A Murder in Time (39 page)

“Lady Anne,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

He nodded toward the painting. “'Tis Morland's mother, Lady Anne. Of course, this painting was commissioned at least twenty-five years ago.”

Kendra studied the figure more closely. “She's beautiful.” She slanted a glance at the Duke, and wondered if he realized that the woman bore a striking resemblance to Jane Doe.

“Your Grace . . . Miss Donovan.” They turned as Morland strode into the room. He sent Kendra an enigmatic glance, probably wondering what the hell a paid companion was doing with the Duke. “Welcome. This is a rare pleasure.”

“Your home is very impressive,” Kendra said.

A wry look crossed Morland's face as he lifted his gaze to the painted ceiling. “I'm afraid that I am less interested in Greek legends than my grandfather or mother. I've considered refurbishing, but I fear it would upset Mother.”

“How is Lady Anne?” asked Aldridge. “Will she be joining us?”

Morland looked down at his hands, his expression tightening. “No. I fear my mother is unwell.”

“Oh, my dear boy, I am distressed to hear this. If you have need of any remedies, we have an excellent stillroom maid at the castle.”

“You are most kind, sir.” His gaze flickered up, then away. “However, I fear there is no remedy for what ails my mother.”

Behind them the door opened and the butler entered, followed by a maid carrying the tea service.

“Ah, excellent.” Morland seemed relieved at the interruption. “Let us sit, shall we?”

The maid set down the tray on a nearby table, curtsied, and left. The butler stayed behind to pour.

“How do you take your tea, sir?”

“Two sugars. Cream.”

“Miss?”

“Black. One sugar.”

The butler doctored the tea, passed around the cups. He obviously knew Morland's preferences, handing him a cup and saucer without inquiring.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes. You may go, Adams.” As the butler closed the door behind him, Morland raised his brows. “Is this visit about the soiled dove? Has the Bow Street Runner returned?”

Aldridge's expression pulled into grave lines. “As a matter of fact, he has.”

“Has he learned the identity of the chit?”

Kendra watched him closely, but couldn't detect anything other than curiosity in his gaze. “No, but he uncovered something significant. Prostitutes similar to the girl found in the lake have vanished from London over the last four years.”

“Vanished? I don't understand. If they were not found murdered, pray tell, how can you make the correlation between those prostitutes and the dead girl in the lake?”

The Duke answered. “It's difficult to explain. However, based on the evidence, I am confident that there is a connection.”

Kendra looked at Morland. “Where were you Sunday night, Mr. Morland? I understand that you were at Lady Atwood's dinner party, but where did you go after?”

For a moment, he simply stared at her. As though he hadn't heard her correctly. Then his gaze swiveled to the Duke. “What does my whereabouts have to do with this, Your Grace?”

Aldridge sighed. “I apologize for our impertinence. Miss Donovan has convinced me that this line of inquiry is necessary.”

“Miss Donovan has persuaded you to believe I am capable of this—this barbarism?”

“We're questioning several people, Mr. Morland,” she stated calmly. “It's procedure.”

“Procedure?
What
procedure? I'm the bloody magistrate!”

“Think of it as your civic duty.”

“My—” A muscle worked in his jaw. “This is absurd!”

The Duke sighed again. “I truly was hoping you would not take insult. Nevertheless, I'd like an answer.”

His tone was mild, but Kendra recognized the steel beneath it. She was reminded again of the power the Duke wielded in this world.
Better than a badge.

Morland put his teacup down and surged to his feet. Spine rigid, he stalked to the window. When he answered, his voice was abrupt. “I returned home from the dinner party. After Monsieur Anton's most excellent dinner, I took a turn around the garden. Then I read in the library before retiring to my bedchamber.”

“Can anyone verify your whereabouts?”

He flicked her a hard look. “It was late. Mayhap the servants observed my nocturnal activity. Mayhap they did not.”

“What about your valet?” Kendra asked, remembering Rebecca's question to Dalton. “Wouldn't he have helped you get ready for bed?”

“He assisted me before I occupied myself reading in the library. I did not need his assistance later.”

“What book did you read?”

He frowned, puzzled. “What does my reading material have to do with anything?”

“I realize this is confusing, but I'd appreciate an answer.”

He continued to frown at her for several more seconds as though trying to figure out the reason behind the question, then shrugged. “
Tom Jones
. Have you read it, Miss Donovan?”

“Yes. It's an old book.” Even in this time period.

Morland said nothing.

Kendra continued, “You are familiar with London, my Lord?”

“Of course. I have a town house that I make use of, especially during the season. As does most of the Ton, including His Grace.”

Aldridge acknowledged that point with a nod. “It's been many years since I made use of my townhome, but my sisters and their families often use it for their sojourns to Town.”

For the first time since they'd begun the interview, Morland's eyes glinted with amusement. “If, by your query, you are wondering about my escapades in London, Miss Donovan, I shall admit to sowing my wild oats. But that was when I was a young buck. And if being a rascal is now a crime then the entire aristocracy is at risk of deportation or the gallows. With the exception, of course, of the Duke of Aldridge.”

“But you go back and forth between your home here and London?”

He gave a shrug. “I suppose. No more or less than anyone else though, including Lord Sutcliffe and his brother, Lord Gabriel.”

“Thank you for answering our questions, Mr. Morland.”

He raised a brow, surprised. “We are at the end of the interrogation?”

“I prefer to call it an interview.”

“I suppose that depends on who is asking the questions, does it not?”

Taking that as a signal, Aldridge set aside his teacup and stood up. “Again, I apologize for any inconvenience, Mr. Morland. My sister has orchestrated a dinner and dance tonight. I hope this will not influence your decision to attend?”

“Not at all, Your Grace.” The magistrate was back to being affable, even managing a smile as he opened the door and ushered them out into the hall. “'Tis not easy to be quizzed about a harlot's murder, but one must make allowances. I certainly want this villain caught.”

“That is what we all want, I daresay,” the Duke agreed.

As they stepped out in the hall, Kendra caught the flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she felt a jolt of surprise as a creature right out of a horror movie raced toward them. The woman's skin so pale that it glowed as luminescent as the moon, yet was almost fleshless against the sharp bones of her face. The only color in that bloodless countenance was the dark half-moons beneath her sunken eyes, and the eyes themselves, glittering like black agates. Her hair was the color of dull ash, falling in a tangled disarray down her back. She wore what appeared to be a shapeless white gown, yards of fabric fluttering around her skinny legs as she ran. Her slender feet, Kendra noticed, were bare and dirty.

Kendra heard the Duke's swift intake of breath, then the woman was throwing herself into Morland's arms, oblivious to everyone else.

“Oh, Adonis! Where have you been? The harpy is here!”

Morland brought his hands up to grip the woman's upper arms, trying to disengage himself from her clutching fingers, but she wrapped herself around him like lichen. “Mama, where is Mrs. Marks?”

Shocked, Kendra thought of the portrait in the drawing room. There was no resemblance between that beautiful girl and this old crone.

“My God,” Aldridge breathed.

Morland shot him an anguished look.

“He mustn't find us,” Lady Anne whispered. “We must flee before it's too late.”

“Hush, Mama. You should not be out of your rooms. You are unwell.”

She began to pat his face with veined, speckled hands. “Adonis. My Adonis,” she crooned. “We shall flee to Mount Olympus. He shall never know.”

Morland grasped her wrists. “Mama, you must return to your rooms. 'Tis not safe for you to wander about.”

“Oh, sir!” A woman built like a fire station and wearing a maid's uniform came trotting down the hall. “I'm most dreadfully sorry. She got away from me!”

Morland glared at her. “Obviously. We shall speak of this later, Mrs. Marks. Now, please take my mother back to her rooms.”

“Oh, aye, Mr. Morland.”

Lady Anne glanced around, her eyes widening in fear. “No! No!” She clutched at Morland. “She's a harpy. Please, Adonis—”

Mrs. Marks's beefy hands came down on the old woman's frail shoulders, pulling her away from her son. “Ma'am, we mustn't disturb Mr. Morland,” she said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Come along, dearie. Let's get you back to your rooms.”

The black eyes blinked in confusion. Her face went slack as she stared at her son. “Who are you?” she whispered.

“Mama—”

“No!
NO!
You are not my Adonis!” Terror rippled across Lady Anne's face, and she shrank away from Morland. “No! No! Do not touch me!” She began to sob.

Mrs. Marks hauled the old woman to her side. “There now, ma'am. Would you like a nice cuppa chocolate?” She herded her down the hall, casting one anxious glance back at Morland. “We'll sit by the fire, you and me, and drink our chocolate.”

“He's not my Adonis! Where is Adonis?” the old woman whimpered against the servant. They turned a corner and eventually Lady Anne's sobs faded, leaving a stark silence in its wake.

They stood frozen, locked into place by a myriad of emotions. Kendra exchanged a glance with the Duke, and saw horror and pity in his gaze.

“I apologize, Your Grace, for that scene,” Morland said stiffly. He looked so dazed that Kendra actually felt sorry for him. “My mother, as I said, is ill.”

“I had no idea,” the Duke murmured. “I haven't seen Lady Anne since . . . well, since your grandfather died.”

“Yes. It happened shortly after. She began to forget things. There were days she had to be told to eat or dress. Sometimes . . .” He swallowed hard, and stared unseeingly down the corridor where his mother had disappeared. “Sometimes she mistakes me for my father. Or her reality becomes blended with mythology. Mrs. Marks takes care of her, watches her.” His lips twisted. “Or tries to. Despite my mother's failing mental capacity, she's canny enough to escape the woman.”

“My deepest sympathies, my boy. I remember Lady Anne . . .” Aldridge paused and then sighed. “That is neither here nor there. We shall leave you in peace, Mr. Morland. Forgive our intrusion.”

Morland nodded with an air of distraction, accompanying them down the stairs to the foyer. “I would prefer it if you would be . . . discreet about my mother, sir. I would not wish her name bandied about.”

“Quite understandable.” Aldridge hesitated. “If you should require any assistance . . .”

“Thank you, sir. I have brought in mad-doctors from London, but they say there is nothing to be done. I won't put her in a lunatic asylum.”

“No, certainly not.”

They stood in an awkward silence until the carriage arrived. Aldridge waited until the coachman flicked his whip, and the horses began trotting down the drive. The afternoon was sliding fast into evening and there was a chill in the air, but Kendra thought they were dealing with another chill that came from horror.

“My God,” the Duke breathed. “I had no idea. Lady Anne is quite mad.”

35

The sun was sinking rapidly to the horizon when they gathered again in the study. As Alec poured drinks, two footmen arrived to silently bring in wood and light a fire in the hearth, as well as lighting the candles and wall sconces.

Rebecca waited until the servants had departed before she revealed, “Harris was not at home.”

Kendra accepted a glass of claret from Alec. “Not at home, literally? Or not at home to you?”

Rebecca gave her an astonished look. “My dear Miss Donovan, Sutcliffe is a
marquis
. I am the daughter of an earl. Mr. Harris is the youngest son of an earl. A
vicar
. He would hardly have
not
been at home to us if he
were
at home!”

Aldridge chuckled as he took a sip of his brandy. “I believe Miss Donovan is jesting, my dear. I explained to her the calling card etiquette during our visit to Tinley Park.”

The aristocrat raised her brows. “You do not have calling cards in America?”

Again Kendra thought of her FBI badge. “My calling card was a little different. Where was Mr. Harris?”

“Out in the woods riding. Mr. Kelly, would you like a glass of claret, brandy, or whiskey?” Alec glanced at the Runner.

“Oh. Whiskey, thank you, sir.”

“We shall have to interview him another time,” Alec continued, passing a stout glass with a generous four fingers to Sam. “However, I am happy to report that we can eliminate Squire Wilding from our hunt.”

“Yes.” Rebecca sipped her claret. “The poor man is suffering most dreadfully from the unwalkable disease. Podagra,” she added when she saw Kendra frown.

“Podagra? Foot pain?” Kendra translated the Greek phrase.

“Gout, Miss Donovan,” the Duke added. “The disease of kings. The good Squire has a prodigious fondness for food—red meat in particular, if I recall. Which, I have been told, exasperates the illness.”