A Murder in Time (27 page)

“You're good. You're very good.”

“Better than a death mask,” Aldridge added, and then looked over at Kendra. “You were right to insist upon this, Miss Donovan.”

“Do you really believe this will help?” Rebecca asked.

Kendra thought of what was said yesterday, that there were hundreds, if not thousands, of brothels in London—assuming the vic was even from a London brothel. She shrugged. “It can't hurt.”

Gently Aldridge pulled the blanket up to cover Jane Doe's face.

“What will happen to her now, Duke?” Rebecca asked.

“We shall have to bury her soon. We can't keep her here forever.”

“A day or two at the most,” Alec agreed.

The Duke picked up Rebecca's art supplies, and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

“You can go,” Kendra said. “I have one more thing I need to do.”

She was already turning to Rebecca so she didn't see the humor that flashed in the Duke's eyes. It wasn't every day, Aldridge reflected, that he was dismissed by a servant.

“Could I borrow a pastel stick and some of your sketch paper?” she asked Rebecca.

Even though the other woman's eyebrows rose questioningly, she handed over the requested supplies. “What are you planning, Miss Donovan?”

“I need to view the body again. Make a record of the wounds inflicted. I should have done it before the autopsy, but . . .”
She'd still been reeling over the fact that she was in the nineteenth century.
“I'll need some assistance turning over the body.”

“I will stay with Miss Donovan,” Alec volunteered.

The Duke hesitated, looking as though he would've preferred to stay as well. But then he took Rebecca's sketches and box of pastels and ushered her from the room. The woman shot them a departing look that was impossible to interpret before the door closed behind her.

Ignoring Alec's presence, Kendra concentrated on drawing two crude outlines of the female form, front and back.

“Perhaps Rebecca ought to have stayed. Your artistic skill leaves much to be desired,” Alec observed, seeing the results of her handiwork.

She made a face. “Likeness isn't important here. Location is—location of the injuries.” She put down the paper and pastel stick, and pulled off the blanket.

Dalton had done the standard Y-incision, sewing up the ragged edges of flesh after he'd finished. The girl looked like a torn ragdoll that some tailor had attempted to repair, with gruesome results. Her skin had become more mottled, tinged greenish-red. They were right; the cool temperature in the icehouse wouldn't delay the body from breaking down much longer.

Methodically, Kendra moved down the body with her visual examination, starting at the top. “No bruises, cuts on the face, other than petechiae around the eyes,” she murmured. Was that significant? She retrieved the paper and pastel stick, drew a line through the neck area. “Manual strangulation. Several times. Ultimate cause of death. Bite mark on left breast.” She made a corresponding mark on the drawing, scribbling notes in the margins. “Knife wounds begin beneath the breasts. Looks like shallow slashes on upper torso. Deeper, thicker cuts in the middle of torso following the path of the Y-incision to the pubis. Still—deliberate cuts. No stabbing. Nothing frenzied.”

Alec suspected Kendra wasn't even aware that she was talking out loud. He watched her with a kind of appalled fascination as she marked up the crude drawing she'd made, carefully depicting each wound, and meticulously writing notes in the margins. In a strange way, her behavior, the intense look of concentration on her face, reminded him of the Duke when he was caught up in one of his experiments.

She paused, leaning back to glance at the drawing she held, comparing it to the body. “There are no cuts on her arms, and only a few on the legs, confined to the upper thigh area. The majority of injuries were inflicted below the breast but not
on
the breast.”

“That is incorrect. Her arms and legs have cuts.”

She glanced up, looking vaguely startled, as if just remembering he was there. “Those weren't caused from a knife. They're lacerations—postmortem. Probably caused by the river's current and rocks. Her inner thighs are bruised, most likely from when he raped her. I need to turn the body over.”

Ironically, it was Alec who had no trouble touching the dead girl. Kendra was the one who had to swallow hard when she reached out to grip a shoulder. The flesh felt cold, waxy. Unfortunately, the victim was no longer in rigor mortis, leaving the body flaccid, and more difficult to turn over. As soon as it was accomplished, Kendra wiped her hands against her apron, feeling queasy.

Kendra studied the deep purple blotches that marred the flesh at the small of the girl's back and thighs. “She was lying on her back when she was murdered. This is lividity. When the heart stops, blood begins pooling at the body's lowest points.”

Alec stared at her.
Who the hell is she?
If she hadn't been a woman, he'd have thought her a sawbones.

“He didn't bother to cut her here, either.”

Alec pulled his eyes off Kendra to survey the lacerations on the dead girl's back and buttocks. “Those are from rocks, I assume.”

“Yes.” She returned to the girl's head, threading her fingers through the hair as she peered closer. Although she still wished that she had latex gloves, this didn't make her feel so queasy. Human hair, after all, was dead protein, even on a living person.

“There are scrape marks on the scalp consistent with where the hair has been cut. Looks to be postmortem, given there are no contusions in the scalp area. He wasn't careful, but this wasn't part of his need to inflict pain,” she said quietly. “She was already dead. She had no more meaning to him. He was done with her.” She made more notes on the sketch paper. “We can turn her back now.”

They rolled the body over, and Kendra was wiping her hands on her apron when someone knocked at the door. Alec barely had time to toss the blanket over the dead girl before the door flew open. A boy of about ten stood there. His round eyes immediately went to the corpse. He looked disappointed that the body was covered.

Alec narrowed his eyes when he recognized him. “Dammit, Will! When you knock at a door, you need to wait until someone bids you to enter.”

“Oh. Sorry, gov—er, me Lord. Oi was told ter fetch ye.” The kid's eyes shifted from the covered body to Alec. Kendra caught the sparkle of excitement. “The thief-taker . . . Oi mean, the Bow Street Runner—'e's 'ere!”

19

“You think the dead lass was a bit o'muslin? Beggin' your pardon, m'Lady . . . ma'am.” Sam Kelly, the Bow Street Runner, shot Rebecca and Kendra an apologetic look. If he thought it odd that two women, one a Lady and one a servant, were allowed to sit in on what must be considered an improper discussion, he didn't show it.

Kendra hadn't known what to expect from a nineteenth-century detective, but Magnum, P.I. he was not. He was a short plug of a man, with muscular arms and legs that strained the seams of his dusty gray topcoat, black waistcoat, and breeches. His face, framed by a mop of curly, reddish-brown hair and iron-gray sideburns, looked almost elfin, with turned up features that seemed incongruous on a man his age, which Kendra estimated to be early forties. His eyes were light brown, almost gold, and as expressionless as his face.
Cop eyes
, Kendra thought with a jolt of recognition.

“Should we summon Mr. Hilliard and Mr. Morland?” Rebecca asked from her seat on the sofa.

Sam glanced at the Duke. “Mr. Hilliard and Mr. Morland?”

“Mr. Hilliard is our local constable and Mr. Morland holds the position of magistrate—a mere formality, as the Duke is the largest landholder in the area,” said Alec. “Neither gentleman has experience with anything like . . . this.”

“I agree.” Aldridge considered what Miss Donovan had written on the slate board. “'Tis no insult to the gentlemen in question, but we ought to keep our speculation amongst ourselves. Do you have any objection, Mr. Kelly?”

Sam considered the matter. The gentry were an odd lot. But the Duke of Aldridge was his client and paying the blunt. He shook his head. “Nay. Not a one.”

“Excellent. As for the girl, we suspect she worked at an academy. Most likely London.”

Sam glanced down at the sketch he held. It had been a clever idea to make use of Lady Rebecca's artistic talents in such a manner, he thought. It would make his job easier—if knocking on more than a thousand brothel doors in London Town could be considered easy.

“You found the lass in a local lake?” He lifted his gaze. “And you believe she was murdered?”

“She
was
murdered,” Kendra answered. “Specifically, strangled. Before that, she was held for a period of time. The abrasions on her wrists are consistent with being restrained. Metal, not rope. She was strangled repeatedly. Raped repeatedly. And cut repeatedly. The latter were shallow cuts, nothing mortal. He wasn't trying to kill her, just hurt her.”

She'd gotten the detective's attention, which was what she'd wanted. She also wanted to impress upon him the seriousness of the situation. Their eyes met for a long moment. She couldn't figure out what he was thinking.

He finally shifted his gaze back to the Duke. “Is what she's saying true?”

“Yes. I viewed the body myself.”

“I'd like ter see the lass as well.”

“Certainly. I'll escort you to the body, but Miss Donovan is giving you an accurate account.”

Again the golden eyes flicked in her direction. They were still carefully blank, but Kendra suspected that he was wondering who the hell she was. She couldn't blame him. She'd be thinking the same thing if she were in his shoes. In his eyes, she realized,
she
was the civilian.

“He also cut off sections of her hair,” she told him.

He frowned. “Why'd he do that?”

“I don't know,” she admitted. “He has a reason, though. I think he has a reason he selected that particular girl. And there's a reason he bit her on the breast once, no more.”

Sam leaned forward, fascinated. “He bit her?”

“Yes.”

Aldridge asked, “Mr. Kelly, have you encountered anything like this before?”

Sam rubbed the side of his nose, thinking. “I've seen bawdy baskets bite each other and yank their hair almost clean outta their scalps when they get into flaming rows. Never what you're describing, though.” His eyes dropped to the portraiture again. “Have you considered that a client of hers might've taken exception ter something the lass did or said?”

Instead of answering, the Duke glanced at Kendra.

Interesting
, Sam thought. The Duke of Aldridge seemed almost deferential toward the maid.

“He's most likely a client, but this wasn't an impulsive attack,” Kendra told Sam. “She didn't have any defensive wounds on her fingers and palms. I think she came with him willingly and the attack happened after she was restrained. She may have agreed to be handcuffed or he took her by surprise, so she didn't have time to fight back.”

“Why in heaven's name would she agree to be handcuffed?” Rebecca asked, surprised.

Kendra caught the deer-in-the-headlights look of the men, and had to suppress a smile. “I'll explain it to you later.”

“You will not!” Alec glared at her.

Rebecca in turn glared at him. “You shall not dictate my future conversations, Sutcliffe!”

Sam cleared his throat. “Ah, aye, well, you've given me an interesting case, Your Grace.” He hesitated and then slanted another look at the maid. “Forgive me, Miss Donovan, but I must ask . . . who are you?” He spread his hands. “You appear ter have a bit of expertise in this area, which—if I may be blunt—is unusual enough for anyone, but especially for a woman.”

Kendra tensed automatically, thinking,
Will I always be a freak?
Still, she understood his confusion. She
was
a freak here. Any woman from her era would be.

“I know that what I am saying may be unorthodox,” she said slowly, fixing her gaze on him. “I can only hope you won't discount what I'm saying because I'm a woman.”

Sam regarded her carefully, aware that she hadn't answered his question.

“Brava, Miss Donovan!” Rebecca declared, breaking the silence. “The contributions of women have too long been discounted. We have been treated like we have nothing but feathers stuffed in our heads! When I think of—”

“Hell's teeth, Becca,” Alec interrupted, shooting her an exasperated look. “Now is not the time to discuss Mrs. Wollstonecraft's radical ideas, my dear.”

Rebecca looked insulted. “That is the trouble, sir. There is no good time a
man
wants to discuss the rights of women. But there shall come a time, Sutcliffe! Someday women shall even be given the right to vote. Mark my words!”

“Yes, well. I think we need to concentrate on the matter at hand, rather than politics, my dear,” Aldridge said mildly. “And, for the record, I have never adhered to the nonsense that women are ornamental creatures with no intellect.” His gaze lifted to the painting above the fireplace. “My wife was a brilliant mathematician and astronomer. If the course of events had been different, I believe she would have rivaled Caroline Herschel in her contributions to science.

“So, you see, Miss Donovan,” he added, smiling sadly at Kendra, “I shan't dismiss what you are saying because of some misplaced theory that a woman's brain is smaller than a man's.”

“Aye. You needn't fear that I'll dismiss you out of hand, either, miss,” said Sam. “Some of the most devious criminals I've ever encountered were women.”

He grinned, but sobered quickly when he turned to the Duke. “Me and me men will begin making inquiries as soon as I return ter Town. If she worked for an academy, 'tis doubtful a bawd would've let her leave—not without brokerin' the deal.”