A Murder in Time (47 page)

Alec stared at his brother in disgust. “Kendra only defended herself.”

“She's a bitch.”

Alec's hands curled into fists. It took all his effort to keep calm, to not give in to the desire to haul the younger man out of the water and plant a facer on him. “Have you no remorse for your actions?”

Gabriel dropped his gaze, studying his knees poking out of the water, and said nothing.

“Oddly enough, Miss Donovan no longer believes that you had anything to do with the death of those girls.” Alec watched Gabriel's face closely, and saw the jolt of surprise. He pressed his advantage. “Where did you go on the first night of the house party?”

Gabriel scowled.

“Dammit, Gabe—”

“What does it matter, if you say Miss Donovan no longer believes I killed the whores?”

“You lied about your whereabouts. You did not stay the evening at Hawkings's cockfight. Why?”

“'Twas a private affair.”

“For God's sake, Gabriel, if you were sleeping with some chit or somebody's sodding wife, tell me now!”

Gabriel surged to his feet, water dripping down his naked body. He reached for the folded towel that Finch had laid on a nearby chair and began rubbing himself dry. “I do not need to tell you a damn thing.” He shot him a sullen look, stepping out of the tub. He wrapped the towel around his waist. “You and I may share a father, but we share nothing more. Do you hear me?”

Alec studied his brother. “I hear you. Now you hear me. If you lay another finger on Kendra Donovan, I'll break it and every goddamn finger in your hand, before I finish with the rest of your miserable body.”

Gabriel absorbed the threat in silence, then curled his lip. “'Tisn't like you to become involved with the servants, Sutcliffe.”

Alec tensed, once again surprised by the fury that rolled through him, the desire to beat the younger man into a bloody pulp. Keeping a tight rein on his temper, he turned and, with measured steps, went to the door. There, he paused and glanced back at his brother with a warning look. “Remember what I said, Gabe.”

He waited, and when Gabriel said nothing, he let himself out of the bedchamber.

Alone, Gabriel bent down and snatched the whiskey glass off the floor. For a long moment, he stared down into the amber liquid. Kendra Donovan no longer believed him to be the monster responsible for killing the harlots. But instead of relief, he felt confusion. How could she be so certain when he couldn't be absolutely certain himself?

Sam Kelly and the London medical examiner, Dr. Munroe, arrived at nine
a.m.
, which must have meant they'd been on the road at dawn. Certainly, the Bow Street Runner's elfin features looked even more drawn. He'd washed his face, wetted down his curly hair, but he hadn't bothered to shave since yesterday. The result was like an elf who had gone on a bender. His golden-brown eyes were red, but, unlike Gabriel, it wasn't from whiskey—or her thumbs—but lack of sleep.

Kendra turned her attention to Dr. Munroe. He was a big man who looked to be in his early fifties, with black brows that contrasted sharply with a thick silvery mane he'd brushed back from his square face and tied into a ponytail, a style that had been popular in the eighteenth century and would become popular again among aging Hollywood producers, fashion designers, and artist-types in a few centuries. His dark gray eyes were piercing behind Harry Potter–type gold spectacles, pinched into place on the bridge of his hawk-like nose.

Aldridge was in the process of introducing the coroner when the door was flung open and Rebecca came flying into the room. She halted, her eyes automatically going to Kendra's throat. Her lips tightened. “How are you feeling this morning, Miss Donovan? The damage looks even worse today than yesterday.”

Aware of everyone staring at her, Kendra gave an embarrassed shrug. “I'm fine.” She wished that she could cover up the contusions somehow, but none of the dozens of gowns Rebecca had bought for her had high necklines. And she could hardly run out to a corner drugstore to buy a bottle of Maybelline cover-up. Her only consolation was that Gabriel would have a bigger problem concealing his bloodshot eyes.

“I have apprised Mr. Kelly and Dr. Munroe of Gabriel's shocking outburst,” said the Duke, “as well as your opinion that he is not responsible for these monstrous acts.”

Sam gave her a curious look. “How can you be certain, if you don't mind me askin', miss? His violence seems ter fit your pattern.”

Because there was a pot of coffee (as well as pots of tea and chocolate) on the side table, Kendra walked over to pour herself a cup. “No, that's my point. Lord Gabriel reacted emotionally when I pressed him. The man responsible for these murders wouldn't have been so rash.”

Sam didn't look entirely convinced, but was distracted when the door opened again, and Alec came strolling in. Aldridge quickly made introductions.

“When will you do the postmortem, sir?” Rebecca asked Munroe, her forthright manner earning a surprised look from the doctor.

Alec sighed. “Dr. Munroe, do not be put off by this hoyden's blunt manner.”

Rebecca sniffed. “I would think, given Dr. Munroe's profession, that it would take more than my blunt manner to put him off.”

Munroe smiled. “I shall begin my work shortly. First, though, I have a few questions. I have been informed that Miss Donovan has a rather unusual expertise in this area, but my topic of discussion may be rather gruesome. I would protect your delicate sensibilities, your Ladyship. Perhaps you ought to retire from the room until it is concluded?”

Kendra hid a smile as she watched Rebecca's eyes narrow.

“I do not see why I ought to do any such thing. I have been involved in these proceedings much longer than you have, my good man!”

Munroe lifted a dark brow.

“Lady Rebecca is progressive in nature—as are we all,” Aldridge remarked mildly.

“Does that offend
your
sensibilities, Dr. Munroe?” Rebecca inquired pertly.

“Many of my colleagues are advocates of Aristotle's theory of human development,” Munroe replied, “which purports that women's energies are concentrated in their reproductive organs rather than their brains.”

Rebecca gave the doctor a stony stare. “You ought to find better colleagues, Doctor.”

He grinned suddenly. “Aye. I agree with you, your Ladyship. Sadly, too many of my esteemed colleagues are stuck in the past. We are living in a dynamic time. New discoveries are made daily. To move forward, I believe, one must keep an open mind.”

“Excellent. Now that that's settled, I suggest we get down to business.” Aldridge sat down behind his desk, turning his gaze to the Bow Street Runner. “I have not had the chance to ask Mr. Kelly what transpired in Town.”

Sam grimaced, and shook his head. “None of the birds at the academy could identify the devil. But I did get a name for the lass in the lake. Lydia Benoit. Not her true Christian name, I suspect.”

“Ah, yes,” Munroe said. “A nom de guerre. Lady birds enjoy a touch of the exotic. They believe it enhances their appeal. In this case, terribly ironic.”

Rebecca glanced at him. “How so, Dr. Munroe?”

“‘Benoit' means blessed.”

A grim silence settled over the company. Then Sam cleared his throat. “She'd worked at the brothel for a year. The other birds liked her well enough. Seemed proper shocked that she'd cocked up her toes. They remembered that the bawd—Miss Duprey—had hired her out, which was a rare thing. Miss Duprey tended ter be cheeseparing with the lasses, so whoever it was had ter be plump enough in the pockets ter get the bawd ter agree.”

“But they have no idea as to his identity?”

“Nay.”

Kendra frowned as she sipped her coffee. The niggling sensation was back. Something . . . something . . . what was it? It brushed at her consciousness with fragile butterfly wings, before fluttering away. She had to let it go.

“April Duprey had to contact the killer somehow. Is there any way to track that?”

“I don't see how,” Sam said. “She had her footman post the letter—an unusual enough occurrence for him ter take note. But as he can't read, he had no way of knowing who was on the receiving end.”

Kendra let out a frustrated sigh. Would every lead turn into a dead end? She set her coffee cup down, and walked over to the slate board. Picking up a piece of slate, she crossed off the name of Jane Doe, and wrote Lydia Benoit. It didn't matter that it probably wasn't the name that the girl had been born with. Anything was better than the anonymous Jane Doe. Maybe Rebecca was right; it was important for a soul to be identified.

“Captain Harcourt has an alibi for the time April Duprey was killed,” she said. “I don't think he and Gabriel are telling the truth about their whereabouts on the night Lydia was killed, but for the reasons I've already stated, I think we can cross them off the list and focus elsewhere.”

Munroe joined her at the slate board. “'Tis an unusual assortment of observations you have written here, Miss Donovan. Yet I have to ask: are these facts, or conjecture?”

Kendra considered that for a moment. “You could say it's conjecture based on facts.”

“I see.”

“It is most unusual, but Miss Donovan takes a scientific approach to crime,” said Aldridge. “One that involves deductive reasoning.”

“That is unusual, sir.”

Kendra couldn't tell if the doctor believed in the process, but she wasn't going to try to convince him. She had the Duke's support, and that was all that mattered.

She looked at Sam. “Did you find out anything about Dalton's late wife?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “I only dispatched a man ter ride up north ter make inquiries. 'Tis several days' ride. Me men in the area here are still questioning servants. Maybe someone'll have something ter say.”

No matter how complex an investigation, it always boiled down to the basics, Kendra thought. Canvassing the neighborhood, questioning colleagues, friends, family, neighbors. The techniques changed, but the approach remained timeless. There was something comforting in that.

Munroe set aside his teacup. “'Tis time for me to meet April Duprey. God willing, she will have something to say as well.”

45

Dead men could tell tales, Kendra knew. So could dead women. In the future, science would give voices to the dead with such discoveries as chromatography at the turn of the century, and then luminol and the scanning electron microscope in the 1930s. And, of course, the most valuable tool of her time, DNA typing, which law enforcement would begin to make use of in the mid-1980s—more than a century from now.

What tales could April Duprey possibly tell, she wondered, with such primitive tools at their disposal?

They gathered around the body. Everyone except Rebecca, who, despite her protests and the gentlemen's proclamations for being progressive thinkers, couldn't bridge this era's gap between the sexes. Nor the class system, Kendra suspected. Rebecca was a
Lady
. And ladies had more delicate sensibilities than a woman from the lower classes.

They had yet to determine where Kendra belonged. Even though Munroe had seen her “handiwork” on the slate board, he gave her a critical look over April Duprey's body. “Do you understand what is involved in a postmortem, Miss Donovan?”

“Yes.”

“I shan't catch you if you swoon.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

He was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “As you wish. I shall begin with an external examination.”

Dr. Munroe discarded his jacket and cravat, rolled up his sleeves, and put on something that reminded Kendra, a bit ghoulishly, of a butcher's apron. He leaned over the body. “If someone could assist me by holding the lantern to give me better light?”

Kendra picked up one of the lanterns that had been brought into the gloomy room, angling it so the amber light fell directly on the woman's pale face.

“Thank you, Miss Donovan.”

With interest, she watched Munroe slide several sheets of foolscap beneath the head, then begin to work a comb through the tangled hair. “Looks to be mostly twigs, leaves . . .” He dumped the debris into the glass vials he'd lined up on the table behind him.

“Lacerations on the face, varying sizes. Looks to be from branches.” He moved down the body. “She appears to have been cut on the back of the hand.”

“From a knife, and only once,” Kendra pointed out.

“Yes. I can see that.” He did what she had, taking a tweezers and magnifying glass for the initial inspection. “I shall need to remove the glove.”

He attempted to remove it manually, but dried blood and moisture and internal gases that bloated the dead woman's hand had effectively glued the leather to the skin beneath. Abandoning the effort, the doctor cut off the glove and then scrutinized the hand.