A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Another thought struck her. Who was April Duprey? Yes, she was a bawd, but who was she in history? What if she’d been the great-great grandmother of someone important, like Francis Crick, one of the Nobel Prize–winning scientists who had helped map DNA? Would she return to her own time and find out that everything had changed because of this one incident? That DNA, so vital to police work in the future, might not even exist?

  “It is not your fault, Miss Donovan,” Aldridge said firmly, probably noticing how pale she knew she’d become. “The sketch was an inspired idea, but we would have sent out a verbal description to the London brothels. I daresay the woman would have recognized one of her own birds, particularly since she’d recently gone missing. Everything would have transpired exactly as it has. ’Tis the thread of fate.”

  Kendra began to breathe again. She wasn’t entirely sure she believed in the thread of fate, but maybe she hadn’t begun unraveling the fabric of time after all. Or did she only want to believe what the Duke was saying because the alternative was too awful to contemplate?

  The Duke eyed her as he cut his sausage. “Something else troubles you. What is it, my dear?”

  Kendra hesitated. She drank her coffee, and then gave a sigh as she set the cup down. “Blackmail is why April Duprey was killed,” she finally said, “but it doesn’t explain why she was killed here.”

  Rebecca frowned. “I do not comprehend. You’ve gone to great lengths to convince us that the madman lives in the area. He most likely has been luring Unfortunate Women here for the last four years. Naturally, he would kill Miss Duprey here. ’Tis part of his pattern, as you have said yourself.”

  “No. First of all, April Duprey is not part of his pattern. She looks nothing like his victims. She lived in London and he could have killed her there, probably without raising any alarm. Or why not kill her somewhere else in the country? Why here, specifically?” Kendra picked up her own knife and fork, concentrating on the meal as she let the words sink in.

  “He killed her because she was attempting to blackmail him,” Rebecca said, bewildered. “We agreed that it explains the anomaly of her appearance and age.”

  Kendra shook her head. “The unsub killed her because of the blackmail, but she wasn’t someone he deliberately chose. In that sense, she wasn’t a victim like the other girls.” She paused, searching for the right word. “She was a liability. He could have eliminated her quietly. But he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t choose her, but he chose this area,” Aldridge realized. “The fiend chose to put her body on a public path where he knew she’d be found. Why?”

  Alec slowly put down his knife and fork. “He’s trying to elicit a reaction.”

  “Yes.” Kendra nodded. “That’s what I believe. And that tells us something. He’s watching and listening. You remember when I told you that he’s escalating?”

  Aldridge said, “His—what did you call it? His cooling-off period was becoming shorter.”

  “This is another form of escalation. He didn’t expect our Jane Doe to be discovered. That was unexpected. Unplanned. But I think . . . it excited him.

  “April Duprey doesn’t fit his pattern,” she added softly, “but he took the opportunity to use her to engage us.”

  Rebecca looked appalled. “Us? What are you saying, Miss Donovan? Are we in danger from this madman?”

  “No,” Kendra answered quickly—too quickly. She had to pause and consider that. Could she be so certain with her conclusion? “At least not yet,” she amended carefully. “In my opinion, he’ll become more unpredictable as the situation becomes unpredictable. As I said, control is important to him. He won’t like it when things slip outside his control.”

  “Like the bawd being identified,” Alec surmised.

  “Yes. Exactly. He views this as his game, with his rules. He wanted April Duprey found. But identified? No. We’ve changed the rules on him; he just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “And when he does?” Rebecca asked.

  Kendra sipped her coffee, and frowned. “I don’t know.”

  Alec looked across the table at her. “In the woods, you mentioned that the cut on the back of Miss Duprey’s hand was odd. What did you mean by that?”

  “It was, as far as I could tell, one laceration, through the glove, fairly shallow. Attacks using a knife follow a fairly predictable pattern. Either you’re dealing with someone in a frenzy—multiple stab wounds—or you’re dealing with someone who is controlled. They’ll deliver one or two blows, but those tend to be mortal—in the thorax region, for example, aiming for the heart. I believe that’s how April Duprey eventually died. Or the attacker goes for the throat, slicing open the jugular. Death is almost instantaneous.”

  “So the monster broke pattern in this regard as well,” the Duke commented.

  “And she didn’t put up her hand to protect herself,” Kendra said. “That would’ve been on the palm of the hand.”

  “He did it to get her attention,” Alec said.

  She nodded. “That’s what I think, too. He wanted her fear. And that fits his pattern.”

  They fell silent, contemplating April Duprey’s last moments on earth. She hadn’t been tortured like Jane Doe, but she’d felt terror, hunted down like a wild animal.

  Rebecca shivered, and pushed away her half empty plate. “Pray God that Mr. Kelly will get the name of the madman from the Unfortunate Women at the academy.”

  The Duke picked up his teacup and gave Kendra a curious look. “Miss Donovan, you said something else earlier about beetles and spiders helping you determine how long the poor creature was left in the woods. I would like an explanation.”

  Kendra had forgotten her comment, and now felt the weight of history pressing against her again. What to say? What not to say?

  “Miss Donovan?” he prodded gently when she remained silent.

  “There was actually a case in China—the thirteenth century,” she finally said. That, at least, seemed safe to share. “When a villager was found in his field stabbed to death, the authorities determined the murder weapon was a sickle. They confiscated all the sickles from the victim’s neighbors and observed how blowflies were attracted to one particular sickle. Even though the killer had wiped the blade, microscopic bits of blood and soft tissue were still on it—enough to attract blowflies.”

  “Why, how terribly clever!” Rebecca exclaimed.

  “I am familiar with Francesco Redi’s experiments, which proved that insects are attracted to decomposing flesh, as opposed to the Aristotelian abiogenesis theory, which purported spontaneous birth of maggots in decaying meat.” The Duke nodded, and gave her a look. “I am not familiar, however, that Redi’s experiments ever determined time of death.”

  Kendra stifled a sigh. Sometimes she wished the Duke wasn’t so damn shrewd. Did she give them information that shouldn’t be around for another forty years, when a French physician began using insect life cycles to determine time of death? Could that screw up the whole space-time continuum?

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed again. Fuck it. “No one can give you the exact time of death. But as a general rule of thumb, beetles will arrive after twenty-four hours. Spiders later, since they feed on other insects. She was still in full rigor mortis and hadn’t suffered too much discoloration yet—although that’s the most imprecise measurement to determine time of death.”

  “I see. And as there were no beetles or spiders . . .”

  “She was killed some time yesterday. And since we have a witness who says the path was clear last night around eleven o’clock, I’d say she was killed, stashed somewhere, and then dumped later. It gives us a window of time. We have our list of suspects. Now we have a new question to ask—where were they yesterday afternoon? I hope you have more calling cards, Your Grace. We’re going to need them.”

  40

  Unlike yesterday, Morland wasn’t smiling when he came into the drawing room. His expression was shuttered, his eyes wary. “Good afternoon, Your Grac
e. Miss Donovan. Is this a social call, or another inquisition?”

  Kendra suspected there’d be no offer of tea this time, either. “There’s been another murder,” she told him bluntly.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Another light-skirt in the lake?”

  “No. This woman was found in the forest, along a public path. She wasn’t murdered there, but was dumped sometime after eleven last night and before seven this morning.”

  “How the devil can you deduce that?”

  Kendra ignored the question. “Where were you during those hours, my Lord?”

  Morland’s mouth tightened. He was over the shock of being questioned, but not the insult. “I was in bed. Alone.”

  “What about during the day?”

  “I seem to remember that you came to call,” he said dryly.

  “We arrived after two. Tell us where you were before that—and after we left.”

  Morland looked at the Duke. “Really, sir, must we go through this again?”

  “I apologize, but it is necessary.”

  “Very well.” Morland gave a put-upon sigh. “I spent most of the morning in my study, attending to correspondence that I’d been putting off. After my noon meal, I went riding. I viewed several of my tenant properties. I certainly was not out murdering a bawd, Miss Donovan.”

  Kendra decided to overlook the sarcasm. “Did you meet anyone? Or see anyone?”

  “No one. I returned home, then you arrived. After you departed, I . . .” Here, he fumbled slightly. “I spent some time calming my mother. I spent the rest of the afternoon in my study, with my land steward. As you know, I attended the countess’ ball last evening.”

  “I am aware.” The Duke nodded.

  “Did you know an April Duprey?” She watched him carefully. If he knew the name, she couldn’t tell by his expression, which remained coldly hostile.

  “No. Who is she?”

  “Someone who misjudged a situation.”

  “That is a rather enigmatic answer, Miss Donovan.”

  “It’s all I can give you right now. Can you give us a list of the tenants you visited yesterday during your ride?”

  “I told you that I saw no one.”

  “Yes. But someone could’ve seen you.”

  He hesitated, then sighed, crossing the room to a table. It took a moment of dipping quill in ink, scribbling the names down, and sanding the paper. He handed the list to the Duke, but looked at Kendra when he spoke. His eyes were hard.

  “I would not want my tenants harassed, Miss Donovan.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Dalton’s home, Halstead Hall, was pure British Georgian: weathered red brick, white trim cornice, and sash windows, boxes, and lintels were an advertisement for stately elegance mired in tradition. The lawn, trees, and courtyard were ruthlessly neat and utterly symmetrical. Kendra wondered what that said about Dalton, if it said anything at all. He’d inherited the estate, so the order and control reflected in the mansion and its grounds may have more to do with past occupants than the present one.

  As the carriage crunched to a halt, the white-paneled front door swung open, revealing the butler and a footman. For an era that had no satellite technology or surveillance cameras, no cell phone cameras to record a person’s every move, Kendra was impressed at how little seemed to get past the servants’ eyes.

  Servants were vital strands woven into the fabric of this time. The grand manor houses and their corresponding grounds would cease to function without the chambermaids who emptied the chamber pots, the scullery maids who scrubbed the dishes and oiled the stoves, the footmen who carried in the kindling for the fireplaces and lit the candles, the gardeners who tended the grounds. In the English textile factories, the Industrial Revolution was just beginning, but it would be another hundred years before this particular workforce would find itself diminished and made obsolete by machines. Despite how heavily the upper class relied on the lower classes, Kendra knew it was the lowly worker who worried most about losing their job. She wondered if someone had observed the murderer, either leaving or returning. And if they had, would they risk their livelihood by talking?

  They went through the calling card ritual. The footman returned with official word that Dalton was “at home.”

  He was waiting for them in a drawing room, looking like he’d just stepped inside himself. His dark, ash-blond hair was windblown, his cravat slightly mussed. The brown tweed jacket, darker brown breeches, and well-worn Hessian boots gave him the look of a proper English country gentleman. Faint circles shadowed his eyes, though, and Dalton flicked Kendra a guarded look, obviously still remembering their last encounter.

  “Your Grace, Miss Donovan, I was out in the stables when I got word of your arrival. Checking the foal.” He summoned a smile. “Would you like refreshments?”

  “No, thank you,” the Duke declined. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “This is about the girl in the lake?”

  “No. I’m afraid another woman has been found on my lands. Murdered.”

  “My God. I shall gather my tools for the postmortem—”

  “No, that will not be necessary this time. I’ve sent for a London surgeon.”

  “I see.” Something flickered in his gaze, but was gone so quickly that Kendra could only wonder at the emotion. “I appreciate you coming here to deliver the news yourself, sir.”

  Aldridge kept his eyes on the younger man. “Pray do not take offense, Mr. Dalton, but we must ask you a few questions.”

  Dalton nodded slowly. “I see,” he said again. “Please, won’t you be seated?” Once they had settled on the sofa, he said, “Miss Donovan has already quizzed me as to my whereabouts last Sunday. I suppose this visit will be in the same vein?”

  “It would help if you have an alibi for yesterday,” she admitted.

  He said nothing for a long moment. “I cannot help but dislike the implication that I could have committed these crimes.”

  “We’re not accusing you,” she emphasized. “This is standard procedure.”

  His brow puckered in confusion. There was nothing standard about having a paid companion accompany a duke to question him about a murder, after all. But he spoke. “Very well. I spent yesterday morning in the stables, with the foal. My head groom and several stable hands can vouch for me. In the afternoon, my housekeeper packed a basket of food and I went fishing along the river, where I spent the remainder of the day.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. ’Tis one of the many benefits of living in the country, Miss Donovan.”

  “Did you catch anything?”

  “No.”

  “I thought the point of fishing was to catch something to eat.”

  He gave her a cool look. “Not necessarily. Fishing relaxes me.”

  “And nobody saw you?”

  “Not that I am aware.”

  “What about last night, after, say, eleven?”

  “I retired for the evening at that time.”

  “Alone?”

  He flushed. “Of course.”

  “Do you know a woman by the name of April Duprey?”

  He frowned. “I do not recall the name.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite certain.”

  “Can you tell me what happened to your wife, Mr. Dalton?”

  He gaped at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know you were married before you came here. Now you are not. What happened to your wife?”

  “My wife is dead, Miss Donovan.” Dalton surged to his feet. Kendra thought she saw his hands tremble before he clenched them. “Sir, this is beyond the pale,” he appealed to the Duke. “My wife is an unhappy memory, one best left in the past.”

  “I sympathize, my dear boy. However, given the unusual circumstance we’re dealing with here . . .” Aldridge lifted his hands, then left them fall. “I’m afraid you must forgive our impudence.”

  Kendra suspected that Dalton would’ve loved to toss them
both out on their asses, and the only thing preventing him was the Duke’s social status. He stood silent for a long moment.

  “I do not know how Marianne died,” he said finally.

  Kendra lifted her brows. “What do you mean, you don’t know? How could you not know?”

  He tossed her an angry look, then shifted his gaze to the Duke. “How much do you know of my family history, sir?”

  “I am aware that your grandmother was Lady Ellen—and her father was the Marquis of Grafton. She married Mr. Peter Morse, did she not? His family was involved in the river navigation around Manchester.”

  “Yes. My grandfather’s family worked with the Duke of Bridgewater to build the Bridgewater canal.”

  “A brilliant piece of engineering.” The Duke smiled. “My father invested in the canal mania that followed. It was a lucrative venture.”

  Dalton seemed to relax a little. “Quite. My mother received a sizeable settlement when she married my father, who was a doctor in Manchester. Marianne’s family lived in the house next door. She was eight years my junior. A pretty thing, but still a child when I left for university and later medical school in Glasgow.”

  “You followed in your father’s footsteps,” Aldridge commented.

  “Not quite. He wished me to become a doctor. I was more fascinated by the surgeon’s role. It caused . . . disagreements. I joined the military as a sawbones. When my father passed away, I returned home, and discovered that Marianne was no longer a child, but a beautiful woman.” He shrugged. “Quite frankly, I was bedazzled. She seemed to feel the same. We married a month later, before I was required to return to my post.”

  He fell into a brooding silence. When he finally spoke again, his voice was carefully modulated. “We married with the blessing of both our families, but it proved to be a mistake. We moved to Dover, and I returned to my post overseas.”

  “You were involved in the Peninsular War, were you not?”

  “You are well informed, sir. Yes. I was sent to Spain. It was a difficult time. So many men . . .” His voice trailed away. He shook his head and continued, “Naturally, because of the danger involved, I couldn’t bring Marianne with me. She disliked being left alone. She disliked being the wife of an army surgeon.