A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “I’m fine. Just bruised . . .” She tried to sit up, and pain sizzled down her side. Oh, yeah, and stabbed.

  “’Ere now, let me ’elp ye.” Molly plumped up the pillows and gently placed them behind her so she was at least half-sitting. “Oi’m ter let ’is Grace know as soon as ye woke up.”

  She hurried out of the room. Ten minutes later, the door opened again, but it was Dr. Munroe who came in. He set his black bag on the bed, studying her gravely through his Harry Potter glasses. “Well, Miss Donovan. It’s been a while since I’ve had a subject who was still breathing. You were fortunate. The knife missed vital organs. You shall have a scar.” The dark eyes turned speculative. “Of course, it shan’t trouble you any more than your others.”

  Kendra knew he was waiting for some sort of explanation. Since she couldn’t give him one, she said nothing.

  “You are an enigma, Miss Donovan.”

  “I guess I have you to thank that I’m an alive enigma.”

  He smiled. “Yes, well, let’s make certain you stay that way. I need to inspect your wounds. We wouldn’t want infection to set in.”

  Kendra shuddered. Even in the twenty-first century, infection was the predominant worry in hospitals. So-called superbugs could be more deadly than the illness that brought the person into the hospital. She didn’t want to consider what could happen if she got an infection here.

  Munroe might work as an M.E. but he knew how to deal with the living. He was both gentle and thorough in his examination.

  Afterward Kendra sank back against the pillows, exhausted. “So what’s the verdict, Doc?”

  “I do believe you shall live, Miss Donovan.”

  He was putting his instruments into his bag when the door flew open and Rebecca ran into the room in a swirl of lemon-colored skirts. Ignoring the doctor, she rushed over to grab Kendra’s hand, and like Molly, burst into tears.

  “You’re the second person who started crying after looking at my face. I’m going to get a complex.”

  “Pardon me!” Rebecca blotted her tears with a lacy handkerchief.

  “Miss Donovan shall recover, your Ladyship.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Dr. Munroe. It is only . . . dear heaven, Miss Donovan. You look simply awful!”

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  “Oh. You know what I mean.”

  “Never fear, Lady Rebecca,” Munroe assured her. “The inflammation ought to subside in a few days. The bruising will take longer, though I shall have a poultice brought up to help with both matters. It should be applied three times a day.” He gave Kendra a long look. “I shall return later, Miss Donovan. Do not exert yourself.”

  Rebecca sat on the bed. “Can I get you anything, Miss Donovan?”

  “A glass of water?”

  She popped off the bed, and hurried over to the table that held a glass and carafe. A moment later, she returned, handing Kendra the glass. “I simply cannot believe what has transpired,” she admitted. “Mr. Morland was the monster . . . and Thomas. And poor Gabriel . . .”

  “Gabriel?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes slid away. “I am uncertain—”

  “Tell me what happened to Gabriel.”

  Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears again. “He was a member of that horrid club Mr. Morland founded. A vile, blasphemous club in the cave where you were held, where he—Morland—brought the other girls.” She shivered. “Gabriel had no notion—none of the men involved had any notion what Morland was about, you understand. ’Twas similar to Sir Francis Dashwood’s secret society. Are you familiar with the Hell Fire Club? As an American—”

  “I know of it. Benjamin Franklin was rumored to be a member.”

  Dashwood had created the Hell Fire Club to mock the Catholic Church, Kendra recalled. He’d even purchased a medieval abbey for the club’s activities, but when that had become too well known, he’d moved his group to his West Wycombe estate, where he had utilized its network of caves. There, the club members were reputed to have been involved in all sorts of drunken debauchery with prostitutes. The debauchery supposedly extended beyond sex into Satanism.

  “I’d forgotten,” Rebecca murmured. “It caused quite a scandal at the time, and several gentlemen—including the baron—were ostracized from society. Morland thought to re-create this abomination, and lured bored young bucks to participate.”

  “Gabriel.”

  “Yes. Gabriel.” Rebecca let out a sigh. “He was troubled. More than anyone suspected.”

  “Ripe for the picking.”

  “I do not understand the whole of it. He . . . apparently, he had difficulty remembering events, details—”

  “Blackouts caused by his alcoholism.”

  “Yes, his drinking was to blame. He wasn’t entirely certain if he’d murdered the first soiled dove.” She frowned. “I do not understand what exactly made him realize that he had not murdered her, but he did realize it. When you went missing, he knew where the caves were and went to find Thomas.” Rebecca shuddered suddenly. “Thomas and Mr. Morland—they were partners in this madness.”

  Yes and no, Kendra thought. Partners implied equality. She remembered how Morland had brutally slit Thomas’s throat.

  “Thomas was a puppet.” She dropped her eyes to the glass of water she held. “My profile never included two men. I should have factored that in.”

  “Would it have mattered so very much if you had considered it? Would we have uncovered these madmen any quicker?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Partner or puppet, Thomas was as much a monster as Mr. Morland.” Rebecca gave another shudder. “Sutcliffe said that they found hair from the victims in his possession, and paintings of the young girls. Terrible paintings. Evil. The Duke ordered them burned.”

  Kendra considered that. The Duke could destroy the paintings, but she knew it wouldn’t be the end of such evil. In another hundred years, in 1920s Germany, there’d be an artistic movement called Lustmord—sexual murder. Artists would be celebrated for painting female sexual mutilations and death. Thomas had simply been ahead of his time.

  It was a depressing thought. “Gabriel was in the cave?” she asked, to move away from it.

  “Yes. Morland wounded him. They brought h-him back to the castle.” Rebecca looked down at her hands. “He . . . could not be saved.”

  Kendra was silent, remembering how Morland had left her. The interruption had given her enough time to pick the lock on the handcuffs.

  “I think Gabriel saved my life,” she whispered.

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  “I believe Gabriel wanted redemption, Miss Donovan. Mayhap he got it.” She cleared her throat. “Captain Harcourt was also a member of Morland’s club. He and Gabriel went there the first night of the house party. He didn’t want it known, as he’s hunting for an heiress.”

  They fell silent again. A soft knock interrupted their reverie. Rebecca went to open it, letting in Aldridge, Alec, and Sam. A young maid followed. She brought a cloth sack over to Kendra.

  “The doctor said ye were ter put this on yer face, miss.”

  Kendra eyed the sack. “What is it?”

  “’Tis a poultice, miss.”

  Rebecca reached for it and gave it an experimental sniff. “It smells like castor oil and slippery elm. Excellent for inflammation and bruises.”

  Gingerly, Kendra pressed it against her face, but couldn’t help thinking a bag of frozen peas would’ve worked better. But what the hell—when in Rome . . . or the nineteenth century.

  The maid curtseyed and left the room.

  Aldridge came over to the bed. “I apologize for invading your privacy, Miss Donovan, but I”—he glanced at Alec and Sam—“we were anxious to see you. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m still breathing.” She hesitated, then looked at Alec. “I’m sorry about Gabriel.”

  Pain flickered in his gaze. “Gabriel and I were estranged for years. Perhaps if I had reached out to him before, tried to understand
what demons were driving him—”

  “You cannot blame yourself, my boy,” Aldridge cut in. “In fact, I bear an even greater responsibility. I should have done something, used my authority with Lady Emily.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, weighed down by guilt and sorrow. Everyone was reviewing their choices, Kendra knew. Life’s odd twists and turns. Wondering if they could’ve done some differently to change the outcome.

  Would’ve. Could’ve. Should’ve.

  Sam cleared his throat. “I won’t be staying long, lass. I . . . I just wanted ter see how you’re doin’. And ter say that you’ve got pluck ter the backbone. Female or not, you’d make a damn fine Bow Street Runner.”

  Kendra stared at him in surprise. “Why, thank you, Mr. Kelly.”

  “And I thought you’d want ter know that me man got back from the north. Mr. Dalton’s wife looked nothin’ like the other lasses. He also discovered a bit of gossip. Mr. Dalton’s wife died giving birth ter her lover’s child in Geneva.”

  Rebecca put a hand to her throat. “Oh, how dreadful. ’Tis little wonder that Mr. Dalton did not want to discuss what had happened to her.”

  Sam nodded. “I’ll be taking Thomas’s body back ter London for Dr. Munroe’s anatomy school. He never can find enough specimens.”

  “’Tis that ridiculous law,” the Duke muttered angrily. “To restrict surgeons to only criminals who have swung in the gallows is the height of stupidity. How else can they expect to refine their skills if they aren’t given a broader selection?”

  “Well, it won’t be a problem with Thomas since he’d have hung at Newgate,” Sam remarked cheerfully.

  “I daresay Thomas will serve a better purpose for Dr. Munroe in death than he ever did in his miserable life,” Rebecca added. When the men gaped at her, she lifted her brows haughtily. “What? I am not to offer my honest opinion?”

  Kendra suppressed a smile. She wasn’t the only female in the room that had pluck.

  “What about Morland?” she asked. Something inside her tightened when she saw the men exchange glances.

  Aldridge was the one who answered. “He will be buried in his family crypt at Tinley Park.”

  Kendra fixed her good eye on him. And knew. “No one will know the truth, will they? He’ll be buried without anyone knowing that he was responsible for the death of those women. The death of Rose.”

  “’Tis for the best.”

  “Whose best?” she wondered aloud, bitterly.

  Aldridge spread his hands. “My dear . . . there are innocent people to consider. Lady Anne may not be in her right mind, but she does not deserve to live out the remainder of her days under a cloud of suspicion.”

  Kendra thought of Lady Anne. Had she ever been innocent? Morland had been born out of an incestuous relationship between Lady Anne and her father. Morland had implied that she’d been a willing participant and even continued the incest with the son, an abuse that had helped shape the monster that he’d become.

  Yet could she believe anything that came out of the mouth of a psychopath? And even if Lady Anne wasn’t innocent then, her mind was undoubtedly shattered now.

  The Duke continued, “And the servants at Tinley Park do not deserve to have their characters spoiled by the scandal. Right or wrong, they would have a difficult time finding other employment if it became known that they had served such a villain.”

  Kendra wondered about that as well. Were they really ignorant of what had been going on at Tinley Park? Or had they turned a blind eye?

  Aldridge’s blue eyes were grave as he regarded her. “It has to be enough for us to know that the madness ends with Morland’s death.”

  There was an irony here, Kendra reflected. The cover-up involving Sir Jeremy had brought her to England, to Aldridge Castle on that specific night, at that particular moment in time. That had been the beginning of her journey. Was it chance? Or fate?

  Gabriel had chosen the correct moment to come into the cave; the interruption had saved her life and cost him his. And Molly had unwittingly saved her life by insisting on pinning up her hair that morning. Without those hairpins, she’d never have been able to free herself.

  Little twists and turns, she thought again.

  Kendra became aware that everyone was waiting for her to say something. “I suppose there’s no point in forcing the issue,” she said slowly. “Morland’s dead. That’s what matters.”

  Aldridge’s smile was tinged with relief. “Thank you, my dear. Now, we shall leave. You must rest.”

  “A moment, Duke,” Alec said. “I need to speak with Miss Donovan.”

  Sam was already out the door, but Rebecca and Aldridge hesitated, their gazes speculative. Kendra could feel her cheeks heat, but doubted anyone would notice with the bruising.

  “Do not tire the girl, Alec,” the Duke admonished lightly, before taking Rebecca’s arm. “Come, my dear.”

  Kendra put the poultice down and looked at Alec.

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed. “Are you certain you are all right?”

  “Sure. Let’s go dancing.”

  He shook his head. “I think I died a thousand times when I saw you in that room.”

  She didn’t know what to say. The last time they’d been alone, she’d told him that she was a time traveler. She wasn’t sure if that had worked out for her.

  Alec let out a sigh, and looked away. After a moment, he brought a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I received this letter today. ’Tis a reply to the note I’d dispatched to Mr. John Murray. He is a bookseller in London. Specifically, he is the publisher of Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Oh.” She knew where this was going now.

  “He asks me how you came into possession of the identity of the authoress, as he’d taken great pains to keep Miss Austen’s identity a secret. An even greater concern to him is how you could possibly be privy to Miss Austen’s upcoming work. While Miss Austen has yet to complete the book, they’ve discussed titles. Emma is one they have considered. He has no knowledge of the other book you mentioned, Persuasion.”

  Little twists and turns.

  “You are either a soothsayer, Miss Donovan, or you are indeed, as incredible as it sounds, from the future.”

  Kendra held her breath.

  “I have never set great store in soothsaying,” Alec said at last.

  “How do you feel about time travel?”

  “The same. But there is this.” He lifted the letter in his hand. “And you. I am inclined to believe you. Although I do not understand it.”

  Kendra let out her breath. “That makes two of us.”

  “The Duke may give us some insight.”

  “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

  Alec eyed her carefully. “You cannot simply sail off to America.”

  “I’m stranded until the wormhole or vortex opens up again.” If it opens up again. She refused to contemplate that. Not yet.

  “First you must heal, Miss Donovan. You need to regain your strength.” He touched the back of her hand. “You may be stranded, Kendra, but you are not alone. You are among friends.”

  Kendra said nothing. After he left, she sank back against the pillows and wondered how that statement could be both sweet, and still so terrifying.

  72

  Alec left to accompany Gabriel’s body back to his family estate. He’d be gone a week. Kendra didn’t like the odd pang that gave her. It made her realize how much she’d miss him—miss everyone, really, if she accomplished her goal and returned to the twenty-first century.

  The emotions churning inside her left her confused. Morland’s burial only added to her disquiet. She was still bitter over the cover-up, but the fact that no one attended his funeral except for the Duke and the vicar and his wife made her wonder. Morland’s horrors may have been hidden, but whispers had a way of spreading.

  Slowly she healed. The swelling subsided. The black and blue bruises would take longer to disappear. The scars—visible or not—would
never disappear.

  Despite her injuries, Kendra insisted on attending Rose’s funeral. In contrast to Morland’s lonely burial, the amount of people who showed up for the slain servant was staggering.

  No one seemed to blame her for Rose’s death, but Kendra couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t drawn Morland’s attention, maybe she’d be alive.

  Could’ve. Should’ve. Would’ve.

  After the funeral, Rebecca suggested a walk in the garden. Kendra knew there was a purpose, but she kept silent, content to meander in the sunshine until Rebecca stopped and gave her a direct look.

  “My parents will be returning from the Barbados next week. I shall be returning home.”

  Kendra held her breath. Technically, she was Rebecca’s paid companion. If this were the normal course of events, she’d be going with her to her family estates. But this wasn’t the normal course of events, and she knew she couldn’t leave the castle. If she had any chance of returning to her time line, it would be here, in the stairwell that had brought her to the nineteenth century.

  “You will not be accompanying me, will you, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra stared at her. “There are circumstances . . .”

  “Is it Alec? Pray tell, do you have hopes in that direction? I have seen the way you look at each other.”

  Kendra didn’t want to think about how she or Alec might look at each other. That was a complication neither one of them could afford. “No. I can’t explain, but it has nothing to do with Alec.”

  Rebecca was silent for a long moment, then nodded. “I would not want you hurt, Miss Donovan. Alec is a marquis, and the Duke’s heir. There are expectations, you understand? He must think of his lineage when he looks for a wife.”

  Kendra shifted uncomfortably at the sympathy she read in the other woman’s cornflower blue eyes. This was a polite reminder, she supposed, that she was—how did they put it in this era?—beneath Alec’s touch.

  “I’m not in the market for a husband, so you don’t have to worry. Really, my decision to stay has nothing to do with Lord Sutcliffe.”

  Another long look. Then Rebecca nodded again and sighed. “You know, I shall miss having you as my companion.”