Betrayal in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Where is Dr. Munroe’s anatomy school located?” Rebecca asked. She gathered her heavy pelisse closer to her throat and scooted forward on the seat to peer out the window. Her cornflower-blue eyes filled with pity as the carriage passed two hollow-cheeked women standing in a doorway with babies clutched to their breasts.

  The Duke carefully placed the ribbon inside the book he’d been reading and set it aside. “Covent Garden. Dr. Munroe’s rider ought to have informed him of our impending arrival by now. I expect Mr. Kelly shall meet us there as well.” He hesitated, a frown pulling his brows together. “We shall most likely be going down into Dr. Munroe’s autopsy chamber.”

  Kendra looked at him curiously, wondering at his cautious manner.

  He cleared his throat, his gaze on Rebecca. “I must insist that while we go below stairs, you stay in the doctor’s office, my dear.”

  Rebecca’s head whipped around. “But, Your Grace!”

  He said firmly, “I must protect you from whatever gruesome sight might await us on Dr. Munroe’s table.”

  Rebecca turned in the seat to face her godfather fully. Her eyes had taken on a militant gleam. “If you recall, sir, I have seen such gruesome sights before, when your very own ice house was used as a makeshift autopsy chamber. I did not swoon then, and I will not do so now, if that is what you fear.”

  The Duke heaved a sigh, clearly not happy to be engaging in this particular argument. “That is not my fear, my dear,” he said gently. “I think you know very well that your father would never have given you permission to travel with us if he thought it would lead you into an autopsy chamber to view a cadaver. He would expect me to protect you from that.”

  “Sir, I implore you to reconsider. ’Tis most unfair to restrict me because of my sex.” She glanced at Kendra, and her jaw tightened. “I’m certain you will not be barring Miss Donovan from the room, will you?”

  “No, but Miss Donovan has a certain expertise that is needed,” the Duke said.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Rebecca threw up her hands in a testy gesture. “My sensibilities are not so delicate. Ladies are not restricted from viewing hangings, you know. Some ladies have even rented rooms across from Newgate and brought their opera glasses to view the hanging more closely!”

  “Where in blazes did you hear that?” demanded Alec, appalled.

  Rebecca gave a temperamental shrug. “I read it in the Morning Chronicle, if you must know. My point is that the rules that ladies are forced to adhere to are arbitrary. I may watch some poor wretch being choked by a hempen quinsy, but not view a body laid out for dissection?”

  Alec winced. “Becca, really.”

  Kendra had always thought Rebecca would have made a kick-ass lawyer if she’d been born in a different era. “She’s making a good point,” Kendra offered, and earned a grateful smile from Rebecca.

  “This is not your America, Miss Donovan,” the Duke said sharply, frowning at her.

  It was a rare reprimand, which made Kendra bite her lip. He meant 21st-century America, not the country of this time period.

  The Duke turned back to Rebecca. “Mr. Kelly said that the victim is a man. He will most likely be on the autopsy table . . . unclothed. Now do you understand why I cannot allow you to accompany us, my dear? I cannot put you in a position that may harm your reputation. Your father would never forgive me.”

  Kendra had to suppress laughter at the way the Duke lowered his voice to say unclothed, but then she saw Rebecca’s eyes widen and her mouth part slightly. Rebecca was an excellent artist, and had undoubtedly viewed sculptures and paintings depicting unclothed men, but she was also a sheltered, unmarried maid in the 19th century, and the idea of seeing a naked man—albeit a dead one—was obviously shocking to her.

  Rebecca closed her mouth and shot Kendra a quizzical look that Kendra had no trouble interpreting. She’d seen it countless times throughout her life. Who are you really? Why are you so different?

  Kendra dropped her own gaze to her gloved hands, her stomach churning suddenly. She didn’t blame Rebecca for her suspicion and resentment. Hell, she’d have felt the same. That pinch of guilt made her weigh the pros and cons of telling Rebecca her secret. She’d need to think about it carefully, though. Impetuous decisions aren’t my strong suit.

  She was relieved when the carriage began to slow, finally jerking to a stop. Coachman Benjamin jumped off his perch and came around to open the door, oblivious to the awkward silence within the cab as he unfolded the steps.

  As she descended onto the pavement, Kendra’s gaze traveled to the nondescript, three-story brick building that housed Dr. Munroe’s anatomy school. The doctor deliberately kept a low profile. A wise choice, in Kendra’s opinion, given the superstitious public’s tendency to view his profession somewhere between that of a witchdoctor and an occultist.

  They climbed the steps in silence. The door opened easily, and Kendra was assailed with memories from the last time she’d walked through this darkly paneled foyer lit by wall sconces. Straight ahead was a set of closed double doors, but Kendra knew that beyond them was an auditorium with old-fashioned wooden seats raised above the floor, so students could observe Dr. Munroe’s lessons on anatomy and watch him conduct autopsies.

  The corridor branched to the left and right. They went right. Kendra caught the murmur of voices through the half-open door before the Duke rapped his knuckles against the panel, and then nudged it open.

  “Your Grace!” Dr. Munroe had been sitting behind his desk, holding a glass of whiskey. But upon their entrance, he hastily set the whiskey aside, and thrust himself to his feet. “Lord Sutcliffe, ladies—good afternoon. The messenger returned with word to expect you around four. Thank you for being so prompt.”

  Aldridge said, “We were fortunate; the roads were in excellent condition, despite the snow. One never knows what hazards one will encounter. ’Tis good to see you again, Dr. Munroe.”

  “Likewise, sir,” Munroe said, and gave an abbreviated bow.

  The Duke was already pivoting to the fireplug of a man in the room, who’d also put down his whiskey and risen to greet them. “And you, Mr. Kelly,” the Duke said. “You are well since we last met?”

  “Aye, sir, quite well, thank you, Your Grace.” Sam grinned, shifted his attention to Alec, and gave the marquis a nod of acknowledgement. His golden gaze traveled to Rebecca. “Milady, I confess that I didn’t expect ter see you here.”

  “My parents and I have been staying at Aldridge Castle since Christmastide, so I was in residence when you sent word.”

  “Ah, I see.” If he was concerned about Rebecca descending with them into the bowels of the building, he didn’t let on. Instead, he turned toward Kendra, and his grin widened. “Miss Donovan, you appear well. Recovered from your adventure in Yorkshire?”

  Kendra returned his smile. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Kelly. You look well too.” He actually looked like an elf, with curly, reddish-brown hair and gray sideburns. His gold eyes could dance with good humor, like they were now, but Kendra had also seen them go as flat and hard as any cop she’d met on the job in the 21st century.

  Munroe said, “Please, would everyone like a drink? I have Madeira and brandy, as well as whiskey. Or tea? I can call Mr. Barts to brew a cup for the ladies.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” Kendra said, tugging off her gloves.

  “Please be seated,” Munroe said, and pulled out his chair for the Duke.

  Sam waited for Rebecca and Kendra to settle into the remaining chairs in the room before he cleared his throat. “Well . . . this mornin’, a watchman was chasing a thief.” He paused. “Actually, the thief was Snake.”

  “Snake,” Kendra and Rebecca said in unison.

  Sam nodded. “The watchman chased him into a church. It was abandoned, and empty, save the dead man on the floor.”

  “Good heavens,” Rebecca murmured, shaking her head in amazement. “That must have been traumatizing for him. How is he?”

  “
I don’t know,” Sam admitted with a shake of his head. “I didn’t see him. He slipped away from the watchman—Edward Price—when he was gettin’ help. Price says he didn’t see nothin’, just the dead man.” He hesitated. “Sir Giles Holbrooke.”

  “Sir Giles?” Alec said, startled.

  “Good God,” the Duke added. “You mentioned in your letter that he was a man of consequence . . . Sir Giles is—was—one of the Prince Regent’s advisors.”

  “Aye.” Sam looked at the Duke. “You knew him?”

  Aldridge shook his head. “Only by reputation. How did he die?”

  “He was strangled—garroted, actually,” Munroe answered. “It might be best if we continue this discussion in the autopsy chamber. I have something to show you.”

  “Certainly,” the Duke said, and pushed himself to his feet. “Lady Rebecca shall wait for us here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Munroe nodded, his gaze moving to Rebecca. “Shall I pour you a glass of wine, or have Mr. Barts make you a cup of tea while you wait?”

  For a moment, Rebecca’s eyes flashed with resentment, and her mouth took on a mulish pout. Kendra wondered if she was going to rebel and insist on accompanying them to the autopsy chamber. But then her shoulders sank a notch as the tension went out of them. “A glass of wine would be lovely,” she said softly. “Thank you, Dr. Munroe.”

  When Munroe went to the counter that held several bottles and tumblers, Kendra followed. “Do you mind if I borrow this, Doctor?” she asked, hefting up a bottle of whiskey.

  “Do you want a glass, Miss Donovan?” he inquired, puzzled. He finished pouring burgundy wine into a glass and brought it to Rebecca.

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  Before Munroe could inquire further, Alec cleared his throat in such a way that commanded their attention. He said, “I was acquainted with Sir Giles. For two years during the war, I worked as an intelligence agent on the Continent.”

  The Bow Street Runner’s eyebrows shot up. “You were a spy, milord? But you are His Grace’s heir. What were you doing in service?”

  As a firstborn son, Alec was in line to inherit. Only second-born sons in the aristocracy were allowed to risk their lives and shed their blood in war.

  “’Tis what I had wanted to know at the time, Mr. Kelly,” the Duke agreed.

  Alec ignored his uncle, keeping his eyes on Sam. “My mother’s family lives in Venice. Sir Giles approached me because he thought my connections in Italy could be useful. I am fluent in the language and can blend in easily enough.”

  Aldridge looked at his nephew. “I did not realize that Sir Giles was the man who recruited you. Or that you worked for him.”

  “I shall state for the record that I did not murder Sir Giles.” Alec’s mouth curved into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Having once been accused of murder was still a sore spot for him, Kendra knew.

  “No one will accuse you of this atrocity, my boy,” said Aldridge.

  Alec shook his head. “Forgive me, sir. It was a joke—a poor one.”

  Sam rubbed the side of his nose as he considered the latest information. “Obviously I’m aware of Sir Giles’s current position in government, and his importance in the War Department. But I didn’t realize he was actually a spymaster.” He hesitated, his gaze on Alec. “It would be helpful, milord, if you shared any information that you know about him.”

  “I’m not certain I have anything relevant to tell you,” he admitted with a frown. “I didn’t maintain my connection to Sir Giles after I returned home. In truth, the association to the man was tenuous even when I was in the field gathering intelligence for him. I dealt primarily with another man, who acted as a courier. I have maintained an acquaintance with him, and know he continues to work in government. I shall send him a note and request a meeting.”

  “Aye. That would be helpful. Thank you, milord.”

  Kendra said, “Sooner would be better than later.”

  Alec smiled at her. “I shall send the note tonight.”

  “Do you think Sir Giles’s murder has anything to do with his work as a spymaster?” asked the Duke, looking troubled.

  Kendra noticed the glance that the Bow Street Runner exchanged with Munroe.

  “I think it may be possible,” Sam said slowly.

  Munroe moved to the door. “Let us go downstairs. There is something you need to see.”

  6

  Kendra remembered Dr. Munroe’s subterranean autopsy chamber very well. In contrast to the sterile M.E. rooms of the 21st century, this was the stuff of nightmares. Workbenches, cupboards, and shelves held an assortment of large glass jars that had God-knows-what floating inside the murky greenish liquid. Ancient microscopes were lined up next to scalpels, saws, and pruning shears, the last of which were used to snap off a cadaver’s ribs. Two wooden buckets filled with bloody water had been set next to dirty sponges. The sight reminded Kendra of the whiskey that she held. She crossed the room, and carefully set the bottle down on one of the cupboards.

  She turned, letting her gaze drift across the three tables, finally settling on the one that was occupied. Amusement flickered through her when she saw that someone—most likely Dr. Munroe—had apparently considered her feminine sensibilities and draped a linen blanket across the victim’s pelvis. Rebecca could have come down, after all.

  “Do you have an idea of the time of death?” she asked as she removed her bonnet and pelisse. Even though it made her shudder, she put them down on the counter. To the naked eye, it appeared clean. She didn’t want to think about what was happening on a microscopic level.

  Munroe said, “The body was in full rigor mortis when Mr. Kelly and I arrived at the church. I would say Sir Giles was dead at least eight hours before. But in my experience, external temperatures can skew the results. The church was quite cold when we found the body this morning. Still, I don’t think Sir Giles was there long.”

  The Duke’s eyes were curious as he regarded the doctor. “Why do you say that, Dr. Munroe?”

  “I have only conducted a visual examination of the body at this point, but if you look closely at the earlobes, fingers, and toes, you will see that the flesh has been torn. Wild animals, I believe, caused the lacerations. Most likely rats. God knows London is besieged by the vermin.”

  “Do you have a magnifying glass?” Kendra didn’t really need the instrument to see the shredded flesh, but there were other things she wanted to examine more closely. “And paper and pencil?”

  “Certainly. Mr. Barts?” Munroe shot his apprentice a look that sent the other man scurrying to the cupboards. He turned back to the cadaver and pointed. “If you note, very little damage was done, which leads to my supposition that Sir Giles was not in the church for long.”

  Sam nodded. “Aye. He’d have been nibbled clean ter the bone if he’d been there longer than a couple of hours, I’d say.”

  “Dear God,” murmured Aldridge.

  Kendra silently agreed with the Bow Street Runner. Forensics in this era was primitive at best, but she was always surprised by the deductive reasoning of her 19th-century counterparts. It was her own bias, she knew. Every generation felt intellectually superior to the previous one, as technology and general knowledge of the world advanced. But human nature seemed pretty set.

  She asked, “Was he killed in the church?”

  “Nay.” Sam shook his head, his tone certain. “He wasn’t killed there. There wasn’t any blood.”

  “There wouldn’t necessarily be a lot of blood,” Kendra murmured, bringing up the magnifying glass to study the red ligature mark around the victim’s throat. It was about half an inch wide. The indentation wasn’t deep; it hadn’t even cut the skin. “If he’d been garroted with something thin, like a wire, there would have been more blood.” Hell, she’d seen victims nearly decapitated with a simple wire. “This injury looks like it was made from a rope.”

  Munroe appeared pleased by her conclusion, like she was one of his star
pupils. “Exactly right, Miss Donovan. It was a rope. Hemp, to be precise. I extracted fibers embedded in the wound.”

  Kendra brought the magnifying glass down to study the victim’s hands.

  The doctor realized what she was looking for, and said, “’Tis difficult to tell because of the animal activity, but I believe his fingers were also abraded by the rope.”

  Kendra nodded, and returned to study the throat. “The victim’s fingers may have been compromised, but see there? Those scratches?” She twitched the magnifying glass upward to show the ugly marks, for the Duke’s and Alec’s benefits. “He tried to claw at the rope when his windpipe was being crushed. A primordial reaction to being strangled.”

  No one said anything; it was obvious they were imagining the horror of Sir Giles’s last moments on earth.

  “The laceration from the rope is about two inches below the jawline,” she noted, inspecting the wound. “The killer came at our victim from behind. They were both standing.”

  The Duke stepped closer to examine the wound himself, intrigued. “How do you surmise that?”

  “Well, they both could’ve been sitting,” Kendra qualified. “But that’s an awkward position. Why would our vic sit in a seat in front of the killer? Where would that happen? The only place I can think of would be an auditorium, but they’d presumably have other people around them. No.” She shook her head “The simplest explanation makes the most sense. The killer would have better leverage standing. And if he stood behind the victim while he was sitting, the ligature mark would have been positioned differently, higher up and at an angle, snug under the victim’s chin. See how it’s lower on the throat and straight across? That indicates they had to be roughly the same height.”