” Kendra said. “I’m not sure what Mrs. Trout’s daily routine was, but I don’t think she’d retired for the night. She wasn’t in her nightgown. And her bedroom is on the third floor—sorry, second floor. If she’d retired for the night, I don’t think she would have heard the knock at the door. Or she would have ignored it.”

  The Duke nodded. “She was an odd creature. I can imagine both of those scenarios.”

  “Mrs. Trout’s murder was the most cold-blooded of the three,” Kendra continued. She began to pace, still jiggling the piece of slate in her hand. “She meant nothing to him. Her death was like stepping on a cockroach. With even less emotion.”

  “Quite different than Mr. Stone’s murder,” the Duke said, “which had rather a lot of passion.”

  Kendra nodded, but before she could respond, there was a knock at the door. The Duke opened it, stepping back as both Tessa and Lizzie came through with trays. The maids moved to the table, setting down the trays and uncovering platters. Instead of cold cuts for the normally lighter nuncheon, Kendra was surprised to see dishes of hot roast beef, peas swimming in butter, and mashed potatoes, with a loaf of brown bread.

  “Praise heaven—’tis a feast,” Sam said, clearly appreciative.

  Lizzie smiled at him as she laid out the plates and silverware. She’d inherited her blond prettiness from her grandmother, Kendra realized. “Gran thought that with your hard ridin’, ye might need something more ter fill your belly,” she said.

  “Your grandmother is the wisest of women.” Sam gave an elaborate bow that set Tessa to giggling. “I’m so hungry that my guts have been thinkin’ me throat’s been cut.” He winced, apparently realizing how inappropriate the expression was given what had happened in the Stone residence. But Tessa and Lizzie hadn’t heard the graphic details about the murder; their expressions remained innocent.

  “Will you be needin’ anythin’ else?” Lizzie asked, setting tankards of ale on the table.

  “No,” Aldridge said. “We’ll serve ourselves. Please give our thanks to your grandmother for this excellent meal. And your cook, Mrs. Platt.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tessa dipped into a hurried curtsy, and bolted from the room.

  “Tessa!” admonished Lizzie, but the other girl was already out the door. She gave them an apologetic look. “Forgive my sister’s hoydenish ways, but she’s excited for the Assembly tonight.”

  Kendra had forgotten about the much-anticipated event, and shot a look at the window. It seemed brighter outside than when they’d returned to the inn, proving that nothing was more mercurial than English weather. “So the Assembly is on?”

  “Aye. If the sky continues to clear, we should have a moon tonight. Will you be attending?” Her gaze encompassed the entire room. “It’s ever so m
uch fun.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Kendra said.

  Lizzie curtsied and left the room.

  Alec pushed himself to his feet, looking at Kendra. “I had no idea you are interested in attending country assemblies, Miss Donovan.”

  “I imagine there will be a lot of people talking about the murders.”

  The Duke pulled out a chair for Kendra, a chivalrous gesture that still surprised her. They all sat, then spent the next several minutes loading up their plates. Kendra cut the brown bread, and passed the plate around.

  The Duke broke the silence, returning to the earlier subject. “Why don’t you believe the fiend found what he was looking for, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra chewed her bread before answering. “The destruction of the crime scene. We can reasonably assume that the killer didn’t start his rampage after killing Mrs. Trout, right?”

  “Yes.” The Duke smiled as he gazed at her. “’Tis the same argument you made regarding the Luddites. If this monster had begun his search immediately, causing the destruction that we witnessed, Mrs. Stone would have heard the commotion and come downstairs to investigate.”

  Kendra nodded. “And he would have tied her up downstairs to torture her. He killed Mrs. Trout and found Mrs. Stone in her bedroom. He brought rope to tie her to the chair. I assume he threatened her first, probably with the knife, but it escalated quickly when she didn’t—couldn’t—tell him what he wanted to know. I think after he realized Mrs. Stone didn’t know anything, he killed her. Then he went through Stone’s bedchamber, tossing it.”

  “And the rooms downstairs,” added the Duke.

  “Yes. But it was more than someone searching for something,” she said. “That was temper. He became enraged when he didn’t find what he wanted. That’s my hypothesis, anyway.”

  “You mention his knife . . . why didn’t he use that to inflict his torture?” The Duke forked up mashed potatoes. “Why go about the process of burning the poor creature?”

  “Maybe he was afraid that she’d bleed out. It would have taken a considerable number of lacerations for that, and maybe he didn’t want to take the chance. Or . . .” Kendra shrugged. “Burning inflicts more pain.”