A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I am not asking for your sympathy, Miss Donovan. Or pity.” Rebecca set down the figurine she held and deliberately moved over to where one of the oil lamps was burning, positioning herself so that the light slid mercilessly over her disfigured face, so that she was grotesque.

  “Children can be cruel. I may be the daughter of an earl, but that doesn’t guarantee friendship. It did not stop the teasing and name-calling. Alec defended my honor with his wits and sometimes, his fists. It did not stop the viciousness when he was absent, but he was my white knight.”

  Kendra remembered the first morning, when Sarah had talked about getting sick because she had to sit opposite Rebecca. She suspected that the cruelty hadn’t stopped with childhood, it had just become more underhanded. Human beings had an almost limitless supply of malice.

  “I understand how protective you must feel toward Lord Sutcliffe,” she said slowly.

  Rebecca waved that away impatiently. “Mayhap I do feel the need to come to his defense as he always came to mine. But that is not why I’m telling you this. A young lad—Alec was sixteen at the time—who has the compassion to rescue a little girl from the evil taunts of her playmates, to spend time with her to alleviate her loneliness, could never grow up to be the man, the monster, you have described.”

  She walked to the slate board and stared at it for a few minutes before turning to look at Kendra. She used her fan as a pointer. “This is a man who hates women. This man could never have been the boy who provided succor to a young child in need.”

  “I agree.”

  Rebecca looked surprised. “You believe me?”

  “It’s not a question of me believing you. It’s logistics. I saw Alec—Lord Sutcliffe—myself in this room on the night of the murder. It’s highly unlikely that he’d have left here to torture and kill the girl.”

  “Highly unlikely, but not impossible.”

  “He fits the profile,” she conceded. “And I can’t afford to let personal feelings”—she thought of the sharp tug of attraction she’d felt earlier—“stop me from doing my duty.”

  “Apparently the duties of a maid are much more expansive in America,” Rebecca remarked drily, then let out a frustrated sigh. “I confess, Miss Donovan, that I am finding it difficult to believe that someone from my class did this horrendous thing!”

  “No one wants to think that someone they know is capable of cold-blooded murder,” Kendra agreed, not without sympathy. “But we can’t ignore the facts, either.”

  Rebecca scowled. “Facts. You don’t have any facts, Miss Donovan. You—we—only have supposition.”

  “Based on deductive reasoning. We’re looking for someone who has the means to hire a high-class prostitute, transport her to the country, and—”

  “Yes, yes, we’ve already discussed this,” Rebecca waved her hand holding the closed fan impatiently. “You could be describing the Duke.”

  “No. The Duke was here as well that night. We’re also looking for a much younger man. Someone between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five.”

  Rebecca stared at her. “How, pray tell, do you know that?”

  “Age is the most difficult thing to identify with an unsub. However, what was done to that girl—both in luring her out and the killer’s brutality—shows a level of sophistication. It takes time for this type of killer to develop their fantasies, which means the unsub isn’t too young. At the same time, the longer an unsub gets away with his aberrant behavior, the more confident he becomes. And the more disorganized he becomes. The Duke is an older man. I believe if he were responsible, this wouldn’t be the first time you would have found a dead woman in the area. We’re dealing with someone who is comfortable, but not complacent with his success. Besides . . .”

  “Besides . . . what?”

  “I can’t imagine the Duke hurting anyone,” she admitted, and laughed softly. “Which is the worst reason for ruling anyone out.”

  Rebecca smiled. “As I happen to know the Duke, I agree. He is one of the kindest men on earth.” She glanced up at the portrait above the fireplace. “Did you know that his daughter was only a few years older than I? I’ve been told we were great playmates when we were infants. I do not remember her.” She wandered over to the ornate globe that came up to her waist, spinning it with her fingertips. “My father and the Duke were schoolmates at Eton and later Cambridge. They maintained their friendship. The Duke’s my godfather, which is why I’ve spent so much time here at the castle.”

  “Are your parents dead?”

  “My, you are blunt, aren’t you?” Rebecca laughed. “No. My parents are touring my father’s sugar plantations in Barbados. The Duke—or rather, the countess—was kind enough to invite me to her house party. She has one every year at the end of the Season.”

  “I see. And Alec—the marquess’ parents?”

  Rebecca’s gaze sharpened, but she answered readily enough. “Both have passed. His mother was an Italian countess, Alexandria—a diamond of the first water. I heard Sutcliffe’s father, Edward, fell in love with her at first sight while on his grand tour. His father—Duke’s—was not happy when his youngest son brought home an Italian bride, no matter how fine her pedigree or how full her family coffers. Alexandria was beautiful, but she was not English.”

  “You knew her?”

  “No. She died before I was born. But I have seen portraits of her, and heard the tales, which are rather legendary. She had a fiery temperament and had rows against the Duke—not the current Duke, but his father.”

  “I get it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, I understand. How’d she die?”

  “A carriage accident. I’ve been told the marquis was inconsolable. And Alec, too.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t good for Gabriel, either.” She thought of Alec’s brother, and wondered if that was at the root of his drinking, his anger issues.

  Rebecca lifted her brows. “Oh, Alexandria wasn’t Gabriel’s mother. A year or so after she died, the marquis remarried. Emily Telford. Very English. Very proper.” Rebecca made a face. “A high stickler if there ever was one. She was the youngest daughter of a viscount. I’m certain the Duke was ecstatic when his son married her, but he died less than a year later of some sort of fit. Then Sutcliffe’s father died three years after siring Gabriel. Naturally, as the eldest son, Alec inherited the title and all the estates that were entailed. The marchioness and Gabriel had a town house in London, and Alec, I daresay, gave them a generous allowance in addition to what Lady Emily had from her own inheritance.”

  Past tense. “The marchioness is no longer alive?”

  “She passed away from consumption six years ago.”

  “Is that when Gabriel started drinking?”

  Rebecca’s mouth tightened. “You do ask personal questions.”

  “They may get even more personal.”

  Rebecca stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of you, Miss Donovan.” She sighed. “Gabriel’s behavior is not that unusual for a young buck sowing his wild oats, you know.”

  “Maybe, but he seems to be sowing more than wild oats. He seems to have some major issues.”

  Rebecca’s brow puckered. “Lady Emily was not an easy woman to be around. Alec . . . I remember she made his life miserable, as well, but he was away at Eton, then Cambridge. Gabriel was not so fortunate. I can’t say I blame him for letting loose now.”

  “What about Dalton?”

  Rebecca frowned. “Mr. Dalton? I don’t know very much about him other than he comes from good stock in Manchester. His father was a doctor. Mr. Dalton was an army surgeon until he inherited Halstead Hall, one of the neighboring estates.”

  “He’s not married?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated, giving Kendra an uncertain look.

  “What?”

  “’Tis nothing. Old gossip.”

  “It could be important.”

  “Mr. Dal
ton was married once. The on dit is his wife died after she fled the country with another man.” Rebecca saw the expression in Kendra’s eyes and hurried on. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss Donovan, but, as I said, that gossip is ancient history. Surely you cannot believe Mr. Dalton’s tragedy has any bearing on this poor unfortunate girl’s demise?”

  “Ancient history is usually where a psychosis begins. The unsub has a problem with women.”

  Rebecca looked uneasy. “Mr. Dalton isn’t the only man who has had a runaway wife. The whole of England knows how shabbily Lady Caroline has treated her husband by publicizing her passion for Lord Byron.”

  It still shook Kendra to have historical names thrown out so casually, a reminder that this wasn’t a dream, that those long-dead figures were alive at this very moment. Christ, I can’t think about it.

  “Dalton fits the profile. We need to find out more about his past. What about Morland?”

  “Mr. Morland? His family has lived on the neighboring estate for generations—Tinley Park.”

  “I need more information than that. Does he have family? Brothers? Sisters? Is he married? Ever been married?”

  “Those are a lot of questions,” Rebecca murmured, moving to the sideboard. She poured a glass of claret, then cocked her head at Kendra. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you. Do you have answers to the questions?”

  Rebecca eyed her over the rim of her wineglass. “For a maid, you are an imperious sort, aren’t you?” Before Kendra could reply to that, she hurried on. “His grandfather passed a few years back. He was the Earl of Whilmont. His mother is still alive, but has become a recluse. He has no brothers or sisters, and to the best of my knowledge he has never been caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”

  “No scandal or skeletons in the closet?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Rebecca sipped her wine. “I don’t know how this can be relevant since it happened so many years ago, but Lady Anne—Morland’s mother—eloped with his father, who was an infantry man. The old earl was furious.”

  “Why? Because she eloped?”

  “The elopement was disgraceful enough, but she married an infantry man, Miss Donovan. No title. Undoubtedly penniless. Most earls would have been displeased by the match. Do you really not understand that?”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “The earl had a tyrannical reputation. He quite terrified me when I was a child and chanced upon him while visiting the Duke.” She gave a mock shudder. “They say he fetched Lady Anne home and dispatched her husband to India. As a member of Parliament, he had connections with the War Department. The poor man died over there without ever setting eyes on his son. It really is quite tragic when you think on it.”

  “I wonder how Morland felt about never knowing his father because his grandfather sent him away?”

  “I’ve no idea, but the earl quite doted on his grandson. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Morland took after his grandfather in looks, which undoubtedly appealed to the old earl’s vanity,” Rebecca remarked cynically. “Nothing like seeing the family line continue on with your male heirs, while your daughters and granddaughters can wither on the vine. If, that is, you cannot use them to expand one’s empire!

  “’Tis a man’s world, Miss Donovan,” she added, scowling. She was silent for a moment, then huffed out a sigh. “But that’s neither here nor there. There was no estrangement between Morland and his grandfather when the earl was alive. Sadly, the earldom couldn’t be passed to Mr. Morland, but rather went to a distant male cousin. However, Morland was fortunate in the fact that Tinley Park was not entailed.”

  “Why didn’t Lady Anne follow her husband to India?”

  “I don’t know the details. I suspect she discovered that she was increasing, which would have made traveling to India out of the question. I daresay by the time it was a possibility, it was too late. Her husband had already expired. Sad how life works out sometimes, isn’t it?”

  “You never know what life will throw at you, I’ll give you that.” She joined Rebecca at the slate board. “Who else do you know that fits the profile?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Rebecca lifted her brows. “Are all maids as dictatorial as you are in America, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra frowned. “The Duke came up with eight men that fit the profile. I’d like your input.”

  “And what then, Miss Donovan? What do you expect to do?”

  “Interview the suspects, find out where they were on the night of the murder. We can eliminate everyone who has an alibi.”

  “I see.” Rebecca gave her a strange look. “And you will do this . . . how? You—a maid—expect to quiz your betters?”

  Kendra stared at her in consternation. How in God’s name was she going to conduct this investigation if she wasn’t allowed to interview the suspects?

  Lady Rebecca looked amused. “You seem to forget your station in life, Miss Donovan. What is done, and what is not done.”

  “I’m sure the Duke will assist me.”

  Rebecca raised her brows. A Duke required assistance from a servant; not the other way around. She smiled suddenly, tapping her chin with her fan as she circled Kendra. “Hmm. I don’t require a lady’s maid. My maid, Mary, is most exceptional.”

  Kendra eyed her warily. “Good, because I pretty much sucked at being a lady’s maid.”

  “Sucked?” Diverted, Rebecca laughed. “You Americans have such colorful expressions. However . . . I’ve never had a companion.”

  “Companion?”

  “A lady’s companion.”

  “Lady Rebecca, are you by any chance asking me to be your companion?”

  “Yes, I believe I am. ’Tis most unusual, but . . . you, my dear Miss Donovan, have just bettered yourself.”

  23

  From her bedroom window, April Duprey watched the Bow Street Runner make his way carefully down the cobblestone street that gleamed black from the thin drizzle falling from the evening sky. When he stopped abruptly, glancing back toward the house, his eyes seeming to angle straight toward her window, her heart jolted and her fingers, on the lace drapery, tensed. She forced herself to let go of the material and step away.

  She wondered uneasily if he knew that she’d lied to him. She was very good at lying—it was a necessity for being a good whore.

  She smiled, a cynical twist to her painted lips, thinking of the rogues she’d serviced over the years. They’d never wanted the truth. Nay, they’d wanted to be cooed over and coddled, and complimented on how virile and handsome they were even if they were on the far side of seventy. They all had their fantasies. And every fantasy began with a lie.

  April Duprey wasn’t even her given name. She barely remembered the name she’d been christened or the chit she’d been before her drunken sod of a father had bartered her to a whoremaster in exchange for the bill he’d owed. She’d been eleven at the time.

  That had been a long time ago, of course. April knew a cool satisfaction over surviving those early days. After that brutal first year, she’d put aside girlish dreams she no longer remembered and ruthlessly applied herself to becoming a skillful courtesan. She had the looks and the wits to become more than a streetwalker, although she’d done her share of back alley tumbles with drunken rakes. She’d been clever enough to do it for a coin or two, not a tipple of gin. She’d ended up in an academy for a time, until she’d craftily seduced one of the coves into setting her up in her own house.

  It had been a lovely time, that. Of course, she’d never been so foolish as to believe it would last. In her world, nothing lasted. She’d hoarded her coins and jewels, worked on her speech and manners. When her protector had found a younger mistress and given her congé, she’d bought the house on Bacon Street and acquired a small selection of girls. It had taken her years, but she’d built her business as brothel keeper. She might not offer the most exclusive demimondaines at her academy, but she’d carved out a solid reputa
tion by catering to a broad range of tastes.

  Now as she spun away from the window, she caught her reflection in the beveled glass mirror across the room. For a brief moment, she saw a pale, golden-haired Cyprian in a diaphanous blue empire-waisted gown. The candlelight helped weave an illusion of youth and beauty. She knew the truth.

  One lied to the clientele; one never lied to oneself.

  At thirty-five, she had long since parted ways with youth. If she looked closely into the mirror, she’d see that the years had caught up with her, leaving a web of fine lines around her eyes and forehead. Her figure was still good, lush and round, but she could no longer conceal a certain hardness in her countenance or the shrewdness in her eyes as she was tallying up a business transaction.

  It was just as well that she’d given up the role of prostitute to be an abbess. She preferred it, if truth be told, although she wasn’t above servicing the occasional request. She believed in keeping the customers happy. That’s why she’d loaned out Lydia.

  When the chit hadn’t returned, she’d assumed the worst, that the little bitch had sunk her claws into one of the bucks to become a chère-amie. April had to confess that she was surprised to learn that the girl was dead. Surprised, but not necessarily shocked. Such things happened; some games, she knew, went too far. Yet the way she saw it, she was owed reparation.

  She moved to the table where she kept the decanters. Pouring a splash of scotch into a glass—she allowed herself just two drinks a day, her father having cured her of any desire to use spirits to sink into oblivion—she took a quick sip, the taste strong and sharp on her tongue, as she considered the matter.

  It would involve some delicacy. But surely the gent would see the inconvenience he’d given her? Replacing Lydia would require some diligence on her part. Not to mention the expense of dressing a new whore. And she had to lie to a Runner. Silence didn’t come cheap.