There was a short, stark silence as they absorbed that implication.
Sam lifted his brows. “You mean ter say that after the villain has killed, he takes his time before he kills again?”
“Yes. And he will kill again. He has to.”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“There are many theories.” Too many, she thought. “Suffice to say that we could argue endlessly as to why he does what he does. Point of fact is that he does it. We need to stop him before he can do it again.”
“Patterns,” murmured Aldridge. “If determining his pattern will assist us in stopping this monster, we are obliged to do so. Proceed, Mr. Kelly.”
“Aye, sir.” He drew out a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his overcoat, unfolding them across his lap.
“Yvette—I doubt that’s her real name, mind you—was the first lass ter go missing, in—let’s see—February 1812,” he read, and his eyes narrowed. “She was fifteen. Then Sofia, also fifteen, in June of that year—Saturday, the thirteenth. Mary, seventeen, disappeared in October, around the sixteenth. In 1813, Clara, eighteen, vanished in February—Friday, the twelfth; Elizabeth, fifteen, June the thirteenth; Matilda, seventeen, on October eighth. Not another chit until the next February—Saturday, the twelfth, and . . . by God . . .”
He scanned the papers he held and then lifted his gaze to Kendra. “They’re all in those months. Every disappearance. February, June, and October. What does it mean?”
“Patterns,” Aldridge repeated softly.
“The madman is taking a girl every four months!” Rebecca’s eyes darkened with horror.
Alec scowled, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he regarded them. “Wait a bloody moment. I think everyone needs to remember that this is still conjecture. We can’t be certain these girls are dead, or that they didn’t leave by their own accord, despite their apparently rather abrupt departures.”
Aldridge shook his head. “No, Alec. The odds suggest the disappearances of these women are related.”
“Mr. Kelly admitted that he didn’t go to every brothel. There could be even more missing girls in the same months or different months than the ones we know about,” Kendra conceded with a frown.
“We covered a lot of ground, miss, including a few of the lower establishments. Not every academy had missing lasses. Just them here.” Sam lifted the sheaf of papers he held.
“If this pattern is correct,” Alec began, and by the tone of his voice, he wasn’t buying it completely, “then the assailant broke it with this girl, as the month is August—not October.”
Cold dread shivered up Kendra’s spine. “You’re right. His cooling-off period just became shorter.”
“Whatever does that mean?” Rebecca asked, frowning.
“Three girls per year aren’t enough anymore. He’s escalating.”
31
Kendra wrote down each missing girl’s name, accompanied with the pertinent information of their ages, and the month they’d gone missing. Afterward she stood back and surveyed the slate board. She might not have each girl’s photograph pinned up on a murder board, but the names, filling one entire column, were eerie reminders that lives most likely had been lost.
Everyone seemed to feel the same. For several minutes, no one said anything.
Then Kendra looked to the Duke. “Could we get a map of London? I’d like to identify the location of the brothel where each of these girls worked.”
“That can be arranged. I assume you are looking again for patterns?”
Cluster analysis, she thought wistfully. In the twenty-first century, sophisticated computerized models would replace paper maps and pushpins. But nothing was stopping her from using the old-fashioned approach.
“If a pattern emerges, we could learn his comfort zone.” She shrugged. Every bit helped. She shifted her gaze to Sam. “Did you find out anything about the maid killed on Sutton Street five years ago?”
“Five years is a long time, Miss Donovan. And London is fair ter burstin’ with cutthroats. I had one of me men talk ter the local watch, but . . .” He shook his head. “Nobody much recalled the maid who died.”
It had been a long shot, she knew. Since there was no official police force, there’d be no official police files. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she thought about the next step. She knew what it was. She also knew no one would like it.
“The Duke and I have compiled a list of men fitting the profile who live within a ten-mile radius,” she finally said. “It’s a starting point—”
“Pardon, miss, but why?” Sam interrupted. “Why ten miles? She got caught in the river’s current. She could’ve floated a long way.”
Kendra shook her head. “Jane Doe had sustained considerable damage, but I believe it would’ve been much greater if the body had traveled farther downstream. In fact, I don’t even think the body floated ten miles. I decided to err on the side of caution when I developed that parameter. I think we’re actually looking at a fairly tight parameter, probably much closer to where Jane Doe ended up in the lake.”
She waited for Sam to object. But the detective nodded. “Aye. That’s sound thinking, miss.”
She continued, “As I said, we considered men that fit the general profile—affluent, between twenty-five and forty-five. That’s when this type of killer hits their prime. The Duke and I then eliminated anyone who is not a landowner or doesn’t have access to property. We further narrowed the field by removing all the locals who never or rarely visited London. Finally, we crossed off any men who aren’t currently in residence because they’re traveling abroad. That leaves us with eight possibilities within the ten-mile radius. We need to find out where they were on the night of the murder.”
“’Tis a process of elimination—a logical approach.” The Duke nodded in approval.
Sam gave Kendra a thoughtful look. “’Tis an approach that’s worked well for the Runners.”
“Since Mr. Dalton has no alibi for the time in question, I assume he must remain on your list of suspects,” Rebecca commented, earning a surprised glance from Sam.
“You actually asked the guv—er, the gent where he was on the night of the murder?”
“No. Miss Donovan made the inquiry. I fear he was displeased.”
“Imagine that,” Alec murmured.
Kendra ignored the sarcasm. “I’d like to check into Mr. Dalton’s background. His wife left him for another man—I’d like to learn more about that, and about what she looked like.”
Sam eyed her curiously. “You think she may resemble the lasses?”
“May have, past tense. Mr. Dalton’s wife died—another thing to be explored. How’d she die? And when?”
“I’ll have one of me men look at Mr. Dalton’s background,” Sam agreed.
“His family is from Manchester,” the Duke told him.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll send someone up north ter make inquiries.” Sam rubbed his nose. “I can return ter London Town ter continue my inquiries at the brothels, but I’d just as soon stay here ter help with the investigation. If you’re interviewing the gents, I can talk ter the servants and like.”
“You might want to start at the King’s Head,” Alec said abruptly.
Kendra stared at him in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to volunteer that information.
His gaze was cool as he met hers. “I don’t believe my brother committed these atrocities, Miss Donovan, and I intend to prove it by having his alibi confirmed. I won’t have his reputation besmirched by the vile suspicion that he is a killer.”
Aldridge leaned forward, looking at both of them. “Gabriel? What does he have to do with this business, pray tell?”
“He and Captain Harcourt left the castle after the dinner on Sunday evening to attend Hawkings’s cockfight,” Alec told his uncle. “If you recall, the publican has a cockpit behind his tavern.”
“Yes. I had not realized they left the castle that night. But surely you don’t think Gabrie
l—”
Kendra cut him off sharply. “No one can be ruled out unless they have a verifiable alibi.” She was afraid, she realized, very afraid that they’d let their personal bias dictate the investigation. She couldn’t let that happen.
Aldridge frowned at her. “It is entirely plausible that Gabriel is telling the truth, my dear. I am not an admirer of the blood sport of cockfighting. ’Tis gruesome business to watch an animal literally peck the eyes out of another. But I understand it is a lucrative venture for Hawkings. Many attend. There is no reason to think Gabriel did not.”
“I’m not thinking anything. That’s my point. We must approach this rationally rather than subjectively.”
“What about being presumed innocent until proven guilty, as Sir William Garrow so eloquently argued?” Rebecca asked. “Should we not give Lord Gabriel the benefit of the doubt?”
“He’s not on trial. We’re . . .” Kendra didn’t know what to say. Law enforcement? Only she and Sam Kelly belonged to that group. And she still wasn’t entirely sure about Sam Kelly’s position. He seemed to understand basic police procedure, but Bow Street Runners were paid by their clients, not the citizenry of the town they were sworn to serve and protect. At the moment, he was being paid by Aldridge. Because of that, he might not be entirely objective when he dealt with the Duke’s nephew.
“I’m feelin’ a might thirsty for a good English ale,” Sam declared suddenly, and stood up, effectively ending the argument. “I think I’ll go ter the King’s Head.”
“Very good, Mr. Kelly.” After the Runner left, Aldridge searched his desk until he found the list of names tucked in the ledger. “Now we must go over the names again. Mayhap Alec and Rebecca will have suggestions . . .” He spread the foolscap in front of him. “Then we will divide up the names between us, and conduct the interviews. Does that meet with your approval, Miss Donovan?”
It would have to.
32
The coach was luxurious. April Duprey had to admire that, her sharp eyes automatically calculating the cost of the plush, red-velvet interior, and the seat cushions and pillows that were gold trimmed, tufted, and tasseled. And she couldn’t help but appreciate the carriage’s excellent springs. She’d noticed the smoothness of the ride in London, automatically comparing it to the cheaper hackneys and carriages that she used. No doubt about it, she was dealing with Quality.
After nearly four hours of traveling, however, she was no longer impressed. Even the coach’s excellent springs couldn’t disguise the roughness of the country roads, and the swaying and jolting of the coach left her feeling slightly queasy. She pressed a gloved hand to her stomach, and prayed that it wouldn’t be much longer before she reached her destination.
As though in answer to her prayer, the coach began to slow, then turn. She stifled a groan when the coach lurched forward again, the ride increasingly bumpy as the wheels hit rocks and ruts, forcing her to grip one of the brass handrails near the door.
Her patience worn thin, she silently cursed the gentry, who issued orders with no thought to the comfort of the likes of her. Initially, she’d been delighted when she’d received such a prompt response to her letter, and had obeyed the contents of that letter without argument. He’d send for her, he said. A private carriage, he said, to take her into the country, where they could meet.
He’d asked that she keep the drapes closed during the journey. It was an odd request, but she’d shrugged it off. After all, she’d made a career out of servicing the odd requests from gentlemen. Still, she’d disliked staying in the gloomy carriage when they’d made their one stop at the mail-coach inn to feed and water the horses, and she’d resented the silent coachman as he went about his business without once opening the door to see about her needs or to acknowledge her company. It was one thing to be ignored by Quality; it was another to be ignored by her own class.
After that, her mood had turned sour. Once, she’d defiantly flipped open the heavy velvet drapes to look outside. Not that there was much to look at: forests and rolling green hills dotted by the occasional thatched house. She’d eyed the open countryside with the discomfort only a born and bred Londoner could feel, preferring the congested streets and familiar grime-coated buildings of Town.
Now she became aware of a change. Again, the horses were slowing. She twitched the curtains to peer outside. On the other side of the paned glass, the dense trees that crowded alongside the lane, the dark branches and green leaves stretching across the road in a canopy effect, seemed closer. As though when she wasn’t looking, the woods had crept nearer, hemming her in. She shivered and dropped the curtain, half-remembered stories of evil wood elves, sprites, and mischievous fairies flitting through her mind.
The carriage rattled to a stop. She straightened, shrugging away the silly superstitions, her attention already shifting to the business at hand. Self-consciously, she tidied her hair, listening as the coachman scrabbled off his perch, rocking the carriage. A moment later, the door opened, and the coachman folded down the three steps. He lifted a hand to help her down.
She accepted the assistance, her gaze sweeping the wooded area with growing consternation. She’d expected some form of civilization, a cottage or inn, at the very least, in which to do their business, not this desolate stretch of forest. Again, though she wore an ankle-skimming wool pelisse over the bright pink, cotton walking gown that she’d chosen for this meeting, she shivered.
Movement drew her eye. A rider and horse emerged from the shadowy trees. The rider didn’t dismount, drawing the beast to a halt about ten yards away. Knowing it was expected of her, she began walking, making sure she rolled her hips in a well-practiced move. Behind her, the servant climbed onto the coach and moved off down the lane.
“Did you tell anyone about our meeting today?” the rider asked abruptly.
So that’s how it was going to be, she thought. No coy flirtations to smooth the way of their dealings. “No, sir. As you wrote, this is a private affair.” She paused, and when he was silent, she arched a brow. “Shall we get down to business, then?”
For the first time, he smiled. But it wasn’t a pleasant smile, and April felt a whisper of disquiet that had nothing to do with the forest and everything to do with the man.
He leaned forward. “I prefer pleasure before business.”
“Pleasure?” Mayhap she’d misjudged him. If he wanted a tumble before they got down to business, well, she’d simply add the cost of whoring to the bill that she’d worked out to pay for Lydia’s untimely demise. Not that she didn’t expect to do a little negotiating. Catching the gleam in his eye, she smiled and lifted her gloved hand to stroke his thigh with practiced familiarity. “I’m not adverse to pleasure. What do you have in mind, sir?”
His voice was low and throaty. “I want you to . . .”
She tilted her head and smiled encouragingly. “Yes? You want me to . . . ?”
“Run.”
April stilled, uncertain that she heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want you to run.” As she stared at him, trying to comprehend the unusual request, he extracted a large knife from the folds of his caped redingote. She only had a moment of surprise, to observe the blade that gleamed wickedly in the gloomy light of the forest, before he slashed it down, splicing open the back of her gloved hand, still resting on his thigh.
The action was so sudden, so unexpected, that it took a moment to feel the sting. Then she fell back with a gasp, snatching her hand away and watching in disbelief as blood welled up, soaking the kid glove crimson. Clutching the wounded hand to her chest, she met the man’s eyes. A chill raced through her at what she read in his gaze.
“Run,” he whispered.
April Duprey ran.
33
Sam Kelly stepped into the King’s Head. As he headed toward the bar, he did a quick scan of the shadowy interior. There was a low-timbered ceiling, and whitewashed walls tinged gray from the oil lamps, the customers’ clouds of smoke, and probab
ly from the fireplace, too. But today, the kindling in the hearth was yet unlit.
The tavern was only one-third occupied, a fact that Sam attributed to it still being early enough in the day. Still, he deliberately chose a corner spot at the bar, where he could keep his back to the wall and an eye on everyone else. The clientele veered toward farmers, mill workers, blacksmiths, not the rogues he was used to dealing with in the rookeries and flash houses of London. Yet it was never a good idea to let down one’s guard, which was why he kept his back to the wall, and his Sheffield four-inch blade in his boot.
A big man with bushy red hair and mustache approached. “W’ot can Oi get fer ye, guv’ner?”
Sam produced two shillings. “A pint . . . and some information.”
The man’s blue eyes narrowed. “W’ot kinda information?”
“Heard tell you had a cockfight last Sunday.”
“Aye.” Hawkings eyed him warily. “Every Sunday, after sundown. Doesn’t stop folks from goin’ ter church.”
“I’m not concerned with anyone’s salvation. I wanna know if Captain Harcourt and Lord Gabriel attended the fight.”
“’Oo are ye ter be askin’?”
Sam reached into the deep pocket of his coat and brought out the baton with its infamous gilt crown. He saw Hawkings’s eyes widen as he recognized it.
“Ye’re the thief-taker ’is Grace ’ired.” He licked his lips nervously. “Lemme get yer drink.”
Sam watched the publican shuffle over to the bar pull, filling a pewter tankard until it overflowed and foam ran down the side. He returned with the mug, slid it toward Sam. The two shillings disappeared beneath the man’s beefy paw.
“This ’as ter do with the ’ore in the lake?”
Casually, Sam dropped a couple more shillings onto the bar. In his experience, three things loosened a man’s tongue—women, ale, and money. He picked up the tankard, admired the head before taking a swallow. “I want ter know about your cockfight that night.”
A Murder in Time Page 27