A Murder in Time (23 page)

He flushed, unable to meet her eyes. “Yes.”

The Duke looked grim. “He is a monster.”

“Yes. But he won't
look
like a monster. It's very important that everyone understand that.” She scanned the faces in the room. “He will look no different than you or me.”

“Jesus.” Hilliard drank the rest of the brandy in one gulp.

“Right now the victim is our only connection to the killer,” Kendra said. “We need to find out her identity.”

“I don't believe she's from the area. She wasn't a farmer's daughter, a servant, or of the working class,” Dalton said slowly.

Kendra looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because of her hands. The palms were not rough. No calluses. No indication she did manual labor.”

Kendra raised her brows, surprised. Soft, smooth hands were so much a part of her world that she hadn't considered it an anomaly during this time period.

“Could she be a Lady?” Morland wondered, sipping his brandy.

“Doubtful,” said Alec. “If a peer of the realm's daughter disappeared, there'd be hue and cry by now.”

“Unless the peer in question is afraid of the ensuing scandal,” Morland countered.

Aldridge frowned. “You gentlemen are out and about in society. You didn't recognize her?”

“She struck me as a bit young to have come out, Duke,” Alec commented.

“She could be some cit's daughter,” Hilliard speculated.

“No. I don't believe so.” Dalton cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable again. “I believe she was a prostitute.”

“I say—how'd you know?” The constable's eyebrows shot up.

“The girl—I estimate her age to be around fifteen—she'd been pregnant, but the child was not brought to term.”

“I see,” Aldridge said slowly.

Alec straightened. “Miscarriage or abortion?”

“Abortion.”

“That would make her a prostitute?” Kendra asked.

All four men seemed to find her question shocking. “Miss Donovan, gently bred women do
not
procure the services of an abortionist,” was all the Duke said.

Kendra wondered if that was true. In her opinion, if a woman was desperate enough, scared enough, it would drive her to do anything, regardless of laws or societal restrictions.

Dalton continued, “Like her hands, her feet were soft, well-maintained. No calluses, bunions, or other imperfections.”

Morland lifted his brandy glass and muttered, “Sounds like a woman who worked on her back.”

Hilliard was the only one who found his crude jest amusing. Catching the Duke's reproving stare, he transformed his laugh into a cough, straightening in his chair. “My apologies, gov—er, Your Grace.”

“She was not a street prostitute,” Dalton went on. “She was too . . . soft, I'd say. Streetwalkers are tough and rough. No sign she relied on the drink—or anything else for that matter.”

“Could've only begun plying her trade,” Alec suggested. “She's young enough.”

“By my estimation, the scarring from the pregnancy and abortion is at least two years old.”

“She'd have been only thirteen,” murmured Kendra.

“She probably worked in an academy,” Dalton said.

Kendra looked at him. “An academy?”

“Ah, it's um—”

“A brothel,” Alec said impatiently. “Or she was some man's mistress.”

Kendra decided not to comment on what she thought of a man taking a thirteen-year-old mistress. Instead, she said, “Okay, we'll go with the assumption that she worked as a prostitute. This is as good a starting point as any.” She paused, a little surprised that what she said was actually true.

She had very few expectations when she'd first entered the study. Certainly she wouldn't be able to rely on her usual arsenal of tools—forensics, FBI databases. Even the media. While the latter could be annoying, it served a purpose—photos of victims could be released in the hope that a John or Jane Doe would be identified.

Her eyes fell on the portrait of a woman and child above the fireplace. An idea occurred to her. “Is there any way we could have someone make a sketch of the victim?” she asked. “If we did that, maybe we could get it to the local newspaper. Someone might recognize her, come forward.”

“Lady Rebecca—” Dalton began.

“Impossible.” Alec gave him a quelling look. “She'd have to view the body to sketch it.”

“Who's Lady Rebecca?” Kendra asked.

Alec scowled. “A
Lady.
”

Kendra frowned, although she knew his attitude was the norm in this world. Women of rank were treated little better than china dolls. She remembered reading once that it was not unheard of for ladies to be banned from attending funerals, for fear their delicate sensibilities would shatter.

“That is neither here nor there,” said Aldridge. “No reputable newspaper would publish a sketch of an Unfortunate Woman. We shall have the Runner take the girl's description and make inquiries around London.”

“Assuming the whore was from London,” Morland pointed out. “London is scarcely alone in having brothels. She may have come from an academy in Bath or Manchester or Glasgow.”

“London is the closest city,” Kendra pointed out. “Why would he search farther for his victim?”

Morland eyed her over the rim of his brandy glass. “If we should discover the chit's identity, pray tell, how will that help us identify her murderer, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra gave a slight shrug. “It's a lead. If she belongs to an . . . academy, he may be a client. Someone else at the brothel might know who he is.”

The Duke's gaze was troubled as he met hers. “And you really believe he will kill again?”

“I know he's killed before. I know he'll kill again. And . . .” she hesitated, and licked suddenly dry lips. She couldn't tell if he—if any of the men—accepted what she was telling them. The next bit, she knew, would be even more difficult. “And,” she said firmly, “you probably know him.”

She didn't have to wait long for a reaction. Morland looked indignant. “That's preposterous!”

Hilliard gaped at her. “I say!”

Even Dalton shook his head. “No . . .Whoever did this is a . . . a . . .”

“A madman. A monster. Yes, we've already been over this,” she said impatiently. “I told you: he'll be quite ordinary. You could talk to him, and never really know
him
. His nature. What he's done. He most likely lives in the surrounding area, or at the very least, he's familiar with it.” She saw their disbelief, and couldn't really blame them. Hell, the idea of having a serial killer living in one's community was difficult to digest even in the twenty-first century.

Everyone was silent, staring at her, at each other.

The Duke sighed, then stood. “Well, you certainly have given us much to consider, Miss Donovan. The Bow Street Runner ought to be here tomorrow.”

Aware that it was a dismissal, everyone stood. Aldridge came around the desk and laid a detaining hand on Kendra's arm as all the men, with the exception of Alec, filed out of the room.

When the door had closed behind them, Alec lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Well, Miss Donovan, you
do
liven up what would've been an otherwise tedious house party.”

She shot him an exasperated look, and then turned to the Duke. “Do you believe me?” she asked bluntly.

“I don't want to,” he admitted. “But I saw what was done to that girl. I cannot disregard what you have told us. We shall see what the Runner has to say.”

Kendra frowned, and wondered what that meant. Would the Duke turn the entire investigation over to the Bow Street Runner? A detective, perhaps, but a
nineteenth-century
detective.

Her stomach clenched. There was still one thing she could do.

“Do you have a chalkboard, by any chance?” she asked.

The Duke seemed puzzled by the question. “Chalk . . . board?”

“Yes.” Oh, hell, when was the chalkboard invented? She didn't know. But from the Duke's reaction, obviously not now. “Something to write on.” She pantomimed the activity. “You know, children use it in school.”

“I believe she's referring to a slate board,” Alec offered, sounding amused.

“Ah. Yes, we've a slate board in the schoolroom. Why?”

Kendra considered the question. “In your laboratory, you make notes regarding your observations of the night sky. It allows you to extrapolate data and come up with theories. Edmond Halley used Newton's law of gravity to identify his comet and predict its orbital pattern. I need to organize my observations in a similar manner.”

Aldridge eyed her with interest. “You expect to predict a pattern for our killer?”

“Yes. And if we're lucky, we can use it to catch him before he kills again.”

16

There was no question about it: Kendra Donovan was a bold, brazen creature, Alec thought, as he leaned against one of the Carrara marble columns near the entrance of the ballroom, where his aunt had organized the evening's entertainment of dancing. Could Kendra's calculations possibly predict the mind of a madman? He very much doubted it. Who had ever heard of such a thing?

“Is it true?”

Straightening, he glanced down into the intelligent cornflower blue eyes of Lady Rebecca Blackburn as she came up beside him. He'd known her since the day that she'd been born. As the Duke's goddaughter and the Earl of Kendall's only child, she'd often visited the castle, and many of her holidays had coincided with his own sojourns. He'd been as devastated as the Duke and her family when she'd been stricken with smallpox at the age of seven. No one had expected her to live. She'd surprised them all by surviving, although not without consequences.

Her face was badly disfigured by the pockmarks that accompanied the disease. Because of it, she'd endured long stretches of being either teased or shunned. Not surprisingly, she'd decided to forgo a London season, preferring her art and country life, and at twenty-three was considered quite on the shelf, with no prospects for marriage except for rogues attracted to her sizeable inheritance, rather than her person. The mischievous, affectionate child he'd known could easily have become embittered by her unfortunate circumstance. Instead, she seemed at peace with herself. Which, Alec reflected ruefully, was more than he could say about himself.

“Well?” she persisted.

“Is what true?”

“Don't be a goose, Sutcliffe!” Rebecca gave his arm a playful rap with her ivory fan. “Everybody's talking about the murder! They say the murderer is still about.”

Though the crowd around them was well occupied with their own conversations and dancing a lively quadrille, Alec lowered his voice. “And when did you start believing in gossip, Becca?”

“Since a dead girl was found in the lake,” she answered pertly. “Don't evade, Sutcliffe. You already bullied me once today. I shall not let you do it again!”

“If you're referring to my not letting you view the body, I had your best interest at heart.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “
I
have my own best interest at heart, thank you very much. And I'd be pleased if you remembered that. I noticed that you did not order
all
women away.” When he remained silent, she gave him another rap. “Who is she, Sutcliffe? The maid with the short hair?”

That was an excellent question. “She is an American, which may explain her peculiarities, including her hairstyle.”

Rebecca laughed. “Caroline Lamb cut her hair short.”

“You make my point. Caroline Lamb is an eccentric who is making a cake of herself over Lord Bryon.”

Since she couldn't argue with that, she merely waved her fan. “They say that the madman did the most horrid things to the girl.”

Alec scowled. “'Tis not something that should be consumed for the amusement of the Beau Monde.”

“And yet the ton is so easily amused,” she murmured dryly.

“What else are they saying?”

“That the girl was a prostitute.”

Alec's scowl deepened. Hell and damnation. The fact that Becca had heard that particular tidbit meant that either someone in the study had gossiped, or a footman had been listening at the door. Both scenarios were entirely possible.

“Who did you hear that from, pray tell?”

“Mary, my maid, of course—although it's being bandied all around the castle. I daresay, all around the village. She also told me that you sent for a Runner.” She gave him a speculative look. “And that the maid from this morning is assisting the Duke in finding the murderer.”

Alec pressed his lips together in annoyance. He noticed, across the room, Gabriel weaving toward the doors that led off to the garden. In his cups.
Again.
At the last moment, his friend, Captain Harcourt, steered him clear of a large urn in his path.

“Well?” Rebecca pressed. “Is the maid really assisting His Grace?”

“Miss Donovan appears to be remarkably well-informed about criminal behavior.”

Rebecca peered at him closely. “Are you joking?” When he remained silent, she murmured, “How very interesting. She sounds like an Original.”

“That kind of originality is nothing to aspire to, my dear.”

She grinned. “If not an Original, what then?”

“Minx.”

She hesitated, and her smile vanished. “Sutcliffe, there is something else being said.”

“Yes?”

Instead of answering immediately, she shifted her gaze to the familiar faces circulating around the ballroom that had been redesigned by none other than the great John Nash himself. An inexplicable chill danced up her arms.

“'Tis being said that the murderer is someone we know,” she said slowly, and then looked up at the marquis, her gaze troubled. “That
must
be a Banbury tale. Is it not, Sutcliffe?”