A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “A Runner!” She put a hand to her throat, appalled. “Whatever will our guests think?”

  “I’m certain they will be deliciously entertained.”

  “They will not!” Yet she couldn’t meet her brother’s eyes, because she suspected that he was correct. Even now, she knew, many of the women were comfortably ensconced in the Chinese drawing room in the guise of working on their needlepoint, gossiping over what had happened down by the lake. Even that silly chit, Georgina, who’d discovered the body, seemed to be enjoying her newfound celebrity, repeatedly sharing her shock and horror. Lady Atwood was well aware that she’d given at least three different versions of the story; each time, her fear had magnified and the description of the dead girl had become more grotesque.

  “And the woman—the maid. What did you call her? Kendra Donovan—Irish.” Her lip curled. “Little wonder she’s a troublemaker!”

  “Actually, she’s an American.”

  “Good heavens—that’s even worse! How can she be so vital to your investigation? An American. A mere servant. A woman!” She sounded incredulous. “’Tisn’t natural!”

  “What are you objecting to, Caro? That Miss Donovan is an American, a woman, or a servant?”

  The countess’ mouth tightened. “Be reasonable, Bertie. If that girl was murdered—and I’m not so certain that she was—how can Miss Donovan possibly help you?”

  “She appears to have some experience in these matters.”

  “How can that be? She can hardly be educated, given her station in life.”

  Aldridge pursed his lips as he considered what he knew of Kendra Donovan. “I don’t believe we ought to underestimate Miss Donovan,” he said slowly. “You must trust me in this matter, my dear.”

  “Bertie—”

  “I shall be requiring Miss Donovan’s assistance.” He hesitated, then said, “And for the duration of this party, Caro, I’d prefer it if you didn’t go about the park unattended.”

  That surprised her. “I’m a bit old for a chaperone, Bertie. And as I’ve been married—God rest Atwood’s soul—I don’t need one.”

  “Nevertheless, I must insist.”

  Lady Atwood felt a chill race up her arms that had nothing to do with the drafts in her family’s ancestral home. “What’s this about, Bertie?” she demanded, alarmed by the look in her brother’s eyes.

  Aldridge recalled Kendra Donovan’s words. I can tell you two things: this isn’t his first kill, and he will do it again.

  He believed in trusting his instincts, but he was also a man of logic. An enlightened man. Was he mad for listening to the woman? Or would he be mad not to?

  His stomach clenched as he thought of the dead girl. Mother of God, she’d been bitten, beaten, strangled. He looked at his sister now, his expression grim. “’Tis a nightmare, Caro,” he said quietly. “A nightmare like I’ve never seen.”

  15

  Maybe she was crazy. Maybe at this very moment she was locked in some psych ward in London, having succeeded in her attempt to kill Sir Jeremy. Or maybe she’d never recovered from the gunshot wound to her head. Maybe she was . . . somewhere else.

  No! Kendra wasn’t going to go down that road again. She didn’t know what was happening, but she refused to believe that this wasn’t real. That girl on that wooden table in that odd, old-fashioned building had been real. At the very least, the revolting paste made out of water and ash that she was now using to polish the silver teapot in her hand was all too real.

  Frowning, she rubbed harder. Her distorted face was reflected back at her in the silver surface, unfamiliar because of the mop cap on her head. Mrs. Danbury had stuck her in one of the backrooms of the kitchen, helping Rose and another tweeny named Molly with the household silver. No doubt she’d meant it as a punishment, but it wasn’t so bad. The work itself was kind of soothing. And it gave her the opportunity to question the girls about life in the castle, and, more importantly, the nineteenth century.

  She broached something that had been puzzling her. “Simon Dalton—he’s not a doctor?”

  “Mr. Dalton? Oh, nay. ‘E’s a surgeon,” Molly supplied.

  “A surgeon, but not a doctor?” She set the teapot down. “What’s the difference?”

  Molly blinked at her. “A doctor is ever so much more important! ‘E wouldn’t think ter poke around in somebody’s innards like a sawbones!”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  They looked at her like she was crazy. “’Tisn’t proper,” Rose said, “’Course, Mr. Dalton ain’t a sawbones now. ’E resigned ’is commission in the army when ’is aunt, Lady ’Alstead, cocked up ’er toes. Now ’e lives at ’Alstead ’All.”

  “Doing what?”

  Rose shrugged. “Being gentry.”

  Kendra supposed that meant he either rented out parcels of land to local farmers or he hired locals to tend to the land he’d inherited.

  “The Duke seems . . . nice,” Kendra remarked casually, picking up a pair of serving tongs to polish.

  “Oh, ’e’s an oak. And ever so clever. ’E’s always up on the roof, studyin’ the stars and such. ’Tis a shame w’ot ’appened with ’is wife an’ child.”

  “What happened?”

  Rose said, “’Twas before I was born, but me ma told me ’ow the Duchess took the wee one sailing. Davy Jones’s Locker got ’em, ’e did. ’Twas a clear day. No one knows w’ot ’appened, but ’is Grace found ’is wife on the beach; Lady Charlotte forever swept out to sea.”

  That explained Aldridge’s strange behavior with the victim in the water, Kendra thought.

  Molly shivered. “Oi ’eard that ’is Grace went mad.”

  “Aye,” Rose agreed in a hushed voice as she buffed and polished. “’E’s always ’ad strange notions—speakin’ no disrespect. But me ma said ’e locked ’imself in ’is study. The only one ’oo could ’elp ’im was the marquis.”

  “The marquis?”

  “’Is Grace’s nephew—Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe. An’ ’e was only a young lad.”

  “Ooh. ’E’s a fine-looking bloke, ain’t ’e?” Molly sighed.

  “’E’s far above your touch, Molly Danvers!”

  “Oi didn’t say ’e wasn’t. But Oi got peepers, don’t oi?”

  Kendra changed track. “Have either of you heard of any girls from around the area who have gone missing?”

  They exchanged nervous glances. “Do you think the monster lives around ’ere?” Rose asked.

  “I don’t think anything yet.”

  “Nay. Jenny went off ter Bath, but Oi dunno anybody missin’,” Molly whispered.

  They lapsed into an anxious silence. Kendra regretted being responsible for the fear she saw on the tweenies’ faces.

  At five-fifteen, Kendra excused herself to go to the chamber she shared with Rose. She washed her hands and face, and used the chamber pot. As an afterthought, she took the mop cap off her head, tossing it on the bed, before heading to the Duke’s study.

  The Duke, Morland, and Dalton were seated, along with another man. Alec had taken up his familiar, negligent position, leaning against the fireplace. Each man was holding a heavy lead crystal glass filled with brandy. The candles had been lit, a fire crackling in the grate. They stood as she entered, a courtesy that she only sometimes received in the twenty-first century.

  Aldridge smiled. “Miss Donovan, allow me to introduce you to our constable, Mr. Hilliard.”

  Kendra surveyed him as she stuck out her hand. Fortyish, she judged, with thinning brown hair, a round, florid face, stocky build. He seemed a little bewildered, but she wasn’t sure if that was because he was surprised to shake her hand, or because he was being introduced to a servant, or because he was in the Duke’s study, drinking brandy. She suspected the last was not a usual occurrence, noting that the man’s clothing was inferior to the other men in the room. In social ranking, Hilliard was well below the titled gentry. But, Kendra reflected wryly, probably still several tiers above her current positio
n.

  “Miss.” He nodded diplomatically.

  “Mr. Hilliard.”

  Aldridge asked, “Would you care for a drink, Miss Donovan? Perhaps sherry?”

  “No, thank you.” She could hear the disapproval in her voice, and had to remind herself that she wasn’t standing in an FBI war room surrounded by professionals. God help her. This was long before the vast network of specialized law enforcement agencies would spring up to protect its citizens. In fact, there wouldn’t be any true concept of a police force here in England for another fourteen years, not until Sir Robert Peel introduced the Metropolitan Police Act in London. Centuries later, tourists to England might not have heard of Robert Peel, but they would know the police who’d been nicknamed after him—Bobbies.

  “We’ve sent for a Runner. He ought to be here tomorrow morning.” Returning to his seat behind his desk, the Duke picked up his pipe, but didn’t make any attempt to light it. “Miss Donovan, please sit down. We ought to begin.” He waited until Kendra had taken a seat on the sofa next to Hilliard. “Mr. Dalton, what are your findings?”

  “Miss Donovan was correct.” He gave her a slight nod to acknowledge that fact. Kendra was aware of the veiled looks from everyone but the Duke. “The female had a crushed hyoid bone, thyroid, and cricoid cartilage. There was no water in her lungs. She died of strangulation, not drowning.”

  “Strangled repeatedly as Miss Donovan suggested?” Alec asked, although he’d viewed the evidence with his own eyes.

  “My findings support Miss Donovan’s theory. Although it’s impossible for me to determine the exact time of death, based on the degree of rigor mortis, I believe she died in the early morning hours, sometime between three and four, but that is only conjecture. Her stomach was empty; she hadn’t eaten for hours before that.

  “I counted fifty-three cuts on the girl’s torso. Based on my measurements, we’re dealing with four different knives. And all fifty-three wounds were inflicted premortem.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Hilliard breathed.

  “Whoever did this must be utterly mad,” Aldridge said, looking shaken.

  “Yes and no,” Kendra said quickly. “His psychosis—his madness is internal. To all outward appearances, he will appear normal.”

  Mr. Hilliard’s eyebrows rose. “How’d’ya know that?”

  “Because . . . he’s organized. He’s done this before. He knows how to blend in.”

  “We’ve never found a girl dead like this,” Morland protested.

  “He may have worked outside this area. Or we were never supposed to find this girl.” She thought back to when she first came to the castle—a couple of centuries in the future—and the surrounding geography. “The ocean is, what? Two miles from here?”

  Alec surveyed her with hooded eyes. “Thereabouts.”

  “You said this area is a watershed. The killer could’ve dumped the body in the river, expecting the current to take it out to the ocean.”

  “That was rather careless of him, wasn’t it? Why not bury the girl? Dispose of her in some way where she would not be found?”

  “I don’t know.” And that bothered her. It was careless. “The unsub may be—”

  “Unsub? What is an unsub, pray tell?” Aldridge eyed her curiously.

  Oh, God. In spite of everything, she’d forgotten where she was. When she was. “Unknown subject,” she identified. “The murderer. He may be getting complacent. Or he may have wanted her to be found.” She looked at Dalton. “Was she raped?”

  He flushed, unable to meet her eyes. “Yes.”

  The Duke looked grim. “He is a monster.”

  “Yes. But he won’t look like a monster. It’s very important that everyone understand that.” She scanned the faces in the room. “He will look no different than you or me.”

  “Jesus.” Hilliard drank the rest of the brandy in one gulp.

  “Right now the victim is our only connection to the killer,” Kendra said. “We need to find out her identity.”

  “I don’t believe she’s from the area. She wasn’t a farmer’s daughter, a servant, or of the working class,” Dalton said slowly.

  Kendra looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of her hands. The palms were not rough. No calluses. No indication she did manual labor.”

  Kendra raised her brows, surprised. Soft, smooth hands were so much a part of her world that she hadn’t considered it an anomaly during this time period.

  “Could she be a Lady?” Morland wondered, sipping his brandy.

  “Doubtful,” said Alec. “If a peer of the realm’s daughter disappeared, there’d be hue and cry by now.”

  “Unless the peer in question is afraid of the ensuing scandal,” Morland countered.

  Aldridge frowned. “You gentlemen are out and about in society. You didn’t recognize her?”

  “She struck me as a bit young to have come out, Duke,” Alec commented.

  “She could be some cit’s daughter,” Hilliard speculated.

  “No. I don’t believe so.” Dalton cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable again. “I believe she was a prostitute.”

  “I say—how’d you know?” The constable’s eyebrows shot up.

  “The girl—I estimate her age to be around fifteen—she’d been pregnant, but the child was not brought to term.”

  “I see,” Aldridge said slowly.

  Alec straightened. “Miscarriage or abortion?”

  “Abortion.”

  “That would make her a prostitute?” Kendra asked.

  All four men seemed to find her question shocking. “Miss Donovan, gently bred women do not procure the services of an abortionist,” was all the Duke said.

  Kendra wondered if that was true. In her opinion, if a woman was desperate enough, scared enough, it would drive her to do anything, regardless of laws or societal restrictions.

  Dalton continued, “Like her hands, her feet were soft, well-maintained. No calluses, bunions, or other imperfections.”

  Morland lifted his brandy glass and muttered, “Sounds like a woman who worked on her back.”

  Hilliard was the only one who found his crude jest amusing. Catching the Duke’s reproving stare, he transformed his laugh into a cough, straightening in his chair. “My apologies, gov—er, Your Grace.”

  “She was not a street prostitute,” Dalton went on. “She was too . . . soft, I’d say. Streetwalkers are tough and rough. No sign she relied on the drink—or anything else for that matter.”

  “Could’ve only begun plying her trade,” Alec suggested. “She’s young enough.”

  “By my estimation, the scarring from the pregnancy and abortion is at least two years old.”

  “She’d have been only thirteen,” murmured Kendra.

  “She probably worked in an academy,” Dalton said.

  Kendra looked at him. “An academy?”

  “Ah, it’s um—”

  “A brothel,” Alec said impatiently. “Or she was some man’s mistress.”

  Kendra decided not to comment on what she thought of a man taking a thirteen-year-old mistress. Instead, she said, “Okay, we’ll go with the assumption that she worked as a prostitute. This is as good a starting point as any.” She paused, a little surprised that what she said was actually true.

  She had very few expectations when she’d first entered the study. Certainly she wouldn’t be able to rely on her usual arsenal of tools—forensics, FBI databases. Even the media. While the latter could be annoying, it served a purpose—photos of victims could be released in the hope that a John or Jane Doe would be identified.

  Her eyes fell on the portrait of a woman and child above the fireplace. An idea occurred to her. “Is there any way we could have someone make a sketch of the victim?” she asked. “If we did that, maybe we could get it to the local newspaper. Someone might recognize her, come forward.”

  “Lady Rebecca—” Dalton began.

  “Impossible.” Alec gave him a quelling look. �
��She’d have to view the body to sketch it.”

  “Who’s Lady Rebecca?” Kendra asked.

  Alec scowled. “A Lady.”

  Kendra frowned, although she knew his attitude was the norm in this world. Women of rank were treated little better than china dolls. She remembered reading once that it was not unheard of for ladies to be banned from attending funerals, for fear their delicate sensibilities would shatter.

  “That is neither here nor there,” said Aldridge. “No reputable newspaper would publish a sketch of an Unfortunate Woman. We shall have the Runner take the girl’s description and make inquiries around London.”

  “Assuming the whore was from London,” Morland pointed out. “London is scarcely alone in having brothels. She may have come from an academy in Bath or Manchester or Glasgow.”

  “London is the closest city,” Kendra pointed out. “Why would he search farther for his victim?”

  Morland eyed her over the rim of his brandy glass. “If we should discover the chit’s identity, pray tell, how will that help us identify her murderer, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra gave a slight shrug. “It’s a lead. If she belongs to an . . . academy, he may be a client. Someone else at the brothel might know who he is.”

  The Duke’s gaze was troubled as he met hers. “And you really believe he will kill again?”

  “I know he’s killed before. I know he’ll kill again. And . . .” she hesitated, and licked suddenly dry lips. She couldn’t tell if he—if any of the men—accepted what she was telling them. The next bit, she knew, would be even more difficult. “And,” she said firmly, “you probably know him.”

  She didn’t have to wait long for a reaction. Morland looked indignant. “That’s preposterous!”

  Hilliard gaped at her. “I say!”

  Even Dalton shook his head. “No . . .Whoever did this is a . . . a . . .”

  “A madman. A monster. Yes, we’ve already been over this,” she said impatiently. “I told you: he’ll be quite ordinary. You could talk to him, and never really know him. His nature. What he’s done. He most likely lives in the surrounding area, or at the very least, he’s familiar with it.” She saw their disbelief, and couldn’t really blame them. Hell, the idea of having a serial killer living in one’s community was difficult to digest even in the twenty-first century.