A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Sam glanced down at the sketch he held. It had been a clever idea to make use of Lady Rebecca’s artistic talents in such a manner, he thought. It would make his job easier—if knocking on more than a thousand brothel doors in London Town could be considered easy.

  “You found the lass in a local lake?” He lifted his gaze. “And you believe she was murdered?”

  “She was murdered,” Kendra answered. “Specifically, strangled. Before that, she was held for a period of time. The abrasions on her wrists are consistent with being restrained. Metal, not rope. She was strangled repeatedly. Raped repeatedly. And cut repeatedly. The latter were shallow cuts, nothing mortal. He wasn’t trying to kill her, just hurt her.”

  She’d gotten the detective’s attention, which was what she’d wanted. She also wanted to impress upon him the seriousness of the situation. Their eyes met for a long moment. She couldn’t figure out what he was thinking.

  He finally shifted his gaze back to the Duke. “Is what she’s saying true?”

  “Yes. I viewed the body myself.”

  “I’d like ter see the lass as well.”

  “Certainly. I’ll escort you to the body, but Miss Donovan is giving you an accurate account.”

  Again the golden eyes flicked in her direction. They were still carefully blank, but Kendra suspected that he was wondering who the hell she was. She couldn’t blame him. She’d be thinking the same thing if she were in his shoes. In his eyes, she realized, she was the civilian.

  “He also cut off sections of her hair,” she told him.

  He frowned. “Why’d he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He has a reason, though. I think he has a reason he selected that particular girl. And there’s a reason he bit her on the breast once, no more.”

  Sam leaned forward, fascinated. “He bit her?”

  “Yes.”

  Aldridge asked, “Mr. Kelly, have you encountered anything like this before?”

  Sam rubbed the side of his nose, thinking. “I’ve seen bawdy baskets bite each other and yank their hair almost clean outta their scalps when they get into flaming rows. Never what you’re describing, though.” His eyes dropped to the portraiture again. “Have you considered that a client of hers might’ve taken exception ter something the lass did or said?”

  Instead of answering, the Duke glanced at Kendra.

  Interesting, Sam thought. The Duke of Aldridge seemed almost deferential toward the maid.

  “He’s most likely a client, but this wasn’t an impulsive attack,” Kendra told Sam. “She didn’t have any defensive wounds on her fingers and palms. I think she came with him willingly and the attack happened after she was restrained. She may have agreed to be handcuffed or he took her by surprise, so she didn’t have time to fight back.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would she agree to be handcuffed?” Rebecca asked, surprised.

  Kendra caught the deer-in-the-headlights look of the men, and had to suppress a smile. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “You will not!” Alec glared at her.

  Rebecca in turn glared at him. “You shall not dictate my future conversations, Sutcliffe!”

  Sam cleared his throat. “Ah, aye, well, you’ve given me an interesting case, Your Grace.” He hesitated and then slanted another look at the maid. “Forgive me, Miss Donovan, but I must ask . . . who are you?” He spread his hands. “You appear ter have a bit of expertise in this area, which—if I may be blunt—is unusual enough for anyone, but especially for a woman.”

  Kendra tensed automatically, thinking, Will I always be a freak? Still, she understood his confusion. She was a freak here. Any woman from her era would be.

  “I know that what I am saying may be unorthodox,” she said slowly, fixing her gaze on him. “I can only hope you won’t discount what I’m saying because I’m a woman.”

  Sam regarded her carefully, aware that she hadn’t answered his question.

  “Brava, Miss Donovan!” Rebecca declared, breaking the silence. “The contributions of women have too long been discounted. We have been treated like we have nothing but feathers stuffed in our heads! When I think of—”

  “Hell’s teeth, Becca,” Alec interrupted, shooting her an exasperated look. “Now is not the time to discuss Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s radical ideas, my dear.”

  Rebecca looked insulted. “That is the trouble, sir. There is no good time a man wants to discuss the rights of women. But there shall come a time, Sutcliffe! Someday women shall even be given the right to vote. Mark my words!”

  “Yes, well. I think we need to concentrate on the matter at hand, rather than politics, my dear,” Aldridge said mildly. “And, for the record, I have never adhered to the nonsense that women are ornamental creatures with no intellect.” His gaze lifted to the painting above the fireplace. “My wife was a brilliant mathematician and astronomer. If the course of events had been different, I believe she would have rivaled Caroline Herschel in her contributions to science.

  “So, you see, Miss Donovan,” he added, smiling sadly at Kendra, “I shan’t dismiss what you are saying because of some misplaced theory that a woman’s brain is smaller than a man’s.”

  “Aye. You needn’t fear that I’ll dismiss you out of hand, either, miss,” said Sam. “Some of the most devious criminals I’ve ever encountered were women.”

  He grinned, but sobered quickly when he turned to the Duke. “Me and me men will begin making inquiries as soon as I return ter Town. If she worked for an academy, ’tis doubtful a bawd would’ve let her leave—not without brokerin’ the deal.”

  “A bawd?” Kendra asked.

  Sam gave her another look. Maybe they called them something else in America. “An abbess—brothel-keeper. I suspect that the lass didn’t work for the more exclusive brothels in Town. We’d have heard if a Cyprian went missing,” the Runner continued. “We’ll begin at the mid-range academies. I warn you, Your Grace, this will take time. London brothel-keepers do a bang-up business.”

  “We understand we’ve given you no easy task, Mr. Kelly,” Aldridge nodded. “I thank you for coming so promptly to my summons.”

  Sam controlled his wince as he thought of the almost two hours that he’d spent on horseback in order to answer the summons so promptly. He’d rather have hired a carriage, but that would’ve taken nearly twice as long. And he didn’t like to keep the gentry waiting. Especially not someone as influential as the Duke of Aldridge.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, since that brought up a point. “The lass had ter get here somehow.”

  “Yes, we already discussed that,” the Duke said. “We deduced a private carriage would be most likely, given the circumstance.”

  “I’ll have me men interview the whips who might have this route, just ter be certain. ’Tis almost a four-hour journey by carriage. If she came by private carriage, they may have stopped ter freshen their horses, take a meal. Mayhap innkeepers and publicans would remember her.”

  “An excellent notion, Mr. Kelly.”

  Sam slapped his hands on his thighs and pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the next part, but it was necessary. “If you’d be so good as ter take me ter the lass, sir. The quicker that’s done, the quicker I’ll be off.”

  “I’ve never seen the like,” Sam confessed, studying the body on the table. Aside from the sawbones’s needlework, the bruises that circled the throat stood out. As the American had said, she’d been strangled more than once. Pushed to the brink of death, and brought back, over and over again. What kind of madman would do that? “We get plenty of murders in Town. I recall all too vividly, sir, the hideous murders of the Marr household at the East End. Everyone, including the wee babe and Mr. Marr’s apprentice, were bludgeoned, their throats slit.”

  The Duke’s blue gaze darkened. “I heard about that crime. They caught the perpetrator, did they not?”

  “Not then. A similar crime occurred almost a fortnight later, at the Kin
g’s Arms Inn. John Williams, a sailor, was arrested for that heinous act. He hung himself later, so most likely he was the culprit.”

  “You have doubt?”

  Sam shrugged. “Don’t matter what I think. The fellow’s dead. And the folks drove a stake right through his black heart so he could never rise again.”

  “Superstitious nonsense.”

  “Aye. But it made them feel better. And it must’ve worked as there’ve been no like crimes since.” Sam grinned.

  “Or it could mean he was the true culprit,” Aldridge remarked dryly.

  “Aye. That too.” Sam reached to draw the wool blanket over the girl. “You know, I was among those at the first murder scene. It was a bloody mess. There’s less blood here, but . . . this seems worse somehow,” he said quietly. “This seems more . . . evil.”

  The Duke nodded solemnly. “I consider myself an enlightened man, but I agree with you, Mr. Kelly. What was done to this girl was evil.”

  He moved toward the door, glancing back at the Runner. “If we’re done here, I’d like to return to my study. I have something else to discuss with you before you leave for Town.”

  Sam eyed the Duke warily, but said nothing until they walked into the study ten minutes later. “You are aware that your man of affairs in Town already gave me my terms, sir?” he asked, and held his breath. As the terms had been extremely generous, he hoped there hadn’t been a miscommunication in that regard.

  “Yes, I’m quite aware.” The Duke moved behind his desk and sat down. “I have another matter to discuss with you.”

  “Oh?”

  He hesitated. “I am afraid it shall add to your burden, Mr. Kelly. Naturally, I am prepared to pay. It will, however, require your greatest discretion as it is a sensitive matter.”

  A slow smile spread across Sam’s face. The gentry were an odd lot, but there were reasons he enjoyed dealing with them.

  “I am always discreet, sir.”

  20

  Kendra couldn’t say that she was getting used to being in the nineteenth century, but she now had a routine, which meant helping Rose again in the kitchens the next morning for another marathon of potato-peeling. God, if she never saw another spud—unless it was already baked, broiled, boiled, or mashed on her plate—she’d die happy. And Rose still managed to fill up three pots to every one she did.

  Not that she was counting.

  Around noon, she grabbed a couple of apples from a nearby barrel and escaped outside. The temperature was in the low seventies, but seemed cool after the stifling heat of the kitchens. She followed the pretty flagstone path that wound its way around the vegetable gardens. Aware that she was under observation from the gardeners, she veered off the path, up the gently sloping hill, into the shadowy forest.

  Without the heavy basket she’d carried the other day, it took her less than fifteen minutes at a brisk pace to reach the lake, another ten to walk the perimeter. The waterfall wasn’t big, but the cascade came over in a steady sheet, churning up the water at its base. Kendra could imagine Jane Doe being swept over, floating to the calmer waters of the shore before becoming entangled in weeds and cattails. If the nuncheon hadn’t occurred, she wondered how long it would have taken to discover the body.

  Careless or uncaring? she wondered. There was a difference. Careless meant the unsub had hoped that by tossing the body in the river, it would be carried to the ocean. Uncaring meant he didn’t have a problem if the body was found. Careless meant he was getting sloppy. Uncaring meant he was getting bold.

  She climbed the steep terrain to the top of the waterfall. The river widened to about sixty feet. On either side were Chest Wood trees, ancient oak and pine, tall weeds, and a scattering of wildflowers, their colors popping amid the greenery. Picking up her skirt, she followed the waterway for about half a mile before angling off to climb the hill. At the top, she did a slow scan of the surrounding countryside.

  Pretty as a postcard—too pretty to carry the ugly stain of murder.

  Impulsively, she clambered up a grayish-brown boulder the size of a Fiat. Sitting down, she leaned back on her elbows, tilting her head and closing her eyes to drink in the warm rays of the sun. A light breeze stirred the grass and branches around her, fluttered the leaves. Birds called to each other. Sometimes she’d hear weird clicking noises.

  She could almost fool herself into thinking she was back home, lazing down by the community pool in her Virginia apartment complex. Except there was no squeal and splash from the neighborhood children. And she was wearing a maid’s uniform. And she was in the freaking nineteenth century.

  Sighing, fantasy destroyed, she sat up, and pulled the apples from the pockets that she wore. They did not look like the apples she’d buy at the store. They weren’t as big or red or as perfect. But they were pesticide-free, so she didn’t have to worry about washing them. She polished them up before biting into the fruit, using the apron as a napkin to blot the excess juice that dribbled down her chin.

  She caught a flash of brown and white, and turned her head to observe a rabbit sprinting across the clearing. Not a white rabbit, but she felt like Alice in Wonderland.

  Alice in Wonderland—which wouldn’t even be written for another fifty years.

  Instead of falling down a rabbit hole, she’d fallen through a wormhole. While wormholes were really her mother’s area of quantum physics, Kendra knew some of the theories. One of the more recent ideas floated in scientific circles was that the universe was filled with tiny wormholes that popped up and winked out of existence all the time. Of course, with her, it would’ve had to be a big wormhole.

  But it was pointless to panic or speculate on how she’d got here. Better to concentrate on solving the murder, which, in her mind, had become linked with her bizarre situation.

  Kendra knew her profile was weak, but it was a starting point. Every investigation needed one. And while Lady Rebecca might not like it, she stood by her profile that they were dealing with someone from the upper class. The good news was that the pool of suspects was considerably less than the working class. Maybe only a dozen or so men in the area, depending on how wide a net she wanted to toss. The unsub would also have to be familiar enough with London that it would be part of his comfort zone. But he lived locally, she was sure. Or at least he had a private place here. Privacy was essential to do what he needed to do.

  Kendra would need help coming up with a list of suspects. They’d have to be interviewed, their alibis verified—basic, old-fashioned police work.

  Sighing, Kendra finished off the apple as she surveyed the countryside from her perch—a haphazard patchwork of rolling green hills seamed with hedges and clusters of trees. From this vantage point, she could see Alec was right; the river wasn’t a single flowing stream, but several branches. No telling where the girl had been dumped initially. The current should have carried the body downstream toward the ocean. It was just dumb luck that she’d been swept into the tributary that fed the lake.

  She spotted a small stone building in the distance, next to the river. A mile or two north, chimney stacks rose above the treetops, indicating other houses. Simon Dalton and Kenneth Morland, she remembered, owned neighboring estates.

  They fit the profile. So did Alec, for that matter. He’d been with the Duke on the night Jane Doe was murdered, she knew. It was unlikely that he’d slipped out of the castle to wherever the girl had been held afterward—unlikely, but not impossible. Could you slip out of a household like this without a servant or someone in the stables seeing you?

  It was another avenue to pursue, she decided as she pushed herself to her feet and tossed the apple core down for the ants to feast upon. Jumping off the boulder, she began to retrace her steps down the hill, back to the castle.

  Her mind circled back to the discovery of the body. Careless or uncaring? she wondered again. The more she thought about it, the more she suspected the latter. This was an age when people spent time outdoors. They weren’t sitting in front of their televisi
ons, computers, or Xboxes. The chances of discovery were high.

  That boldness worried Kendra. Contrary to their portrayal in the media, most serial killers preferred to work in secrecy, never seeking notoriety from the press or police. Few escalated to the point where they wanted to share their work.

  Kendra fought off a shiver, attributing the sudden chill to the fact that she’d entered the forest again. The big trees swallowed up the sunshine, leaving the woods in a perpetual shade. It made her uneasy. The space between her shoulder blades pricked with the sensation of being watched. The sensation deepened as she continued to walk. Not good.

  She slowed to a stop and turned a full circle, scanning the forest, trying to probe beyond the trees and shrubbery thick with shadows. She made an instinctive gesture for the gun she no longer carried.

  “Who’s there?” she called out sharply.

  Around her, birds continued to whistle; insects whirred and chirped. If there was something bad lurking in the woods, wouldn’t the birds stop singing? Except she couldn’t shake the creepy feeling of watching eyes. Maybe it was an animal, a deer or a rabbit. Or—fuck—a wolf or a bear?

  Her fingers shook with a phantom itch to hold the comforting weight of her SIG Sauer. Heart beginning to hammer, she moved forward, keeping her strides long and even. Her ears strained to pick up the slightest sound—a footfall, the snapping of a twig—to pinpoint the direction of her hidden observer. She’d gone about fifty yards and thought she heard something in the two o’clock position. She stopped, swiveling to stare hard in that direction.

  She was wrong.

  He came at her from behind, making no attempt to cover the noise as he broke free from the trees. Spinning around, she saw a man with long, tangled, sandy brown hair and ratty beard rushing toward her, waving his arms and yelling something guttural.

  Her entire body tensed. Flight or fight. A part of her wanted to run, but her training had her standing her ground, even as her heart leaped straight into her throat.

  “Stop!” she ordered, but the man continued his headlong rush toward her, his hands conveniently stretched out in front of him. It was too perfect, and she lunged forward, grasping his hands and viciously yanking back his fingers. It was a classic policeman’s restraining maneuver, and it worked as it was intended. The man gave a sharp yelp and tried to pull away. Kendra completed the maneuver by twisting his arm behind his spine, and driving him to his knees.