A Murder in Time (36 page)

Behind him, Gabriel shifted, burrowing into the pillows. Alec thought he heard a muffled groan.

“My Lord, perhaps if I'd—”

“Go have your breakfast, Finch. I'd like to speak with my brother.”

“Oh, ah . . .” The valet's protest died on his lips as he caught the marquis' set expression. He bowed. “As you wish, my Lord. If you or Lord Gabriel should need anything . . .”

“I shall send for you.” He followed the valet to the door, and closed it behind him. Turning, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and viewed the only thing visible to him—his brother's back. “We need to talk, Gabriel.”

“Bugger off,” Gabriel muttered from beneath the pillows.

Mouth tightening, he moved forward and yanked the pillow off Gabriel's head, tossing it across the room where it landed with a soft thud. “I am not in the mood for your insubordination today!”

Gabriel opened bloodshot eyes, glaring. “Damn you! I'm not one of your toadeaters! Leave me alone!
God
. My head is pounding!”

“You'll not get any sympathy from me.” Yet Alec felt a thrill of alarm as he eyed his brother's ashen complexion. Christ, was he actually ill?

“Did I seek it?” Gabriel muttered angrily, rolling onto his back and scrubbing a hand over his unshaven face. He pushed himself into a sitting position then, groaning, he leaned forward to put his throbbing head in his hands. “Hell's teeth. You smell of horse.” When the insult didn't elicit any response, he asked sullenly, “What do you want, Sutcliffe?”

Alec spied several empty bottles on the nearby table. “You're drinking yourself into an early grave. For God's sake, why?
Why
are you doing this to yourself?”

“'Tis none of your damn business what I do.”

“It is if you hurt that girl.”

Gabriel's head came up and he stared at Alec for two seconds before his gaze slid away.

Alec's nerves tightened, aware that his brother didn't issue a denial. “Miss Donovan said you and Harcourt left the castle last Sunday for the King's Head. You went to Hawkings's cockfight.”

“What of it?”

“You and Harcourt were at the cockfight until you returned to the castle?”

“I don't answer to you, Sutcliffe.”

“You bloody well will answer to someone. I want to know if you and Harcourt were in each other's company all night.”

“I'm not Harcourt's keeper,” Gabriel muttered.

“So you were
not
with Harcourt all evening?”

“Devil take it, stop quizzing me!” Gathering the sheet around his hips, Gabriel surged to his feet. He was trembling. Their eyes met briefly, and again Alec felt a whisper of dread at what he saw in his brother's gaze. Anger, yes. But also fear. Then Gabriel looked away. Frustration knotted Alec's stomach. Again he wondered when Gabriel had begun to regard him as the enemy. What had happened to him? What had Emily done?

“Leave me alone, Sutcliffe.”

“Just tell me if you stayed at the cockfight.”

“I don't have to tell you anything,” Gabriel shot back. Holding on to the sheet, he moved toward the dressing room.

“God help you, Gabriel,” Alec said, as his brother opened the door. “God help you if you had anything to do with that girl's death!”

For just a second, Gabriel stilled. Then without a backward glance, he stumbled forward, shutting the door behind him with a snap.

Alec stared at the wooden panel as anger and fear rose up inside him. What the hell was going on? He wanted to follow his brother, to demand an answer to that question—to shake some bloody sense into him.

Tension bunched the muscles along his shoulders as he stood in indecision. He reached for the doorknob of the dressing room's door, but at the last moment, he dropped his arm and pivoted toward the other door.

Coward
, he thought and shook his head in self-disgust. He'd leave Gabriel alone for now. There were other ways of getting to the truth.
If
he wanted the truth. And that, he realized, was the problem. He wasn't entirely sure that he did.

Gabriel heard the outer door click shut. The relief that coursed through him had him sagging against the wall. He hadn't been entirely certain that Sutcliffe wouldn't force his way into the dressing room to hound him.

He couldn't handle it. Not now. Not when his stomach burned like acid and his head pounded so hard it felt as though it would split in two. Passing a shaking hand over his face, he stumbled to the chaise lounge in the corner of the room, collapsing onto the cushions.

Who the hell was Sutcliffe, anyway, to come into his room and treat him in such a way? Sutcliffe, who had left and never looked back, who never once wondered about
Gabriel's
life,
Gabriel's
happiness. Anger and self-pity welled up inside him.

God help you, Gabriel, if you had anything to do with that girl's death.

Alec's words echoed in his mind, sending shudders through him. He put his throbbing head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut to block it out.

Pretty brown eyes, dark hair tumbling down her back.
Alive.

He jerked upright, opening his eyes. The vision was his imagination, nothing more. He wiped a trembling hand against his mouth. He needed a drink. That would ease his suffering.

God help you, Gabriel, if you had anything to do with that girl's death.

“It's too late, Sutcliffe,” he whispered. God, he knew, had abandoned him years ago. There would be no hope in that quarter. He put his head in his hands again, and wept.

29

Kendra was with Rebecca when they got word that Sam Kelly had returned.

“Do you think he has learned the name of the fiend?” Rebecca wondered with some excitement as they hurried down the halls.

“I don't know,” Kendra admitted.

The Bow Street Runner was telling the Duke and Alec something, but broke off when they entered the study. Kendra felt the full impact of his gaze as he flicked her a look, hard enough to make the back of her neck tingle.

“Good morning, ladies,” Aldridge greeted. “Mr. Kelly has only just arrived. I suggest we sit down to hear his report. Would you like anything to drink?” He gestured to a side table that was laden with elegant silver pots, a creamer, and a sugar bowl. “I ordered tea, chocolate, and coffee.”

Some things here aren't so bad
, Kendra decided. At least this was a lot nicer than the thousands of Styrofoam cups filled with bad cop coffee that she'd consumed over the years.

Sitting down, she surveyed Sam. He looked like he'd spent the last four days sleeping in his clothes—or, rather,
not
sleeping in them, judging by the bags under his eyes. His cravat and shirt seemed more gray than white, only a few shades lighter than his dove-gray topcoat. This, along with the black waistcoat and breeches, was wrinkled and dirty. A film of dust coated his scuffed Hessian boots. His eyes held the same flat, watchful expression that she remembered from their previous meeting, so at odds with his elfin features.

After everyone had the beverage of their choice, the Duke settled behind his desk and nodded to the Runner. “Now, we shall begin. Mr. Kelly. Pray tell, have you discovered anything of significance?”

“First, I'd like ter say that several of me men made inquiries on the rattlers that go between here and London Town. There's not many, so it made the job a good bit easier.”

“Rattlers?” asked Kendra.

“Beggin' yer pardon, miss—I mean ter say, coach.”

“Perhaps if you'd limit your cant, Mr. Kelly. Miss Donovan is an American and is unfamiliar with some of our English vocabulary,” Aldridge put in.

“Aye, sir.” Again, the detective's eyes were hard with suspicion as he flicked another look in Kendra's direction. He continued, “I asked a friend ter copy the likeness of the young lass from Lady Rebecca's sketch. It ain't as good as yours, milady.”

“You are too gallant, Mr. Kelly,” Rebecca said mildly.

“Excellent notion.” The Duke stirred his tea. “I should have thought of it myself.”

“Even so, no whip—er, coachman—remembered her as a passenger. Not in the last month, that is. And she's pretty enough ter draw somebody's peepers.”

“You don't think she came by public coach then?”

“Hard ter say, sir. She could've worn a bonnet and veil. As no one recalled seeing anyone wearing that either, I wouldn't wager on it.”

“Then somebody brought her here in a private carriage,” the Duke mused.

“Aye. Most likely.”

No one said anything for a moment, but Kendra knew they were considering the implications. A private carriage added weight to her theory that they were dealing with a member of their own class.

She asked, “Any luck with the brothels?”

“Depends on what you mean by luck, miss.” He paused, then put down his teacup with a sigh. Reaching into his inside breast pocket, he pulled out a small wedge of paper, which he carefully unfolded, increasing its size to reveal Rebecca's original pastel sketch of the victim. The paper was now smudged and creased from being repeatedly folded and unfolded, and passed around.

“This is why I came back,” he said slowly. “There was naught that knew this lass.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Rebecca said, her face falling in disappointment.

“You can hardly have gone to every academy in London,” the Duke said.

“Nay, sir. I told you that me and me men would stick ter the mid-range bawd houses.”

“It was only conjecture on our part that this girl was from London. In point of fact, it's only conjecture that we're dealing with a madman who has killed before and will kill again.” Alec shot a veiled look at Kendra. “Mayhap we need to review this entire affair. Miss Donovan could be wrong.”

Kendra stiffened, but the Bow Street Runner was already shaking his head. “Nay. I do not believe Miss Donovan is wrong.”

Everyone looked at him.

Rebecca frowned in confusion. “You said that no one knew the girl.”

“Aye. No one claimed ter know
this
lass. But in the course of our inquiries, we found something peculiar.”

“What, Mr. Kelly?” asked the Duke.

Sam drew in a deep breath. “We found other lasses who've gone missing, sir.”

“Well, it
is
London . . .” Rebecca began uncertainly.

“They looked like this lass. Looked enough like this lass ter be her kin.” Sam picked up the sketch, studied it. “Young. Pretty. Brown eyes. Dark brown or black hair. Small in stature.”

There was a moment of silence. He glanced up, and shrugged. “Seems a wee bit of a coincidence ter have so many lasses missing who could've been sisters, if you take my meaning.”

“He has a type.” Kendra set down her coffee cup and stood up. She went over to the slate board. “He's not picking these girls at random. He saw these girls; he wanted
them
.”

“But . . . why?” the Duke asked, perplexed. “I don't understand.”

Kendra admitted, “I don't know. It could be anything—something in his past, a real or perceived injustice by a woman who looked like our victim—victims.”

Alec shook his head. “You're assuming these other women are dead. They're Birds of Paradise—fickle creatures, at best. They may have left their academy. They may have found a protector or a more generous abbess. They may have wanted to become a brothel-keeper themselves. Or, devil take it, they may have married the bloody butcher down the street! Any number of things could've happened other than murder.”

“Beggin' yer pardon, milord, but these bits o' muslin didn't just leave,” Sam argued. “They went
missing
. Not a one gave their notice or talked about finding a protector. Cartes blanches offered by buck-fitches are usually brokered by the abbess, so she can get her cut.

“No, sir. These lasses haven't been seen hide nor hair of since the day they disappeared from their bawd house.”

Rebecca shivered. “How many, Mr. Kelly? How many girls have disappeared?”

Sam hesitated, and the look in his eyes had Kendra holding her breath.

“Eleven, Lady Rebecca. Eleven lasses have simply . . . vanished.”

30

Numbers had power. One dead hooker versus almost a dozen girls who'd vanished without a trace—though the first was a certainty, Kendra didn't have to ask which number carried more weight. She saw it in the shock that registered on the faces of Rebecca and the Duke. Alec hid it better, but even he appeared nonplussed by the information, frowning darkly into the coffee cup he held.

In the silence that followed, Kendra picked up a piece of slate, and added under the
Victimology
column: “
Missing London Prostitutes; dark brown/black hair; brown eyes; petite . . .
” She glanced at Sam Kelly, who was studying the board with a frown. “How young, Mr. Kelly? What's the estimated age range?”