Kendra blinked, then studied the girl more closely. “You must be Ruth.” She remembered what Sam had said about finding her behind an urn. “Are you hiding from your nanny?”
The brown eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“A little bird told me.”
Ruth looked puzzled. “That would be quite impossible. Birds do not have vocal chords. They have a syrinx. Do you know that is located down in the birds’ throat, near their lungs?”
Kendra exchanged a surprised glance with Rebecca, who’d joined her.
Rebecca pointed out, “Parrots can talk.”
“Some birds can mimic speech,” Ruth allowed. “They do it by expelling air in the syrinx. Lady Watley has a parrot. Whenever Mama and I visit, it screams, ‘Blast you, you cocky wench!’”
“Good heavens,” Rebecca said, startled. “Lady Watley has this bird, you say?”
“Yes.” Ruth abandoned her camouflage, dropping to her knees and crawling out of the shrubbery. “Lady Watley’s nephew brought the parrot back from his travels,” she said as she leaned over and began swatting the snow and dried leaves off her skirt and coat with her mitten-covered hands. “Parrots are supposed to be terribly clever, you know.”
“The cleverest of all birds,” Kendra said, eyeing the strange little girl. She wasn’t a pretty child. Her face, framed by wispy blonde curls and a floppy wool beret, was too thin. In contrast, her brown eyes appeared disproportionately enormous. Kendra asked, “Do you like studying birds?”
“I have no interest in ornithology, but I’ve read several books on the subject. I am now reading Sir Newton’s Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica. It is ever so much more interesting than birds. Have you read it?”
“It’s on my reading list,” Kendra murmured.
A shadow passed over the little girl’s face. “I don’t know if I shall be able to finish it now. Mama doesn’t approve of too much reading for girls.” She puffed out her chest and quoted in a perfect mimicry of her mother, “‘A dusty book has never gotten a young lady a husband.’ Mama is not keen on mathematics either.” That was said with a wistful sigh. “She says it’s a dull subject that no one wishes to discuss. She says I would do better to concentrate on my embroidery and watercolors. The thing is, I don’t have much interest in embroidery. Although I do enjoy painting.”
Rebecca’s lips twitched. “I enjoy painting as well. And there have been brilliant women mathematicians who have married, so their husbands must have been interested in the subject. Émilie du Châtelet, and Elena Cornaro Piscopia.”
Ruth nodded, hoisting herself onto the porch steps in an agile move to stand next to them. “Yes, I know. Hypatia of Alexandria as well. But she was killed by a mob of Christians.”
“Oh.” Rebecca didn’t seem to know what to do with that information. “Well, that is absolutely dreadful.”
The little girl asked suddenly, “Who are you? You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
Rebecca smiled and did a playful curtsy. “I am Lady Rebecca, and this is Miss Donovan.”
Ruth frowned. “I should be the one curtsying. You are my elders, and higher up in society. Although I may be higher than you.” She turned her gaze on Kendra. “Are you an American?”
“Yes.”
Ruth nodded, apparently satisfied. Then, in the way children had, she abruptly returned to the earlier subject. “I enjoy mathematics, but I would much rather become an architect like Mr. John Nash and build grand homes and parks.” Her small face lit up, but then dimmed just as quickly. “But Mr. Nash is a Whig, and Papa would not approve.” She dropped her eyes. “But Papa is dead now.”
Rebecca let out a sigh, her eyes softening. “I’m so very sorry, my dear. You must be very sad about your papa.”
The child gave a slight nod, her mouth pulling down. “He wasn’t at home very much, but he let me read his books and never told Mama or Nanny.” She stared out into the street for a long moment, her small face pensive. Then she lifted her serious gaze to Kendra and Rebecca. “He didn’t just die, you know. He was killed. Mama said that it was probably an enemy of Papa’s. He was a very important man who worked in government.”
“Yes, I know.” Kendra squatted down so she was eye level with the little girl. “I’m trying to find out who might have wanted to hurt him.”
Ruth cocked her head like an inquisitive bird, and Kendra found herself being thoroughly studied. “Why? What business is it of yours?”
“I think that when someone is injured, it’s the business of everyone in society to find out who did it and why, and make sure that person never does it again. Don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” the child agreed slowly. “Mr. Kelly from Bow Street is investigating.”
Kendra smiled slightly. “You might say I’m assisting Mr. Kelly with the investigation.”
That seemed to intrigue the little girl. “You are an American, but you are still a lady. How can you find out who might have hurt my papa?”
“By asking questions. That’s how investigations are conducted. Even ladies can ask questions.” She regarded the child. “Maybe you can help me. Did you notice anything different about your father lately? Was he upset about anything in particular?”
Ruth’s small teeth chewed on her lower lip as she thought about it. “Well, Papa was very vexed with Gerard because Mama had to let Betty go.”
“Betty?” But Kendra knew.
“She was our downstairs maid. Marie has been crying something fierce because Betty is gone. Marie is our upstairs maid,” she said, obviously anticipating the next question.
Kendra thought of the maid with the red eyes who’d served them tea. Not crying over the death of the master of the house, after all, but her friend, who’d been let go because she was pregnant. “Ruth, do you remember what you were doing on Wednesday evening?”
“What time on Wednesday evening?”
Kendra smiled. “Let’s say from seven o’clock to midnight.”
“Oh, that is simple to remember. From six to half past seven Nanny made me practice the pianoforte.”
“I’ll bet your mother enjoyed listening to you play.”
“You would have lost your wager, Miss Donovan. Mama was in her bedchamber dressing to go to Lady Beaumont’s ball. Her bedchamber is too far from the library, where the pianoforte is. She could not have heard me play.”
“You’re right,” Kendra nodded, and asked, “When did your mother leave for Lady Beaumont’s ball?”
The small face scrunched up in concentration. “I think it was half past eight. Mama says that you do not want to be the first to arrive at a ball, but you do not want to be too late either. There are many rules in society, are there not?”
“I’ve thought the same thing,” Kendra admitted with complete honesty. She regarded the girl closely. “Did your brother escort your mother to the ball?”
Ruth wrinkled her nose. “Oh, no. Gerard says those affairs are full of starched shirts and young chits looking to get you leg-shackled. He doesn’t mean actual shackles, though, because I asked him. He means marriage.”
Kendra kept her voice casual when she asked, “Did he stay at home with you, listening to you play the pianoforte?”
“Gerard doesn’t care for the pianoforte. And he rarely stays home in the evening. Nanny and I were the only ones home on Wednesday evening. Oh, and the servants, of course. After I practiced, we had dinner. Afterward, Nanny allowed me to toast cheese in the fire. It was quite nice.”
Kendra stared at the strange little girl. Still a child, and yet oddly adult. “It sounds very nice.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Donovan, Lady Rebecca?”
The non sequitur startled Kendra. “No.”
Ruth nodded, and looked like she was about to say something more when the door swung open, and a stout, middle-aged woman in a black bombazine gown peeked around the wooden panel. “Ah! There you are, you naughty miss!” she said when her gaze landed on Ruth. “I’ve been
looking for you all over the house! ’Tis past time for your lessons.” Her gaze swung toward Kendra and Rebecca, her face full of apology. “Oh dear, I hope she hasn’t kept you out here all this time. Talking about Sir Newton or Mr. Nash’s latest extravaganza.” She clucked her tongue, wagging a finger at the little girl. “How many times have I told you that such subjects have little interest to gentle folks?”
Ruth looked up at her nanny. “Miss Donovan is a Bow Street Runner.”
“Ack,” the older woman rolled her eyes. “The imagination on you! Come along now.” She grasped Ruth’s elbow, pausing to give Kendra and Rebecca a quick nod. “Good day.”
Briefly, Ruth resisted her nanny’s hand, pivoting to look back at them. For the first time since they’d discovered her lurking in the bushes, her mouth curved in a small smile. It didn’t erase the somberness of her expression, but Kendra found herself oddly affected by the gesture. Then her nanny took a firmer hold of Ruth’s arm, pulling her young charge into the house and closing the door behind them.
“Such a peculiar child,” Rebecca noted with a shake of her head. “Being an architect is an unusual dream for a little girl. I only know of one—Mary Townley.”
“If anyone can accomplish her dream, my money’s on Ruth.” Still, history was against the little girl, Kendra knew. She’d never read about an architect named Ruth Holbrooke in any book. Of course, she’d never read about Mary Townley either. So maybe . . .
Kendra stifled a sigh as she wondered how many girls like Ruth had dreams that withered on the vine because the system and society was against them. It was depressing.
They retraced their steps to the carriage, and Rebecca said, “Lady Holbrooke and Mr. Holbrooke lied about their whereabouts on Wednesday evening.”
“I caught that too.” Kendra pushed aside the troubling thoughts of Ruth Holbrooke’s future, or lack thereof. “I think it’s interesting that Lady Holbrooke feels the need to lie for her son. That tells us something.”
She paused. Benjamin was holding open the door to the carriage. “We need to go to Trevelyan Square,” she told the coachman, and wasn’t surprised when he scowled at her.
“The Duke ain’t gonna like that.”
“The Duke gave me his permission,” she lied, and met Benjamin’s doubtful gaze squarely. It wasn’t like he could pull out his cell phone and call the Duke to verify her story. “If you won’t take us, I’ll find a hackney. His Grace will like that even less.”
“Oi’ll take ye,” he muttered, and slammed the door with more force than was necessarily after they’d climbed inside.
Rebecca looked at her. “What do you think to find at Trevelyan Square?”
“I don’t know, but that’s where the body was dumped. I need to see it myself.”
Rebecca nodded, leaning back into her seat. “Lady Holbrooke may have only lied because she wants to avoid her son coming under suspicion, you know. A mother’s protective instinct.”
“Possibly. Or maybe she lied because deep down a part of her believes that her son is quite capable of murder.”
18
Trevelyan Square was a narrow enclave located in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets, which was part of the larger, much grittier East End. Benjamin maneuvered the carriage on a thoroughfare jostling with hackneys, wagons, and cattle. A noxious stench strong enough to sting the eyes seemed to seep up from the muddy streets. Part of it was the area’s lack of a sewage system, Kendra knew. But the other part she recognized as the sharp, coppery smell of blood, which could probably be traced to the local slaughterhouses. At least I hope it’s from the slaughterhouses.
“Rats! Oi’ll catch yer rats!”
“Tallow candles—two for six pence!”
The cries of peddlers drifted through the window as Benjamin turned the carriage onto one street and up another twisty lane. Slowly, the masses of people fell away, leaving only the odd echo that came from the clip-clop of the two horses pulling the carriage, and the rumble of the carriage’s wheels. The street they were rolling down belonged to a different era, narrowing to a point where the modern carriage couldn’t go further, and Benjamin was forced to draw to a stop near a curb. He leapt off his perch and came around to open the door.
“This ain’t a good area,” he warned them. His hand inched to the blunderbuss that he always carried, shoved through his wide leather belt. His gaze darted uneasily to the crumbling, soot-smeared stone tenements on either side of the street.
“Now that’s an understatement,” Kendra said under her breath. She didn’t wait for the coachman to unfold the steps, but hopped down. Benjamin scowled at her, clearly affronted by her initiative, and quickly unfolded the steps for Rebecca to descend like a proper lady.
“Oi can’t leave the horses,” he growled.
“I can see the church up the street. We can walk from here.” Kendra caught the worried look in Benjamin’s eyes. “I have my reticule,” she assured him.
He stared at her. “An’ w’ot are ye gonna do, miss? Hit someone with yer tiny pouch?”
She grinned. “It’s what’s inside the pouch that matters.” She paused to make sure that the strings were loose enough so she had ready access to the muff pistol.
“At least the air is a little fresher here,” Rebecca said as they began walking.
“Probably because this area appears to be uninhabited.” Kendra lifted her skirt as she leapt over a muddy puddle. There were still piles of grungy snow in the shadowy corners of buildings, but much had melted into slop around the broken cobblestones. She scanned the edifices of decaying stones and blank, broken windows. “Appearances can be deceptive, though,” she said softly, the hairs on the back of her neck going up with the sensation of watching eyes.
Rebecca shivered, and glanced back to where Benjamin waited beside the carriage. “Maybe we should return with Mr. Kelly and Sutcliffe.”
“It’s probably nothing. Or just harmless squatters.” Still, Kendra allowed her hand to dip into the reticule, her fingers closing over the pistol. “Come on.”
She quickened her pace to the church, sprinting up the two steps. The heavy oak door was already ajar. Her entrance into the vestibule disturbed the two pigeons that had been drinking from a river of ice and water that snaked across the floor. The birds immediately took flight, arrowing through the door that opened into the nave of the church. Cautiously, Kendra moved forward, her gaze following the birds as they flew upward. Bits of feathers rained down as they landed in one of the many crooks and crevices along the vaulted ceiling. Given the many layers of white bird droppings and gray feathers on the floor below, the church had been the pigeons’ home for a very long time.
Kendra continued to scan the large, gloomy room. Daylight streamed through the stained-glass windows, though there wasn’t anything to see. The church had been stripped bare.
“Why are we here?” Rebecca crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked around nervously.
“Mr. Kelly thinks the killer used the church to dump the body,” Kendra replied, moving to the door of the sacristy. She opened it and peered inside the shadow-filled room. Empty.
“You doubt that?”
Kendra shrugged, closing the door and turning back to the nave. “Not necessarily, but he’s basing his assumption on the lack of blood. The tongue was cut postmortem, so there wouldn’t have been much blood.” She frowned as she studied the floor. “And the minimal flecks of blood would have been scuffed away.”
What would I be able to see if I had a spray bottle of luminol and a black light? She tried not to let that bother her, her gaze on the boot marks churning up the thick layer of dirt and grime.
“And what do you see?” Rebecca asked.
Poor police procedure, Kendra wanted to say. “Right now? Nothing much,” she admitted instead. “But sometimes you can determine if a body was dragged or carried by the marks on the ground. Unfortunately, this scene is too contaminated.”
Rebecca’s eyes flickered with interest. �
��I suppose that would indicate the physical strength of the killer. If the body was carried, the fiend would have to be very strong.”
“There are ways to carry a body that would allow someone of lesser strength to do it.” Kendra thought about the fireman’s lift, which was designed to allow a smaller person to carry a dead-weight body fifty feet without stopping. She looked at Rebecca. “But overall, yes, if the victim was carried, that would help narrow the profile toward the unsub being male. If the victim was dragged, it widens the profile.”
“But if Sir Giles was dragged, wouldn’t his body have shown that?”
“He wasn’t dragged naked down the street. If the unsub painted the marks on the body and cut out his tongue somewhere else, he might have wrapped Sir Giles’s body in something to transport him here. Or if he strangled Sir Giles down the street—the area is out of the way enough to do it without attracting attention, and the murder itself was relatively quick—he didn’t need to wrap him up. He could have just dragged him the rest of the way, undressed him in here, and done the rest of what he needed to do.”
Kendra’s eyes were drawn to the stained-glass windows. Sunbeams caught dust motes floating in the air. “It would have been night . . . so pitch black in here. Did the unsub plan for that?” Kendra thought of how she hadn’t planned for the darkness when she’d gone up the servant’s stairs earlier that morning.
“I think he did,” Rebecca said, and lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug when Kendra swung her gaze back to her. “He planned for everything else, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Kendra nodded. “The unsub is organized. None of this appears to be impulsive. Which means he chose this site. Why? It’s out of the way.” She paused. “But there must be other abandoned buildings in the city that would be easier to access. So why here?”
Rebecca said, “The drawings on the body suggest a religious overtone. Catholicism certainly has its rituals and symbols.” She paused, frowning. “Although I suppose the same argument could be made for many religions. Still, this church is abandoned, which was necessary. He could hardly bring the body into an active church, where he could be seen by a priest or the parishioners.”
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