A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Everyone was silent, staring at her, at each other.

  The Duke sighed, then stood. “Well, you certainly have given us much to consider, Miss Donovan. The Bow Street Runner ought to be here tomorrow.”

  Aware that it was a dismissal, everyone stood. Aldridge came around the desk and laid a detaining hand on Kendra’s arm as all the men, with the exception of Alec, filed out of the room.

  When the door had closed behind them, Alec lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Well, Miss Donovan, you do liven up what would’ve been an otherwise tedious house party.”

  She shot him an exasperated look, and then turned to the Duke. “Do you believe me?” she asked bluntly.

  “I don’t want to,” he admitted. “But I saw what was done to that girl. I cannot disregard what you have told us. We shall see what the Runner has to say.”

  Kendra frowned, and wondered what that meant. Would the Duke turn the entire investigation over to the Bow Street Runner? A detective, perhaps, but a nineteenth-century detective.

  Her stomach clenched. There was still one thing she could do.

  “Do you have a chalkboard, by any chance?” she asked.

  The Duke seemed puzzled by the question. “Chalk . . . board?”

  “Yes.” Oh, hell, when was the chalkboard invented? She didn’t know. But from the Duke’s reaction, obviously not now. “Something to write on.” She pantomimed the activity. “You know, children use it in school.”

  “I believe she’s referring to a slate board,” Alec offered, sounding amused.

  “Ah. Yes, we’ve a slate board in the schoolroom. Why?”

  Kendra considered the question. “In your laboratory, you make notes regarding your observations of the night sky. It allows you to extrapolate data and come up with theories. Edmond Halley used Newton’s law of gravity to identify his comet and predict its orbital pattern. I need to organize my observations in a similar manner.”

  Aldridge eyed her with interest. “You expect to predict a pattern for our killer?”

  “Yes. And if we’re lucky, we can use it to catch him before he kills again.”

  16

  There was no question about it: Kendra Donovan was a bold, brazen creature, Alec thought, as he leaned against one of the Carrara marble columns near the entrance of the ballroom, where his aunt had organized the evening’s entertainment of dancing. Could Kendra’s calculations possibly predict the mind of a madman? He very much doubted it. Who had ever heard of such a thing?

  “Is it true?”

  Straightening, he glanced down into the intelligent cornflower blue eyes of Lady Rebecca Blackburn as she came up beside him. He’d known her since the day that she’d been born. As the Duke’s goddaughter and the Earl of Kendall’s only child, she’d often visited the castle, and many of her holidays had coincided with his own sojourns. He’d been as devastated as the Duke and her family when she’d been stricken with smallpox at the age of seven. No one had expected her to live. She’d surprised them all by surviving, although not without consequences.

  Her face was badly disfigured by the pockmarks that accompanied the disease. Because of it, she’d endured long stretches of being either teased or shunned. Not surprisingly, she’d decided to forgo a London season, preferring her art and country life, and at twenty-three was considered quite on the shelf, with no prospects for marriage except for rogues attracted to her sizeable inheritance, rather than her person. The mischievous, affectionate child he’d known could easily have become embittered by her unfortunate circumstance. Instead, she seemed at peace with herself. Which, Alec reflected ruefully, was more than he could say about himself.

  “Well?” she persisted.

  “Is what true?”

  “Don’t be a goose, Sutcliffe!” Rebecca gave his arm a playful rap with her ivory fan. “Everybody’s talking about the murder! They say the murderer is still about.”

  Though the crowd around them was well occupied with their own conversations and dancing a lively quadrille, Alec lowered his voice. “And when did you start believing in gossip, Becca?”

  “Since a dead girl was found in the lake,” she answered pertly. “Don’t evade, Sutcliffe. You already bullied me once today. I shall not let you do it again!”

  “If you’re referring to my not letting you view the body, I had your best interest at heart.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I have my own best interest at heart, thank you very much. And I’d be pleased if you remembered that. I noticed that you did not order all women away.” When he remained silent, she gave him another rap. “Who is she, Sutcliffe? The maid with the short hair?”

  That was an excellent question. “She is an American, which may explain her peculiarities, including her hairstyle.”

  Rebecca laughed. “Caroline Lamb cut her hair short.”

  “You make my point. Caroline Lamb is an eccentric who is making a cake of herself over Lord Bryon.”

  Since she couldn’t argue with that, she merely waved her fan. “They say that the madman did the most horrid things to the girl.”

  Alec scowled. “’Tis not something that should be consumed for the amusement of the Beau Monde.”

  “And yet the ton is so easily amused,” she murmured dryly.

  “What else are they saying?”

  “That the girl was a prostitute.”

  Alec’s scowl deepened. Hell and damnation. The fact that Becca had heard that particular tidbit meant that either someone in the study had gossiped, or a footman had been listening at the door. Both scenarios were entirely possible.

  “Who did you hear that from, pray tell?”

  “Mary, my maid, of course—although it’s being bandied all around the castle. I daresay, all around the village. She also told me that you sent for a Runner.” She gave him a speculative look. “And that the maid from this morning is assisting the Duke in finding the murderer.”

  Alec pressed his lips together in annoyance. He noticed, across the room, Gabriel weaving toward the doors that led off to the garden. In his cups. Again. At the last moment, his friend, Captain Harcourt, steered him clear of a large urn in his path.

  “Well?” Rebecca pressed. “Is the maid really assisting His Grace?”

  “Miss Donovan appears to be remarkably well-informed about criminal behavior.”

  Rebecca peered at him closely. “Are you joking?” When he remained silent, she murmured, “How very interesting. She sounds like an Original.”

  “That kind of originality is nothing to aspire to, my dear.”

  She grinned. “If not an Original, what then?”

  “Minx.”

  She hesitated, and her smile vanished. “Sutcliffe, there is something else being said.”

  “Yes?”

  Instead of answering immediately, she shifted her gaze to the familiar faces circulating around the ballroom that had been redesigned by none other than the great John Nash himself. An inexplicable chill danced up her arms.

  “’Tis being said that the murderer is someone we know,” she said slowly, and then looked up at the marquis, her gaze troubled. “That must be a Banbury tale. Is it not, Sutcliffe?”

  “It certainly sounds ridiculous enough to be a Banbury tale.”

  “That is not a definitive answer.”

  Alec sighed, and wished, for the first time, that she wasn’t so bloody perceptive. “There’s the rub, my dear. I have no definitive answers. I have only many questions.” Beginning, he thought grimly, with Kendra Donovan.

  By eleven-thirty that night, Kendra decided that being a servant in the nineteenth century was damn hard work. All her muscles were throbbing like she’d undergone a week’s worth of workout sessions with the Terminator in one day. She estimated that she’d probably logged ten miles sprinting up and down the backstairs, restocking guest rooms with supplies and hot water for bathing, and later bringing up platters of food for the liveried footmen to serve during the dinner at eight.

  Two hours later, she was
one of the team of maids that cleared the table and cleaned the dining room, after the guests had moved to the ballroom for dancing. The only servants who had it worse, she believed, were the scullery and chambermaids. The former were required to scrub the giant pots, pans, and plates used for the evening, their hands left raw and red, and the latter had to collect, dump, and replenish all the chamber pots in the castle.

  Earlier, she’d learned that the castle’s garderobes, or privy chambers, still functioned, but for some reason, everyone seemed to prefer the chamber pot. The Duke, she’d been told, had begun installing Bramah’s closets, which, she deduced, were primitive toilets that had actually been invented years before. Still, those closets had yet to make an appearance in the servant’s quarters. And Rose was just fine with that, viewing the contraption with a great deal of suspicion.

  Of course, the only plumbing that Kendra would’ve been really interested in at the moment would be a Jacuzzi.

  “You’re not human, Rose,” she groaned as they climbed the stairs. “My muscles are screaming.”

  The tweeny giggled. “’Twas a normal day, miss. I expect you, ’avin’ been a lady’s maid, ain’t used to it.”

  “Yeah. I’m not used to it—any of this.”

  They were both holding candles, the light bouncing madly against the wall. Even though she was bone-weary, Kendra paused when they reached the first floor, which, by American labeling, would be the second floor.

  “Rose, where’s the schoolroom?”

  “The schoolroom? W’otever for, miss?”

  “I need to work.”

  “But we finished our work!”

  Kendra smiled weakly. “I need to organize my thoughts, and I’d like to use the slate board to do it.”

  “Is this about the murder?”

  “Yes.”

  Rose hesitated.

  “The Duke gave me permission,” Kendra pressed.

  The tweeny shrugged. “Come along then.”

  The schoolroom was located in the east wing of the castle, down a little-used corridor that didn’t even have the benefit of wall sconces to light the way.

  “There ’aven’t been any wee ones in the castle since Lady Charlotte,” Rose whispered. “There’s the nursery and the governess’ room.” She pointed to two closed doors, and then opened a set of double doors. “’Ere’s the schoolroom.”

  Four ceiling-to-floor multi-paned windows graced one wall. The moon loomed high, its rays strong enough to bathe the room in an icy light. Otherwise, Kendra suspected, their meager candles would never have penetrated the thick shadows.

  She saw five desks, four child-sized and one adult. Bookshelves lined another wall, opposite a fireplace. There was a sturdy wood table and an assortment of other objects around the room, including a globe, several yellowed maps, an empty easel, and paintbrushes and small pots. Hanging on the wall behind the larger desk was the chalkboard—slate board, Kendra corrected herself.

  There was a musty scent in the air and a general aura of disuse. Kendra felt as though she’d found the toy of a child who’d long since grown into adulthood. It had that same sad, abandoned feel.

  Rose shivered beside her. “Some of the servants ’ave said they’ve ’eard the sound of a child weeping when they pass by this ’ere room late at night.”

  Kendra paused in picking up one of the jagged, thumb-sized pieces of slate, and glanced over at the young girl. “It’s probably the wind, Rose. Or their imagination.”

  “Aren’t you ’fraid of spirits, miss?”

  “Can’t be afraid of something you don’t believe in.” Experimentally she drew a line on the board. The result was similar to what chalk would have produced.

  “You don’t believe in spirits, then?”

  She grinned at the girl. “Only the kind you drink.” She used her apron to erase the mark she’d made, and frowned when it didn’t come off. She rubbed harder.

  “You need to wet it,” Rose said from behind her.

  “Oh.” She turned to find the maid eyeing her oddly again. “Thanks, Rose.”

  Rose hesitated. “Will that be all, miss?”

  “You know, you can call me Kendra.”

  “Aye, miss.”

  Kendra had to smile. “Go to bed, Rose. I’ll be up soon. I just need to work on a couple of things here.”

  When Rose left, she took her candle with her, reducing the light to Kendra’s single flickering flame and the glow of the moon. Briefly, Kendra looked around for more candles or an oil lamp, but found nothing. She supposed the thrifty Mrs. Danbury had taken all useful items from the room before shutting the doors.

  Setting her candle on the desk, Kendra went to work. On the slate board, she drew three vertical lines. In the first section she wrote: Unsub; in the middle section: Victimology; in the third: Forensics/Pattern.

  She started in the middle. Victim—Jane Doe; Age—approximately fifteen; Race—Caucasian; Hair—brown; Eyes—brown.

  Height . . . Kendra closed her eyes to bring up a mental image of the girl. She was small. Five-one, maybe, or five-two. As for weight, Kendra doubted if the victim would have tipped the scales at more than one hundred to one hundred and five pounds. She opened her eyes and jotted the information down. Satisfied, she moved on. Profession—Prostitute (likely).

  Kendra paused, considering that. It wasn’t surprising. Even in the twenty-first century, prostitutes were the primary targets of serial killers. They were society’s throwaways. A dead hooker never registered the same on the horror meter or had the same cachet with the media as a dead housewife. Still, the way the men had talked, this girl had been a part of a brothel, not a street whore. That made her more likely to be missed.

  There was easier prey. Why this girl?

  Moving to the third section, Kendra began ending sentences with a question mark. Body dumped in the river—deliberate or discarded? Did the killer want Jane Doe found? Or had he expected the body to be carried out to sea?

  The hair cut off in sections—a souvenir?

  Single bite mark on the breast—sexual?

  Many serial killers were biters, she knew. The mark of the beast. That’s what Keith Simpson, Britain’s first professor of forensic pathology, had labeled the bites inflicted by killers in the twentieth century.

  The fact that Jane Doe had only one bite mark was interesting, though. Most likely part of a fantasy developed over time.

  Jane Doe had fifty-three cuts on her torso made by four different knives. Kendra wondered if there was any significance to the number of wounds or variety of knives. The victim had been handcuffed. She was petite, so she could have been easily controlled. Unless the killer wasn’t a big man himself.

  The victim had been raped repeatedly. Strangled repeatedly. Did the killer get sexual gratification by maximizing the girl’s terror?

  Based on the bruising and decomposition, the girl had been killed last night. Kendra thought of the Duke’s charts, and wondered if there was any significance to the full moon, if that was part of the unsub’s pattern.

  Kendra returned to the first section. The unsub. The big unknown.

  Slowly, she lifted the hand clutching the piece of slate, and wrote: Mission-oriented killer, or power-and-control killer?

  Not mission-oriented. She lifted her apron to scrub that away, then remembered she needed to have a wet cloth. She ended up drawing a line through “mission-oriented,” and circled “power-and-control.” That’s who they were dealing with—someone who fed off his victim’s terror, who relished their suffering, wanted to hear them scream.

  And scream.

  A chill raced up Kendra’s arms. It was always this way, brushing up against evil. She’d fought hard to be a field agent, but she remembered her first case, when several teenage girls in Kentucky had been found dead, their bodies dumped along the Appalachian Trail. Their throats had been cut, but the fatal wound had been hidden by the pretty pink bow the killer had tied around their necks. Each victim’s feet had been severed and t
aken as souvenirs. She recalled how her stomach had knotted, and she’d just managed to stumble to a ravine before throwing up.

  Over the years, she’d gotten used to the gruesome, unspeakable images, to the buzz of flies, to the sickening, rotting scent of death. But she would never get used to the twisted mind that could commit such atrocities. Thank God.

  “Who are you, you sick son of a bitch?” she whispered, staring at the section that had the least words written in it. She lifted the piece of slate again, and wrote: Male; familiar with the area; intelligent; organized.

  A cloud passed over the moon, leaving only the meager light from the one candle. The shadows around her deepened and crept up the walls like tormented souls escaping the underworld. Tension pricked at her nape. Her heart rate escalated as she thought of Rose’s ghost story of the weeping child. Get a grip, Donovan. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Then again, she hadn’t believed in time travel, either.

  She found herself holding her breath, letting it out in a rush of relief when the moon reappeared and flooded the room again in its silvery light.

  Silly. She was being silly. And fanciful. Two words that rarely applied to her. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe in evil—the two-legged kind.

  Dropping the slate on the desk, she did a couple of yoga stretches to loosen up her tight muscles. Picking up her candle, she moved to the door. She paused, glancing back at the notes she’d made. In the gloom, she couldn’t see them anymore. The darkness had swallowed them up.

  Though that didn’t mean they weren’t there—like him, she thought. He may be in the shadows, but she knew he was out there. Hunting.

  This time when the tension coiled inside her, pricking at her nape, it wasn’t because she was being fanciful. It was because she knew she was right.