A Murder in Time (22 page)

“She must be dismissed, Aldridge!”

From his position on the Grecian couch, the Duke of Aldridge observed his sister pace off her agitation. At fifty-three, two years his junior, she was still a pretty woman, he thought. She'd gained weight since the time she'd taken London by storm in her first season, thirty-five years ago, but it only served to smooth out the lines on her face. Her hair might not have been as golden, threaded as it was with silver, but she still styled it to the height of fashion, an elegant updo with a Spanish comb to anchor the topknot in place. Her blue eyes still sparkled, although at the moment, that sparkle had more to do with temper than vitality. In the last three years, he'd noticed that she'd begun applying rouge to her cheeks. Today, she could have done away with that artifice, since temper added a becoming flush to her countenance.

“Are you
listening
to me, Aldridge?” She paused, settling her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

He sighed. Caro only called him by his title when she was in high dudgeon. “I'm listening, my dear. But I fail to see why Miss Donovan should be dismissed.”

“For heaven's sake. She said that girl was murdered! In front of everyone. She ruined my nuncheon!”

“I suspect the dead girl did that.”

“Don't be flippant, Bertie!”

Instantly, the Duke sobered. “You're absolutely correct, Caro. This is not amusing. However, Miss Donovan had the right of it; that poor girl was murdered. If you only knew what had been done to her . . .” His eyes darkened as he remembered the bruises, the cuts . . . the bite mark. What sort of vicious animal were they dealing with? Abruptly, he stood and put his hands on his sister's shoulders to still her agitated movements. He stared down into the blue eyes so similar in shape and coloring to his own. “It's not for a lady's ears. Suffice to say, the girl deserves justice. She most likely has a family out there. They need to know what happened to their girl.”

“Oh, Bertie!” Lady Atwood's anger evaporated, replaced by a flood of sympathy. Because she knew he wasn't only thinking of the girl in the lake.

Recognizing the concern, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, squeezed her shoulders once, then let her go. “I'm sorry, Caro. I know this is unfortunate timing with your party. But we cannot ignore it. I've sent for a Bow Street Runner.”

“A Runner!” She put a hand to her throat, appalled. “Whatever will our guests think?”

“I'm certain they will be deliciously entertained.”

“They will
not
!” Yet she couldn't meet her brother's eyes, because she suspected that he was correct. Even now, she knew, many of the women were comfortably ensconced in the Chinese drawing room in the guise of working on their needlepoint, gossiping over what had happened down by the lake. Even that silly chit, Georgina, who'd discovered the body, seemed to be enjoying her newfound celebrity, repeatedly sharing her shock and horror. Lady Atwood was well aware that she'd given at least three different versions of the story; each time, her fear had magnified and the description of the dead girl had become more grotesque.

“And the woman—the maid. What did you call her? Kendra Donovan—Irish.” Her lip curled. “Little wonder she's a troublemaker!”

“Actually, she's an American.”

“Good heavens—that's even worse! How can she be so vital to your investigation? An
American
. A mere
servant
. A
woman!
” She sounded incredulous. “'Tisn't natural!”

“What are you objecting to, Caro? That Miss Donovan is an American, a woman, or a servant?”

The countess' mouth tightened. “Be reasonable, Bertie. If that girl was murdered—and I'm not so certain that she was—how can Miss Donovan possibly help you?”

“She appears to have some experience in these matters.”

“How can that be? She can hardly be educated, given her station in life.”

Aldridge pursed his lips as he considered what he knew of Kendra Donovan. “I don't believe we ought to underestimate Miss Donovan,” he said slowly. “You must trust me in this matter, my dear.”

“Bertie—”

“I shall be requiring Miss Donovan's assistance.” He hesitated, then said, “And for the duration of this party, Caro, I'd prefer it if you didn't go about the park unattended.”

That surprised her. “I'm a bit old for a chaperone, Bertie. And as I've been married—God rest Atwood's soul—I don't need one.”

“Nevertheless, I must insist.”

Lady Atwood felt a chill race up her arms that had nothing to do with the drafts in her family's ancestral home. “What's this about, Bertie?” she demanded, alarmed by the look in her brother's eyes.

Aldridge recalled Kendra Donovan's words.
I can tell you two things: this isn't his first kill, and he will do it again.

He believed in trusting his instincts, but he was also a man of logic. An enlightened man. Was he mad for listening to the woman? Or would he be mad not to?

His stomach clenched as he thought of the dead girl. Mother of God, she'd been bitten, beaten, strangled. He looked at his sister now, his expression grim. “'Tis a nightmare, Caro,” he said quietly. “A nightmare like I've never seen.”

15

Maybe she
was
crazy. Maybe at this very moment she was locked in some psych ward in London, having succeeded in her attempt to kill Sir Jeremy. Or maybe she'd never recovered from the gunshot wound to her head. Maybe she was . . . somewhere else.

No!
Kendra wasn't going to go down that road again. She didn't know what was happening, but she refused to believe that this wasn't real. That girl on that wooden table in that odd, old-fashioned building had been
real
. At the very least, the revolting paste made out of water and ash that she was now using to polish the silver teapot in her hand was all too real.

Frowning, she rubbed harder. Her distorted face was reflected back at her in the silver surface, unfamiliar because of the mop cap on her head. Mrs. Danbury had stuck her in one of the backrooms of the kitchen, helping Rose and another tweeny named Molly with the household silver. No doubt she'd meant it as a punishment, but it wasn't so bad. The work itself was kind of soothing. And it gave her the opportunity to question the girls about life in the castle, and, more importantly, the nineteenth century.

She broached something that had been puzzling her. “Simon Dalton—he's not a doctor?”

“Mr. Dalton? Oh, nay. ‘E's a
surgeon
,” Molly supplied.

“A surgeon, but not a doctor?” She set the teapot down. “What's the difference?”

Molly blinked at her. “A doctor is ever so much more important! ‘E wouldn't
think
ter poke around in somebody's innards like a sawbones!”

“That's a bad thing?”

They looked at her like she was crazy. “'Tisn't proper,” Rose said, “'Course, Mr. Dalton ain't a sawbones now. 'E resigned 'is commission in the army when 'is aunt, Lady 'Alstead, cocked up 'er toes. Now 'e lives at 'Alstead 'All.”

“Doing what?”

Rose shrugged. “Being gentry.”

Kendra supposed that meant he either rented out parcels of land to local farmers or he hired locals to tend to the land he'd inherited.

“The Duke seems . . . nice,” Kendra remarked casually, picking up a pair of serving tongs to polish.

“Oh, 'e's an oak. And ever so clever. 'E's always up on the roof, studyin' the stars and such. 'Tis a shame w'ot 'appened with 'is wife an' child.”

“What happened?”

Rose said, “'Twas before I was born, but me ma told me 'ow the Duchess took the wee one sailing. Davy Jones's Locker got 'em, 'e did. 'Twas a clear day. No one knows w'ot 'appened, but 'is Grace found 'is wife on the beach; Lady Charlotte forever swept out to sea.”

That explained Aldridge's strange behavior with the victim in the water, Kendra thought.

Molly shivered. “Oi 'eard that 'is Grace went mad.”

“Aye,” Rose agreed in a hushed voice as she buffed and polished. “'E's always 'ad strange notions—speakin' no disrespect. But me ma said 'e locked 'imself in 'is study. The only one 'oo could 'elp 'im was the marquis.”

“The marquis?”

“'Is Grace's nephew—Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe. An' 'e was only a young lad.”

“Ooh. 'E's a fine-looking bloke, ain't 'e?” Molly sighed.

“'E's far above your touch, Molly Danvers!”

“Oi didn't say 'e wasn't. But Oi got peepers, don't oi?”

Kendra changed track. “Have either of you heard of any girls from around the area who have gone missing?”

They exchanged nervous glances. “Do you think the monster lives around 'ere?” Rose asked.

“I don't think anything yet.”

“Nay. Jenny went off ter Bath, but Oi dunno anybody missin',” Molly whispered.

They lapsed into an anxious silence. Kendra regretted being responsible for the fear she saw on the tweenies' faces.

At five-fifteen, Kendra excused herself to go to the chamber she shared with Rose. She washed her hands and face, and used the chamber pot. As an afterthought, she took the mop cap off her head, tossing it on the bed, before heading to the Duke's study.

The Duke, Morland, and Dalton were seated, along with another man. Alec had taken up his familiar, negligent position, leaning against the fireplace. Each man was holding a heavy lead crystal glass filled with brandy. The candles had been lit, a fire crackling in the grate. They stood as she entered, a courtesy that she only sometimes received in the twenty-first century.

Aldridge smiled. “Miss Donovan, allow me to introduce you to our constable, Mr. Hilliard.”

Kendra surveyed him as she stuck out her hand. Fortyish, she judged, with thinning brown hair, a round, florid face, stocky build. He seemed a little bewildered, but she wasn't sure if that was because he was surprised to shake her hand, or because he was being introduced to a servant, or because he was in the Duke's study, drinking brandy. She suspected the last was not a usual occurrence, noting that the man's clothing was inferior to the other men in the room. In social ranking, Hilliard was well below the titled gentry. But, Kendra reflected wryly, probably still several tiers above her current position.

“Miss.” He nodded diplomatically.

“Mr. Hilliard.”

Aldridge asked, “Would you care for a drink, Miss Donovan? Perhaps sherry?”

“No, thank you.” She could hear the disapproval in her voice, and had to remind herself that she wasn't standing in an FBI war room surrounded by professionals. God help her. This was long before the vast network of specialized law enforcement agencies would spring up to protect its citizens. In fact, there wouldn't be any true concept of a police force here in England for another fourteen years, not until Sir Robert Peel introduced the Metropolitan Police Act in London. Centuries later, tourists to England might not have heard of Robert Peel, but they would know the police who'd been nicknamed after him—Bobbies.

“We've sent for a Runner. He ought to be here tomorrow morning.” Returning to his seat behind his desk, the Duke picked up his pipe, but didn't make any attempt to light it. “Miss Donovan, please sit down. We ought to begin.” He waited until Kendra had taken a seat on the sofa next to Hilliard. “Mr. Dalton, what are your findings?”

“Miss Donovan was correct.” He gave her a slight nod to acknowledge that fact. Kendra was aware of the veiled looks from everyone but the Duke. “The female had a crushed hyoid bone, thyroid, and cricoid cartilage. There was no water in her lungs. She died of strangulation, not drowning.”

“Strangled repeatedly as Miss Donovan suggested?” Alec asked, although he'd viewed the evidence with his own eyes.

“My findings support Miss Donovan's theory. Although it's impossible for me to determine the exact time of death, based on the degree of rigor mortis, I believe she died in the early morning hours, sometime between three and four, but that is only conjecture. Her stomach was empty; she hadn't eaten for hours before that.

“I counted fifty-three cuts on the girl's torso. Based on my measurements, we're dealing with four different knives. And all fifty-three wounds were inflicted premortem.”

“Holy Mother of God,” Hilliard breathed.

“Whoever did this must be utterly mad,” Aldridge said, looking shaken.

“Yes and no,” Kendra said quickly. “His psychosis—his
madness
is internal. To all outward appearances, he will appear normal.”

Mr. Hilliard's eyebrows rose. “How'd'ya know that?”

“Because . . . he's organized. He's done this before. He knows how to blend in.”

“We've never found a girl dead like this,” Morland protested.

“He may have worked outside this area. Or we were never supposed to find this girl.” She thought back to when she first came to the castle—a couple of centuries in the future—and the surrounding geography. “The ocean is, what? Two miles from here?”

Alec surveyed her with hooded eyes. “Thereabouts.”

“You said this area is a watershed. The killer could've dumped the body in the river, expecting the current to take it out to the ocean.”

“That was rather careless of him, wasn't it? Why not bury the girl? Dispose of her in some way where she would not be found?”

“I don't know.” And that bothered her. It
was
careless. “The unsub may be—”

“Unsub? What is an unsub, pray tell?” Aldridge eyed her curiously.

Oh, God. In spite of everything, she'd forgotten where she was.
When
she was. “Unknown subject,” she identified. “The murderer. He may be getting complacent. Or he may have wanted her to be found.” She looked at Dalton. “Was she raped?”