A Murder in Time Page 15

  Dalton tossed a coarse wool blanket over the long worktable in the middle of the room before the girl was laid on it. Kendra unbuttoned and unwrapped the footmen’s livery, leaving the girl exposed, her flesh no longer marble-white, but artificially golden in the lamp-lit room, the bruises and cuts on her body appearing darker, more grotesque.

  Alec was surprised at the flicker of embarrassment he felt. He was no stranger to a woman’s body, albeit they’d all been very much alive when he’d viewed them. He’d also seen his share of death during the bloody campaign waged against Napoleon. But this seemed . . . wrong. Kendra Donovan’s presence seemed wrong.

  The Duke apparently felt the same way, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Mayhap we ought to put a blanket on the poor girl, Miss Donovan, to preserve her modesty.”

  Kendra looked up with a frown. It took her a moment to realize the expression that she saw on their faces was discomfort. She correctly surmised that most of the men’s unease came not from the dead girl in the room, but the living one. If she was going to be involved in the investigation, she needed to set the parameters now. “She’s beyond modesty,” she said flatly. “Right now, the truth is more important.”

  “The truth?” Alec raised his brows. “Such as your pronouncement that whoever did this will kill again? Pray tell, how could you possibly know that, Miss Donovan? Do you have the sight?”

  “The sight?” Then she understood. “Oh. Like being psychic . . . or a soothsayer, you mean?”

  “Yes, Miss Donovan.” Impatience thinned his lips. “A soothsayer. Someone who claims to know the future.”

  Kendra was instantly struck by that notion. She did know the future. Their future was her past . . . or, rather, her history. It was an odd thought. And a distracting one. She pushed it aside.

  “I must agree with Lord Sutcliffe,” Morland put in, stepping near the table so that the lamplight limned his features and brought out the red highlights in his hair. Suspicion glinted in his eyes. “How can you possibly know the future, pray?”

  Kendra hesitated. This was the tricky part. In seventy-three years, Jack the Ripper would hold London in thrall with his brutal slayings of five prostitutes, but the term serial killer would have little or no meaning to the public-at-large until the 1970s. By the time the twenty-first century rolled around, people would not only know about serial killers, society would practically celebrate them in prime-time shows, made-for-TV movies, feature films, documentaries, and a slew of books devoted to the subject.

  “Well, Miss Donovan?” Alec raised his brows.

  She shifted her attention to the Duke. He was the one with the power, she knew. In this society’s pecking order, he was the one she needed to convince.

  “Where I come from . . .” she began, then paused, frowning slightly as she tried to organize her thoughts. Even in her own time, one dead body wouldn’t bring in the FBI. The magic number was three. That proved a pattern, that was the formula suggesting a serial killer was on the loose. Yet what she saw here on the victim was compelling evidence suggesting that was exactly what they were dealing with.

  “We . . . we’ve dealt with murderers like this one. They’re not normal.” Clumsy, Donovan, she thought, as Aldridge’s eyebrows shot up. “I know that murder is not normal. But there’s often a motivation. Profit or greed. Anger or jealousy. But this . . . this is more.” God, she was bungling it. A more pragmatic approach was required. “Look at the wound on her left breast.”

  Aldridge frowned, then leaned forward for a closer inspection. “A bruise.”

  “No. Look closer.”

  “Ah. A bite mark.”

  “Yes.”

  “An animal of some sort,” Dalton suggested, frowning. “A wild dog, mayhap.”

  “No. If you look at the impression, it’s not canine. They’re human.”

  Morland stared at her. “You cannot know—”

  “Yes, I can.” Her eyes flashed impatiently. “Can anyone tell me what animal would take one bite and leave the rest of the vic alone?”

  “The vic?” Alec wondered.

  “Victim. The girl.”

  The Duke straightened. “Miss Donovan is correct. If an animal did this, she’d have been mauled. A wild beast would not leave one single bite mark.”

  She moved down the victim. She wasn’t a medical examiner, but she knew what she was viewing. Would they see the same thing?

  “She has contusions and cuts around both her wrists.” Although she wished she had latex gloves on, she picked up a hand and ignored its cold, waxy feel as she studied the fingers and then palms. “No visible defensive wounds. Under attack, human beings will instinctively defend themselves. We put up our hands, try to return the attack.” She scanned the circle of skeptical faces. “This woman did not. She was held immobile throughout the attack. Based on the lacerations on her wrists, I’d say it was metal, most likely handcuffs. Rope would have created more of an abrasion.”

  “Good God.” Aldridge’s eyes filled with horror. “What are you saying?”

  “He tortured her. I’d need a magnifying glass, but these look like cuts, most likely by a knife.” She frowned as she studied the bruised, cut flesh along the torso. “It looks as though he spent time cutting her.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Alec breathed, affected.

  “There’s more.” While the victim had been in the water and the dark mane had been wet, it hadn’t been as obvious. Now Kendra threaded her hands through the girl’s hair, fanning the long dark strands out so they could see chunks behind the ears and back of the head had been clipped, sometimes close to the scalp. “He took pieces of her hair.”

  “Why? Why would he do such a thing?” Morland asked, sounding fascinated, despite himself.

  “A trophy. They sometimes take souvenirs from their victims to relive the moment over again.”

  Aldridge stared at her. “They?”

  “This type of killer,” she answered slowly. “This girl wasn’t killed because of robbery or greed or jealousy. This type of killer can’t control himself, even though control is a big issue with him. Control. Power. Domination. I . . .” Need time to work up a full profile, she thought. But she couldn’t say that. She’d probably already said too much. “I don’t know who killed this girl, but I can tell you two things: this isn’t his first kill, and he will do it again.”

  There was a stunned silence, and then Kendra turned to Dalton. “You said you are a surgeon. Will you handle the autopsy, Dr. Dalton? Unless there’s someone else . . . ?”

  Again, the man flushed. “It’s Mr. Dalton. And I said I was a surgeon.”

  Oh, God, had his license been suspended, revoked? Maybe he was incompetent. Was that why he reacted so strangely whenever she called him a doctor? “I’m sorry. If you’re no longer practicing—”

  “No, I’m not, but . . .” He shook his head, and glanced over at the Duke. “Your Grace, with your permission, I would be willing to conduct the postmortem.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dalton. Your assistance would be invaluable.” Aldridge sighed as his gaze returned to the dead girl. “We must get her description out in the community. Someone has to know who she is. We shall have to bring in that Runner, Alec.”

  “I’ll dispatch a note to London at once.”

  The Duke nodded and sighed, “We’ve done all we can do here. Mr. Dalton, you’ll need to send around for your tools. Miss Donovan, I shall escort you back to the castle.”

  As he drew her arm through his, Kendra caught the distrustful looks on the faces of the other men. Thank God I didn’t end up two centuries earlier, because they’d be burning me as a witch.

  Outside, the Duke murmured, “’Tis good to feel the sunshine, is it not, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra forced herself to ignore the disbelief she could feel emanating from the trio behind her. She lifted her face.

  “Yes,” she answered Aldridge. And it did feel good. The breeze, redolent with flowers, chased away the scent of death from the gloomy, co
ld, cave-like room.

  But the sunshine couldn’t dispel the chill in her heart. Because she knew that somewhere out there, in this sunshine-filled world, there was a monster masquerading as a man. And he was probably already stalking his next victim.

  She wondered if it was already too late.

  14

  “We’ll send for Hilliard, of course,” Aldridge said. “At the very least, he can be responsible for circulating a description of the poor girl.”

  They’d entered the castle’s enormous, atrium-style hall. The ceiling was interlaced with wooden beams. Hanging from the center was a massive, ormolu chandelier with more than a dozen tapered candles, currently unlit. Daylight streamed in through the long, skinny windows flanking the entrance. The half-moon stained-glass window above the double doors splashed a pretty prism on the black-and-white marble tiled floor. On the far wall, a wide staircase, its balustrade made of heavy wrought iron, wound upward. The walls were dotted with oil lamps set in ornate mirrored sconces, and decorated with medieval tapestries, weapons, and the mounted heads of rams and deer.

  She saw the Duke’s gaze flick toward the big glassy eyes of the long dead animals and knew what he was thinking. Trophies.

  “Your Grace, gentlemen . . .” Mr. Harding materialized out of one of the shadowy corridors. His eyes rested on Kendra briefly, appearing at a loss for words. He recovered, ignoring her completely by shifting his gaze back to the Duke. “The countess is in the Green Salon, sir. She sent word that she’d like to speak with you when you returned.”

  “Thank you, Harding.”

  The butler sketched a bow, cast an indecipherable look in Kendra’s direction, and disappeared through an arched doorway.

  Aldridge said, “I must see to Caro. Alec, if you’d be so good as to send for the constable and dispatch that note for the Runner. I suggest we meet in my study again . . .” He consulted his pocket watch. “Say, at half past five? That should give Mr. Dalton enough time to conduct the postmortem. Until then, I’m certain my sister has arranged some activity for the guests that ought to keep you well occupied, Mr. Morland.”

  Morland inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”

  Kendra held her breath as the Duke’s gaze came to rest on her. “You shall, of course, join us, Miss Donovan.”

  Relief loosened the knots in her stomach. “Thank you, sir.” She hesitated. “Well, I . . . should get back to my duties.”

  “Until half past five then.” Aldridge smiled.

  Although she could feel their eyes drilling holes into her shoulder blades as she crossed the hall, Kendra resisted looking back, slipping through one of the doors that, she hoped, would take her back to the kitchens.

  Alec waited until she was gone before raising a brow at his uncle. “And what duties are those? Last evening she said she was a lady’s maid. Today, she clearly is not.”

  Aldridge smiled. “Last evening you thought she was a thief.”

  Morland seemed bemused by their conversation. “The woman is a thief?”

  “Most certainly not.”

  Alec’s mouth tightened. “You cannot be certain, Duke. I also said she was a liar, most certainly a liar. Do you believe her about the girl?”

  The Duke’s smile faded, and his gaze moved to the trophies decorating the wall. The girl’s hair had been cut. Someone had bitten her, for heaven’s sake.

  “I don’t know what to believe, my boy, but, for now, we should keep an open mind.”

  Kendra had never felt more like a freak than she did as she made her way back to the kitchens. She knew she was under surveillance, recognized the furtive looks cast in her direction. A few servants even stopped their work to openly stare as she passed.

  A headache began brewing at the base of her skull. It didn’t help that the kitchens were now boiling hot and even noisier than before, or that here, too, people paused in their work and stared until Monsieur Anton, noticing, began to yell at them in French.

  “Oh, miss!” Rose ran toward her, and grabbed both her hands. “Wot ’appened? We ’eard there was a murder!”

  Another maid came forward. “Aye—and the fiend is on the loose!” That declaration caused several gasps of fright to ripple through the crowd of young maids gathering around Kendra.

  “We’ll be murdered in our beds, we will!”

  “Nonsense.” Cook came over to disperse the knot of young maids. “Everyone back ter work. Now! Dora, those chestnuts won’t blanch themselves!”

  “But Cook—”

  “Go on with ye!” She made a shooing gesture and then turned back to eye Kendra. “Well, miss, ye’ve caused quite a stir. Word’s goin’ ’round on how ye had all these things to say about the dead lass. On how she’d been murdered. Ye’re not touched, are ye?”

  “Touched? Oh. Crazy. I’ve been wondering that myself lately.” She attempted a smile that fell short of its mark, and disappeared altogether when Mrs. Danbury’s voice came from behind her.

  “Miss Donovan. A word, please.”

  She turned in time to see the black flutter of the housekeeper’s skirt disappear around the corner. Some of her dismay must have shown on her face, because Cook patted her shoulder sympathetically. “Best go on, Kendra. Mrs. Danbury’s a good woman, but ye’ve been a bit of a surprise to her. An’ she don’t like surprises.”

  “I’ve discovered I’m not too keen on them myself.” Anxiety made her stomach churn as she walked the now familiar path to the housekeeper’s office.

  “Sit down, Miss Donovan.”

  “I’m sorry—” she began, hoping to stave off another lecture, but the housekeeper whipped up a hand for silence.

  “Don’t, Miss Donovan . . . don’t. Your apology strikes me as false, since you are well aware that your behavior is highly irregular. In point of fact, it is outrageous.” She seemed to be warming to her topic. The gray eyes, which often seemed like chips of ice, flashed with heat. “I have never been so . . . so mortified. Mr. Kimble may be responsible for distributing your wages, but you are under my authority. Your conduct reflects upon me.”

  Kendra pressed her clammy palms together. This scene was familiar. Too familiar. How often in her childhood had she stood in her father’s study much this same way, while he criticized that some test or performance hadn’t been up to par?

  We expected better of you, Kendra . . .

  Are you deliberately trying to embarrass your mother and me?

  “Lady Atwood is furious with this situation,” Mrs. Danbury continued. “Her house parties are renowned by the ton, Miss Donovan. Renowned. To find that girl, to say she was killed—”

  “She was killed.” Kendra clenched her hands. “And I didn’t find her. I didn’t kill her.”

  “You made a spectacle of yourself in front of your betters! I do not know how things are done in America, but this is not done here,” she said in ringing accents. “Here you will behave in the proper fashion. Until I can decide what ought to be done with you, you shall be confined to below stairs. You shall have no contact with the guests or—”

  “The Duke requested my presence in his study at five-thirty.” And, yes, Kendra derived a petty satisfaction at the housekeeper’s dumbfounded expression.

  Mrs. Danbury regained her composure. “I see. We, of course, must acquiesce to His Grace’s wishes. Until that time, though, I expect you to attend to your duties in the kitchen.” An ice cube would’ve been warmer than the housekeeper’s tone. “And Miss Donovan? I shouldn’t get too complacent if I were you. Lady Atwood is the Duke’s sister. They are quite close. The countess is not happy with your behavior today. His Grace may be amused by you, but mind your step. Your footing here at the castle may not be as solid as you think.”

  “She must be dismissed, Aldridge!”

  From his position on the Grecian couch, the Duke of Aldridge observed his sister pace off her agitation. At fifty-three, two years his junior, she was still a pretty woman, he thought. She’d gained weight since the time she’d taken London b
y storm in her first season, thirty-five years ago, but it only served to smooth out the lines on her face. Her hair might not have been as golden, threaded as it was with silver, but she still styled it to the height of fashion, an elegant updo with a Spanish comb to anchor the topknot in place. Her blue eyes still sparkled, although at the moment, that sparkle had more to do with temper than vitality. In the last three years, he’d noticed that she’d begun applying rouge to her cheeks. Today, she could have done away with that artifice, since temper added a becoming flush to her countenance.

  “Are you listening to me, Aldridge?” She paused, settling her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

  He sighed. Caro only called him by his title when she was in high dudgeon. “I’m listening, my dear. But I fail to see why Miss Donovan should be dismissed.”

  “For heaven’s sake. She said that girl was murdered! In front of everyone. She ruined my nuncheon!”

  “I suspect the dead girl did that.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Bertie!”

  Instantly, the Duke sobered. “You’re absolutely correct, Caro. This is not amusing. However, Miss Donovan had the right of it; that poor girl was murdered. If you only knew what had been done to her . . .” His eyes darkened as he remembered the bruises, the cuts . . . the bite mark. What sort of vicious animal were they dealing with? Abruptly, he stood and put his hands on his sister’s shoulders to still her agitated movements. He stared down into the blue eyes so similar in shape and coloring to his own. “It’s not for a lady’s ears. Suffice to say, the girl deserves justice. She most likely has a family out there. They need to know what happened to their girl.”

  “Oh, Bertie!” Lady Atwood’s anger evaporated, replaced by a flood of sympathy. Because she knew he wasn’t only thinking of the girl in the lake.

  Recognizing the concern, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, squeezed her shoulders once, then let her go. “I’m sorry, Caro. I know this is unfortunate timing with your party. But we cannot ignore it. I’ve sent for a Bow Street Runner.”