A Murder in Time (24 page)

“It certainly sounds ridiculous enough to be a Banbury tale.”

“That is not a definitive answer.”

Alec sighed, and wished, for the first time, that she wasn't so bloody perceptive. “There's the rub, my dear. I have no definitive answers. I have only many questions.” Beginning, he thought grimly, with Kendra Donovan.

By eleven-thirty that night, Kendra decided that being a servant in the nineteenth century was damn hard work. All her muscles were throbbing like she'd undergone a week's worth of workout sessions with the Terminator in one day. She estimated that she'd probably logged ten miles sprinting up and down the backstairs, restocking guest rooms with supplies and hot water for bathing, and later bringing up platters of food for the liveried footmen to serve during the dinner at eight.

Two hours later, she was one of the team of maids that cleared the table and cleaned the dining room, after the guests had moved to the ballroom for dancing. The only servants who had it worse, she believed, were the scullery and chambermaids. The former were required to scrub the giant pots, pans, and plates used for the evening, their hands left raw and red, and the latter had to collect, dump, and replenish all the chamber pots in the castle.

Earlier, she'd learned that the castle's garderobes, or privy chambers, still functioned, but for some reason, everyone seemed to prefer the chamber pot. The Duke, she'd been told, had begun installing Bramah's closets, which, she deduced, were primitive toilets that had actually been invented years before. Still, those closets had yet to make an appearance in the servant's quarters. And Rose was just fine with that, viewing the contraption with a great deal of suspicion.

Of course, the only plumbing that Kendra would've been really interested in at the moment would be a Jacuzzi.

“You're not human, Rose,” she groaned as they climbed the stairs. “My muscles are screaming.”

The tweeny giggled. “'Twas a normal day, miss. I expect you, 'avin' been a lady's maid, ain't used to it.”

“Yeah. I'm not used to it—any of this.”

They were both holding candles, the light bouncing madly against the wall. Even though she was bone-weary, Kendra paused when they reached the first floor, which, by American labeling, would be the second floor.

“Rose, where's the schoolroom?”

“The schoolroom? W'otever for, miss?”

“I need to work.”

“But we finished our work!”

Kendra smiled weakly. “I need to organize my thoughts, and I'd like to use the slate board to do it.”

“Is this about the murder?”

“Yes.”

Rose hesitated.

“The Duke gave me permission,” Kendra pressed.

The tweeny shrugged. “Come along then.”

The schoolroom was located in the east wing of the castle, down a little-used corridor that didn't even have the benefit of wall sconces to light the way.

“There 'aven't been any wee ones in the castle since Lady Charlotte,” Rose whispered. “There's the nursery and the governess' room.” She pointed to two closed doors, and then opened a set of double doors. “'Ere's the schoolroom.”

Four ceiling-to-floor multi-paned windows graced one wall. The moon loomed high, its rays strong enough to bathe the room in an icy light. Otherwise, Kendra suspected, their meager candles would never have penetrated the thick shadows.

She saw five desks, four child-sized and one adult. Bookshelves lined another wall, opposite a fireplace. There was a sturdy wood table and an assortment of other objects around the room, including a globe, several yellowed maps, an empty easel, and paintbrushes and small pots. Hanging on the wall behind the larger desk was the chalkboard—
slate board
, Kendra corrected herself.

There was a musty scent in the air and a general aura of disuse. Kendra felt as though she'd found the toy of a child who'd long since grown into adulthood. It had that same sad, abandoned feel.

Rose shivered beside her. “Some of the servants 'ave said they've 'eard the sound of a child weeping when they pass by this 'ere room late at night.”

Kendra paused in picking up one of the jagged, thumb-sized pieces of slate, and glanced over at the young girl. “It's probably the wind, Rose. Or their imagination.”

“Aren't you 'fraid of spirits, miss?”

“Can't be afraid of something you don't believe in.” Experimentally she drew a line on the board. The result was similar to what chalk would have produced.

“You don't believe in spirits, then?”

She grinned at the girl. “Only the kind you drink.” She used her apron to erase the mark she'd made, and frowned when it didn't come off. She rubbed harder.

“You need to wet it,” Rose said from behind her.

“Oh.” She turned to find the maid eyeing her oddly again. “Thanks, Rose.”

Rose hesitated. “Will that be all, miss?”

“You know, you can call me Kendra.”

“Aye, miss.”

Kendra had to smile. “Go to bed, Rose. I'll be up soon. I just need to work on a couple of things here.”

When Rose left, she took her candle with her, reducing the light to Kendra's single flickering flame and the glow of the moon. Briefly, Kendra looked around for more candles or an oil lamp, but found nothing. She supposed the thrifty Mrs. Danbury had taken all useful items from the room before shutting the doors.

Setting her candle on the desk, Kendra went to work. On the slate board, she drew three vertical lines. In the first section she wrote:
Unsub
; in the middle section:
Victimology
; in the third:
Forensics/Pattern.

She started in the middle. Victim—Jane Doe; Age—approximately fifteen; Race—Caucasian; Hair—brown; Eyes—brown.

Height . . . Kendra closed her eyes to bring up a mental image of the girl. She was small. Five-one, maybe, or five-two. As for weight, Kendra doubted if the victim would have tipped the scales at more than one hundred to one hundred and five pounds. She opened her eyes and jotted the information down. Satisfied, she moved on. Profession—Prostitute (likely).

Kendra paused, considering that. It wasn't surprising. Even in the twenty-first century, prostitutes were the primary targets of serial killers. They were society's throwaways. A dead hooker never registered the same on the horror meter or had the same cachet with the media as a dead housewife. Still, the way the men had talked, this girl had been a part of a brothel, not a street whore. That made her more likely to be missed.

There was easier prey.
Why
this
girl?

Moving to the third section, Kendra began ending sentences with a question mark. Body dumped in the river—deliberate or discarded? Did the killer want Jane Doe found? Or had he expected the body to be carried out to sea?

The hair cut off in sections—a souvenir?

Single bite mark on the breast—sexual?

Many serial killers were biters, she knew.
The mark of the beast
. That's what Keith Simpson, Britain's first professor of forensic pathology, had labeled the bites inflicted by killers in the twentieth century.

The fact that Jane Doe had only one bite mark was interesting, though. Most likely part of a fantasy developed over time.

Jane Doe had fifty-three cuts on her torso made by four different knives. Kendra wondered if there was any significance to the number of wounds or variety of knives. The victim had been handcuffed. She was petite, so she could have been easily controlled. Unless the killer wasn't a big man himself.

The victim had been raped repeatedly. Strangled repeatedly. Did the killer get sexual gratification by maximizing the girl's terror?

Based on the bruising and decomposition, the girl had been killed last night. Kendra thought of the Duke's charts, and wondered if there was any significance to the full moon, if that was part of the unsub's pattern.

Kendra returned to the first section. The unsub. The big unknown.

Slowly, she lifted the hand clutching the piece of slate, and wrote:
Mission-oriented killer, or power-and-control killer?

Not mission-oriented
. She lifted her apron to scrub that away, then remembered she needed to have a wet cloth. She ended up drawing a line through “mission-oriented,” and circled “power-and-control.” That's who they were dealing with—someone who fed off his victim's terror, who relished their suffering, wanted to hear them scream.

And scream.

A chill raced up Kendra's arms. It was always this way, brushing up against evil. She'd fought hard to be a field agent, but she remembered her first case, when several teenage girls in Kentucky had been found dead, their bodies dumped along the Appalachian Trail. Their throats had been cut, but the fatal wound had been hidden by the pretty pink bow the killer had tied around their necks. Each victim's feet had been severed and taken as souvenirs. She recalled how her stomach had knotted, and she'd just managed to stumble to a ravine before throwing up.

Over the years, she'd gotten used to the gruesome, unspeakable images, to the buzz of flies, to the sickening, rotting scent of death. But she would never get used to the twisted mind that could commit such atrocities.
Thank God.

“Who are you, you sick son of a bitch?” she whispered, staring at the section that had the least words written in it. She lifted the piece of slate again, and wrote:
Male; familiar with the area; intelligent; organized.

A cloud passed over the moon, leaving only the meager light from the one candle. The shadows around her deepened and crept up the walls like tormented souls escaping the underworld. Tension pricked at her nape. Her heart rate escalated as she thought of Rose's ghost story of the weeping child.
Get a grip, Donovan.
She didn't believe in ghosts.

Then again, she hadn't believed in time travel, either.

She found herself holding her breath, letting it out in a rush of relief when the moon reappeared and flooded the room again in its silvery light.

Silly.
She was being silly. And fanciful. Two words that rarely applied to her. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She didn't believe in ghosts, but she did believe in evil—the two-legged kind.

Dropping the slate on the desk, she did a couple of yoga stretches to loosen up her tight muscles. Picking up her candle, she moved to the door. She paused, glancing back at the notes she'd made. In the gloom, she couldn't see them anymore. The darkness had swallowed them up.

Though that didn't mean they weren't there—
like him
, she thought. He may be in the shadows, but she knew he was out there. Hunting.

This time when the tension coiled inside her, pricking at her nape, it wasn't because she was being fanciful. It was because she knew she was right.

The little whore had been found. He hadn't anticipated that, couldn't like it.

And yet . . . there was no denying the sweet, hot rush of pleasure he'd felt upon her discovery. To listen to the whispers of those around him, to hear the shock and terror and trembling disbelief in their voices. It was exhilarating to know that when they went to bed tonight, they'd be thinking of him.

Fearing
him.

He hadn't anticipated that, either. The excitement of holding society in thrall. Fickle, feckless society, who would turn on him in a heartbeat, if they knew what he really was. He couldn't risk exposure. He'd be swinging at Newgate for certain.

But his work was another matter.

He'd never consider that possibility before. In a way, it would be like breathing new life into the dead harlots, extending their purpose beyond his own.

The thought amused him. Intrigued him.
Inspired
him.

He'd still have to be very careful. He was no fool. The Duke's decision to bring in a Runner was a complication. Still, if it proved too much of a nuisance, he'd simply have to take care of the matter. Until then, though, he'd enjoy pitting himself against his opponents.