A Twist in Time Read online

  A

  TWIST

  in TIME

  A Novel

  JULIE MCELWAIN

  With much love to John and Tammy,

  who always have my back.

  PROLOGUE

  The woman fought a shiver as she scampered down the dark back alley, her footfalls echoing hollowly on the cobblestone. She grimaced, wishing for a more silent approach. But there was no way around it. Get in, get out, she reminded herself. Her fingers curled around the collar of her serviceable wool coat, clutching it close to her throat in a vain attempt to ward off the night air. It was uncomfortably moist, thanks to the dirty brown fog that had rolled in earlier from the Thames.

  God willing, her brief return would not be noted by her mistress. Soon she’d be back at her sister’s flat, safely tucked in the trestle bed with a hot brick to warm her feet for the rest of the night.

  As she approached the servants’ entrance at the back of the Grosvenor Square town house, she withdrew the heavy iron key from her reticule. From the nearby mews stables, the snuffle and snort and shuffling of horses drifted across the alley. In the distance, a night watchman’s voice was a lonely warble as he called out the hour: “Eleven o’clock . . . and all’s well.”

  Squinting—it was so bloody dark here with no torch or lantern to light the way—she inserted the key into the lock, and had to bite back a gasp of surprise when the door immediately creaked inward a few inches. She could’ve sworn they’d locked the door when they’d been told to leave earlier. She vowed that her mistress would also never hear about the shoddy security.

  Hurriedly, heart thumping, she slipped into the hall and shut the door behind her. For good measure, she threw the thick bolt. Only then did some of her anxiety ease. Even though it was as dark in the hallway as it had been in the alley, she wasn’t concerned. She knew every inch of this place, and so didn’t bother to light the tallow candles stored in the mahogany cabinet next to the wall.

  She moved quickly now down the shadowed corridor. Only when she reached the foyer, well-lit from the many candles flickering in the two-tiered crystal chandelier, did she pause. The light that dispelled the gloom should have been comforting, but she felt exposed.

  If my mistress should see me . . .

  Her heart, which had calmed since entering the townhouse, began again to beat painfully against her breastbone.

  Get in, get out.

  Caution slowed her footsteps as she crept to the bottom of the staircase. There, she stopped and held her breath, straining to hear any noise. Nothing. They were most likely already in the bedchamber, she decided. She only needed to be quick about her task. Letting out her breath, she lifted her skirts and scurried up the stairs, no longer afraid about making noise—the thick woven rug that ran the length of the steps would absorb her footfalls.

  She hesitated again when she reached the top of the stairs. Like a woodland creature scenting danger, she glanced in the direction of the drawing room. The door was open, allowing amber light to pierce the shadows of the hall.

  She pivoted in the opposite direction, toward the narrow stairs that would lead her to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. Get in; get out.

  She would never be able to explain why she didn’t go about her business, why the light from the drawing room seemed to beckon her. For a moment, she swayed in indecision, her gaze darting back and forth from the servants’ stairs to the drawing room door. If her mistress caught her spying, she’d be dismissed without references for certain. Against her better judgment, she picked up her skirts and stole down the hallway to the doorway.

  Silently cursing herself for her foolishness, she held her breath and inched forward. Her heart thudded harder. Just a quick peek . . .

  The next second, her breath whooshed out of her lungs. She stumbled back, her heel catching on her skirt. As she fell, she was already screaming.

  1

  Sam Kelly did not consider himself a particularly superstitious man. However, as he sat in the Pig & Sail, a popular tavern with Bow Street Runners such as himself, thanks to its short distance to Bow Street Magistrates Court rather than the quality of its whiskey, the back of his neck prickled with an eerie sense of impending doom.

  London Town had always been a brutal city, but tensions had been rising ever higher since England had won the war with Boney, finally exiling the little tyrant to Saint Helena. Sam would’ve rather seen Napoleon hang—or his head roll from la guillotine, like so many French aristocrats had during their bloody revolution twenty years ago. It didn’t seem fair that the bastard had been sent to live out the rest of his days on a tropical island, while honorable Brits shivered in late September’s cool climate.

  In England, it should’ve been a time of jubilation. But there were too many returning soldiers, and the scarcity of work had put the entire country on edge. The recently passed Corn Laws didn’t help matters either, sending the grain price soaring beyond the means of honest, hardworking folk.

  Sam stared morosely into the glass of hot whiskey he cupped in his hands, enjoying the warmth from the glass seeping into his fingertips, and ignoring the laughter and talk of those crowded around him in the smoke-filled room. Times were changing, he thought. Every day seemed to introduce some new machinery that could do the work of ten men. He didn’t side with the Luddites—a bunch of ruffians, if you asked him, smashing the new power looms and weaving machines, burning down factories, and causing general mayhem—but he sympathized with their plight, with their frustration and fear that the machines were taking away their ability to earn a decent living.

  He’d read that some handcrafters had even ended up in the workhouse—if they were lucky. Otherwise, it was debtors’ prison. London was a powder keg, he knew, waiting only for a flint spark to set it off. Where would it all lead? How would people survive if machines took over?

  “Oy, gov’ner! Are ye Sam Kelly?”

  Sam lifted his gaze to the small urchin who’d materialized next to his table. He thought the lad looked familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. The city was fair to bursting with smudge-faced urchins. “Who wants ter know?”

  “William Drake sent me fer ye. ’E wants ter see ye.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “Will Drake?”

  “Aye. ’E’s a night watchman.”

  “I know who he is. What does he want?”

  “Yer the thief-taker Sam Kelly?”

  “I’m the Bow Street man Sam Kelly,” Sam corrected coldly, having always disliked the old-fashioned nickname. It carried the taint of corruption, from the days when a few unscrupulous Runners had been caught working in collusion with the criminal class, assisting thieves to rob the gentry so they could later return the stolen goods for the reward.

  The lad sidled closer, almost furtive in his manner, though no one paid him any particular attention. “Mr. Drake wants me ter bring ye ter ’im, if ye don’t mind, sir,” he said. “Ye see . . . there’s been a murder. A Lady. Real vicious-like.”

  “You saw the body?”

  “Nay. Oi was called ter the door. But oi ’eard a mort inside blubberin’. She was carryin’ on somethin’ awful.”

  “All right.” Sam hastily tossed back his drink—he wasn’t about to waste whiskey, even if it came from the Pig & Sail—and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his knees. Shrugging into his greatcoat, he retrieved his Bow Street baton with its distinctive gold tip from the scarred table, and used it to point toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  The Lady had been murdered in Grosvenor Square, which actually wasn’t a bad place to cock up your toes, Sam reflected. It was considered one of London’s more fashionable neighborhoods, with its stretch of elegant homes, three, four, and sometimes even five stories, house and terra
ces made of limestone or sandstone.

  Not that he could appreciate much of the architecture or the enormous park across the wide street at the moment. At near midnight, the darkness and fog, the latter as thick as porridge, made it impossible to see beyond a dozen paces. Unlike the gas lighting craze sweeping the city, Grosvenor Square residents kept to the tradition of lighting oil lamps, which were legally required to be hung out of each household at night, or risk being fined a shilling.

  As uncomfortable as he was about some of the changes he saw happening throughout the country, Sam had to admit that gas lighting on the street would’ve been helpful. At least he’d be able to do a proper scan of the neighborhood, he thought, as he and the lad scrambled down from the hackney he’d hired to bring them to the address. He dug out a coin and tossed it to the jarvey. The impenetrable blackness beyond the weak yellow glow of the oil lamps was giving him an itchy sensation that he was being watched—not an uncommon feeling in London Town, considering the number of criminals who often lurked in the shadows.

  Sam hurried toward the one townhouse that had both an oil lamp burning outside and light spilling from most of the windows. The windows in the adjacent houses were either shuttered or dark, the occupants already in bed or still out for the evening. It almost appeared as though the elegant neighboring buildings disapproved of the unseemly activity taking place at Number 8.

  It was a fanciful notion, one which had Sam shaking his head as he approached the two men standing in front of the partially opened door, smoking. He recognized them as members of the Night Watch, Henry Greely and Jack Norton.

  “Good evenin’.” He nodded at them.

  “’Tis evenin’. Nothin’ good about it,” Jack grumbled and shifted his body so Sam could enter the townhouse. “The devil is surely out and causin’ mischief.”

  Sam merely grunted a response.

  “Oy, where’d ye think ye’re going?”

  Sam glanced over his shoulder to see that Henry had grabbed his young companion by the scruff of his neck, halting his entrance into the townhouse.

  The urchin squirmed and glared at the night watchman. “Oi brought the thief-taker, didn’t oi? Oi want me bread promised by Mr. Drake!”

  “’Ow much did Mr. Drake promise ye?” Jack asked, digging into his pocket.

  A crafty gleam came into the child’s eyes. “A guinea.”

  Jack snorted. “Do ye take me for a sapscull? Give us the truth, boy, or go hungry!”

  “A quid.”

  “And Oi’m the King of England. Try again!”

  With a half smile at the lad’s boldness, Sam left the two watchmen to haggle with the scamp. He strode down the long, narrow hall to the stairs, his gaze taking in the black-and-white marble tiles and high ceiling with its white-plaster decorative molding. A chandelier hung in the center, its dozen candles melted down to short stubs, the flames flickering erratically.

  Upstairs, another watchman was stationed outside an open door, his attention fixed on whatever activity was going on inside the room. The man started visibly when Sam came up next to him. Without a word, Sam thrust his baton under the young man’s nose and moved into the room.

  The smell hit him first, that raw meaty odor that signaled fresh death.

  Half a dozen men were inside. Sam spotted William Drake immediately. Not only because he’d known him for almost twenty years. But because he was an imposing figure at six-foot-three, easily towering above the other men.

  “Drake,” Sam said in greeting.

  The night watchman glanced around. “Ah, Kelly. Wasn’t sure if the lad was going to find you. Told him to look in the Brown Bear or the Pig and Sail. Damn brutal business, this.”

  “Aye. Murder usually is,” Sam remarked, his attention already focusing on the victim.

  She’d been left sitting on a sofa designed in the Grecian style, its flowing lines and scrolled feet so popular with the gentry. The velvet upholstery was a soft blue, like a robin’s egg, nearly matching the color of the frothy silk and organza gown she wore. Her bosom, revealed by the dress’s low, square neckline, looked like it had been tattooed, dark angry wounds puncturing the pale skin. The bodice had also been torn up by the blade, the victim’s blood staining the delicate material.

  The woman’s gently curved white arms, revealed by the tiny cap sleeves of the gown, hung limply at her sides, the small hands resting on the sofa cushions, palms up as though she’d been supplicating her killer. Cuts marred the delicate flesh here, too, he noticed. She’d either tried to fight back, or put up her hands in a futile attempt to protect herself.

  Probably fight, he decided, his gaze traveling over the golden blond hair that had tumbled down in wild disarray around her shoulders, hairpins still clinging to the bright strands. Her head had lolled back against the sofa’s cushions, her long neck curved like a swan’s, her face tilted toward the ceiling. Her eyes were open, and glassy with death.

  Distaste tightened Sam’s features as he examined the victim’s face. It hadn’t been enough for the fiend to stab the lass to death—he’d cut her here too. There were two slashes on the right side of her face, one short laceration, no bigger than half an inch, and faint. A scratch, really. The other was a little deeper and longer, running from her outer eye to her mouth.

  The left side of her face, however, was far more gruesome. The fiend had actually cut—no, that word implied some skill. The fiend had hacked away at the skin, filleting it in a ragged manner so that it flapped down against her jaw, leaving the bloody pulp, bone, and even a few teeth beneath exposed.

  Sam’s mind immediately flashed to Kendra Donovan, the lass he’d worked with a month ago at Aldridge Castle to solve a series of grisly murders. The American had been a puzzle, both in her behavior and in her peculiar expertise in criminality. What would she make of this?

  “I’ve sent for the sawbones, but the Lady was stabbed, obviously,” William said, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. “Looks like a dozen times, at least. I only hope to God she was dead before he did that to her face.”

  Sam asked, “What sawbones?”

  “Dr. Munroe. He’s the best.”

  “Aye. That he is.” Sam dragged his gaze away from the woman’s shocking visage. Immediately his eyes were drawn to the large portrait above the fireplace.

  “She was a diamond of the first water, wasn’t she?” William said, eyeing the portrait as well.

  She’d indeed been a beauty. The artist had painted her fancifully, sitting on a swing in a lush garden setting. Her face was a creamy oval, framed by waves of golden hair. Her eyes, a striking violet shade, stared down at them. The rosebud mouth was curved into a small, provocative smile. A temptress, Sam recognized. Eve in the Garden of Eden. He wondered if that had been the artist’s intention, or if he was imagining the connection.

  He forced himself to turn away from the painting to survey the room. The décor was too feminine for his tastes, with lots of gilt, ornate moldings, and soft pastel colors. The carpet was woven in blue, purple, and gold. The rest of the furniture matched the sofa in its Grecian style. There was a small writing desk in the corner, a side table that sparkled with decanters and glasses, and a painted pianoforte positioned in front of the Palladian windows.

  “What’s this?” he asked, moving over to one of the chairs. It held precisely three items: an ivory fan, painted gold and light blue, its spokes broken and bent; an ornate hair comb that glittered with rubies and moonstones; and a heavy roemer.

  “We found them under the sofa,” William said, coming to stand beside him. “Most likely they fell in the attack and got kicked underfoot.”

  Sam picked up the roemer, and sniffed it. Whiskey. Frowning, he did another slow scan of the room. Like the entrance hall, the tapers were nearly gone in the chandelier and wall sconces. The log in the carved marble fireplace had been reduced to a pile of fiercely burning embers. But he could imagine how the scene had looked hours earlier, the fire and candles bathing the room in its radiance while
the Lady sat facing her killer.

  She’d dressed up for him in the low-cut gown, he thought; styled her hair with this jeweled comb. The fan was a tool of flirtation, and he could envisage the woman in the oil painting using it with considerable expertise. Had she also held the glass, sipping the whiskey? Doubtful. It wasn’t a lady’s drink. So had she prepared it for her killer?

  “She had ter have invited the bastard inside. What’s the poor lass’s name?” Sam asked.

  “Lady Dover—Lady Cordelia Dover.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “The devil, you say!”

  “You know her?”

  Sam hesitated. “Nay,” he finally said. “I’ve never actually had dealings with her. But she was a guest at the Duke of Aldridge’s house party a month ago.”

  “I heard you did some work for His Grace.” William gave Sam a speculative look. “Also heard a tale of a monster on the loose, strangling whores.”

  “’Tis true enough,” Sam remarked. There was a lot more to the story, of course. None of which he could share with the night watchman.

  “You caught the fiend then?”

  “Aye,” Sam replied simply. Kendra Donovan had actually been responsible for catching and killing the bastard, but Sam had promised the Duke to keep quiet about her involvement in the investigation, as well as the identity of the real killer. He was dead. Justice had been done.

  Frowning, he glanced at the body of Lady Dover and vowed to get justice for her too.

  “Who found the body, and when?” he asked.

  “The housekeeper, Mrs. Pierson. She returned an hour ago. When she saw the body, she ran out, screaming for the Watch.”

  “I guess it was your luck ter be on duty.”

  “Jack Norton was the one patrolling the area,” William said, “but he summoned me.”

  “Where are the other servants?”

  “Lady Dover sent everyone away until the morrow. Mrs. Pierson only returned because she’d forgot her medicine. Thought she’d sneak in—the back door was open—and found her mistress like that.”